Depression

If I were a painter I would paint an image of a man standing next to a tree. And leaves would be falling. But of course they wouldn’t really be falling because a painting itself can only display a static image. Paintings don’t move. But the representation of leaves in the air would call forth all at once their past on the branch, their future on the ground, and the fleeting event of falling. Because of the pleasure I take in overstatement, I would paint hundreds of leaves—a shocking number of Maple leaves floating in the air. You would barely be able to see the man and the tree through the rain of falling leaves. Hopefully, the exaggerated number of leaves would stop you, attract your attention, and make you say “What’s with all the leaves?” Then you’d see the obstructed forms of the man and the tree and you’d say “A man! What’s up with that dude?” The leaves would be red and gold and orange. They would be many different sizes to create an illusion of space. Some would be fragmented by the edge of the canvas to suggest a world beyond this particular perspective. And if you let your eyes go fuzzy—just a little—the painting would smack of an abstract orgy of color that indicated nothing beyond itself.

I look at the leaves and they appear hot. Their colors remind me of fire. This is the way meaning elbows its way into things. Fire summons the transformation of substance into ash. There is much to learn from the way things burn. Burning is a style. The falling leaves reflect the way things end. There are hundreds of them, little fires, falling to the ground. Too many to see through. When I shield my eyes and squint, I can see you through this rain of falling leaves, looking at the painting I have tried to write about.