Black Painting

(first dialogue with Rothko)

Where forms end
thoughts dwindle
only colours continue
with their immediate emotions.
Where colours too are superfluous
and fade towards one essence
there, one step further
you’ll find the black painting.
A canvas covering an entire wall
rectangular, vast
in the isolated
spiral-shaped
empty building.
Outside the walls are enveloped
with bas-reliefs recounting
the deeds of mankind
covering the silence of the black painting.
The light is all there
in that painting, hanging in the void
and within the thickness of the colour
it is possible to surmise:
it is alive,
it knows that, but soon rests
motionless again, without desire.
Only the hands of blind people
can get close and touch
only attentive eyes
can see the blackness shine
hear the voice of the light
vibrating free in the openings.
The illusions break down
the bas-reliefs crumble
there is birth and death
on the canvas of consciousness
in quick brush-strokes of a black painting
never painted.

(first dialogue with Rossetti)

You find me behind the canvas
of the black painting,
to the rhythm of breath I press
face and hands into it
so they emerge and disappear in front.
I try to finish
what you couldn’t do:
painting your pain
so you wouldn’t go mad.
All around me hang
the paintings with only her,
a room full of vibrant colours
where always she is portrayed
in changing epochs, garments, stories
but always her bold features
and the long, red, curly hair.
She emerges from the dark of the background
unique, she rules
your heart.
Then she disappeared, dead
leaving you only a black background
me the empty painting
of your pain.
I emerge and disappear
pressing face and hands
into the black canvas.
I maintain the beat of the two hearts
in the rhythm of my breath
in love with the finished loves
believing I could comfort them.

(second dialogue with Rothko)

The big black painting hangs
in the deserted room
of the abandoned mansion,
while its echo reverberates
in everyday things.
You find it as a little stain
on freshly polished glass,
in the flesh of a peach,
a mole on the neck of a woman,
a full stop at the end of a line.
It expands
in the spilled coffee,
when oil bursts from the earth.
It is the sea in the moonless nights
that calls you
invites you to go in
to dive in
drown
and find yourself
sitting in the reclineable leather armchair
in front of the big black painting
admiring the colours.

(second dialogue with Rosetti)

It compresses all the colours
wipes them out
absorbing the light,
it’s a waiting implosion
that black painting behind your shoulders.
Slowly it wraps around you
while you are showing me the album
of your other lives.
It seizes your movements
for its canvas
while you smile at me
distractedly leafing through the pages.
Unstoppable
it imprints you on itself
with every subtle in-breath.
I observe without understanding.
Desperate I realize
I have nothing of you anymore.
Only a black background
keeps you
only your photo album
with you inside
with the black painting always behind
that always takes you away.
I have nothing of you anymore,
the black painting
has taken all of you.

(epilogue with Isadora Duncan)

Come. Come to him.
Come to the one who is hanging
bloodless,
hidden in the black painting.
Don’t fear, but you never fear
and you come closer.
Your hands touch the painting
your fingers glide
along the borders of the frame,
you see him inside
fixing you from the motionless black.
Bring your face quite close
and you will hear him whisper:
− Dance – for him who has locked up the void
and covered his features
with a painting about nothing.
Do it for him who searching the dark
found it from the inside
and lost his colours in other lives.
Dance life, dance yourself :
the rainbow.
Dress your skin
with the weight of his dark canvas
that whirls softly around you
opening into shawls of iridescent silk.

Translation by Bhikkhu Abhinando