About Crows

Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers I

39 Sel f- P o rt r a it w it h Se v en Fi n g er s I For me a painting is a surface covered with objects depicted in a certain order. For example, the headless woman, who, with a milk pail, figures on this canvas—if I had the idea of separating her head from her body it was because I needed a space just at that spot. Ma rc Ch ag a ll I struggle to make room for you, Chagall, to let your childhood meld with mine, to imagine, as I would have as a child, that your work steps outside of time and is like any other fairy tale, any other nightgown brushing against the peak of wine-drenched rooftops in the borderless villages of my dreams: easy to believe. No milkmaids, angels, or yellow-vested painters in my childhood, Chagall. Chagall, Chagall . . . an empty easel chair. We descend together into a rainstorm at so-many-thousand feet, and the Eiffel Tower tears at the belly of the plane because it needs to be there. Landing gear, luggage, plastic cabinets fall in order as we float away over my neighbor’s side-lot—its triangular shape safeguarding the presence of frozen cats and fruit trees. It’s good to see it again. It’s good to see it differently. Chagall, push over, make room for me. I have seven fingers too, each wrapped tightly around the crabapple melting in my palm. ...