Valarie Hastings

Why Sometimes I Wish I Could Paint

If we could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.

—Edward Hopper

 

Because outside my window is a mashup—

Ed Ruscha in the boxy post-war cottages

built into the ribs of this old San Diego neighborhood,

his bright blocks of red, angles of blue, white and yellow, black

like verbs. Because Hockney is up there in the leafy

dwarf palm in my yard again, and again in the 90-foot

Mexican fan palms running down Newport Avenue,

long legged show girls waving their glossy green

kerchiefed heads to the sailors on Coronado. And Turner,

lashed to the sail of a June gloom fog

all blush grey and pink smoke. Because

if we were to bring in Monet,

it’s a painting of an old woman

in a straw hat, seated in a chaise lounge

in the lavender dusk, stubborn pen

in hand. On the occasion of my 60^th, I didn’t know

how much time my mother had left in her. But

I left her alone with the dog anyway, to see

Diebenkorn’s explosion of California light,

because those planes of space and form

enter me, sharp as blades.

Because sometimes the thing itself

is what we’re after.