Jack The Dripper, doomed Action Man of the art world,
Prances around the canvas-covered floor of his barn
In a trance of creativity, here a flick, there a flick,
The colours dance beyond beginning or ending
In paintings where the centre simply will not hold.
Lost in the image, the painter dances out his dream
As the pattern revolves and advances below his feet,
Gliding where the chances and mischances lead him
Through new land and seascapes into a changed world.
(2012)
Without ever having been a fan as such, I suddenly and briefly became fascinated with the originality and limitations of his method. This poem quickly led me on to two others about painters with whom I was more familiar and fond of. But oddly, it took Pollock to get me going and soon Van Gogh and Hopper had arrived. A couple of years later Turner, Dore, Magritte and Keifer similarly all turned up in a bunch.
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