The first time I saw you,
I fell into your expanse,
my body weak,
I bent to my knees,
and literally sat on the floor,
wanting to soak in more,
of your genius.
Of course, I had heard of you before,
but slides cannot do you justice,
and the images on the screen resounded flat and monotone,
they had none of your fabulous texture.
I can’t be the first,
I am sure the guards at Moma have seen it before,
and then at the Tate,
you are all over the place.
Now finally,
a one man show,
me and you alone,
in the country I call home.
You speak to me like lovers do,
like teachers,
like children,
like survivors,
like victims,
and heros.
In the broken glass I saw my face,
as you reflected upon me.
In stiffened sillouettes you sculpt me.
In metal and oil,
in wire and emulsifiers,
in stems and leaves frozen under glass,
in the poetry of titles,
you have me.
In canvases fitted perfectly,
not a diptych, but a whole of two seperate parts,
I am an enraptured lover.
Any day of the week,
I would let you break my heart.
