Page 26, Line 26 by Kat Mason
Inspired by page 26, line 26 of 'Dancers on a Plane' by John Cage, Merce Cunningham, and Jasper Johns.
The right hand side of the drawing shows an arm.
Not an arm. A hand. Up turned, clawed. Like a dying beetle, sketched in red.
The arm is hidden. Swathed and slung in folds of cloth.
The hand, protrudes, contracted. Thumb reaching towards the third finger, as though poised to click along to merry music.
The face above is not, however, merry.
There’s a frowning puzzlement; mouth drooped, and eyebrows tilted above regretful eyes.
He watches the artist. His pupil. His replacement. Envious and bitter, he recalls his own skill and dexterity. His talent. His force of creation. Inspiration as instinctive as respiration. A fire that burned and flowed onto the page.
He once drew a man. Young, symmetrical, proportional, and perfect. Golden ratio-ed. Arms spread outward, powerful. Fingers scoping the boundaries of the human reach.
He once drew a hand; straight and true, flayed upon the slab. The bones, the tendons, ligaments clean and pale.
Now, in the corner of his studio, propped almost carelessly, his work. Unfinished.
Ensnared by Fibonacci’s mathematics, her slate dark eyes hold his gaze.
He wishes he had completed her. Had put a sparkle in those eyes. He remembers her joyful, laughing. The sound of children playing.
Now, his Mona Lisa looks with distant sympathy at her creator, a cool appraisal.
His cold and crippled fingers tingle with the memory of bringing her to life. Sleek, warm oils on cool poplar.
He feels her gentle judgement. Sees her enigmatic smile.
And, with resignation and regret, knows his greatest work will remain imperfect.
Like his hand.
Kat Mason