Abstract
is the thing my phone tells me as I’m trying to photograph Cézanne’s paint palette under glass. Find a face amid arterialization, the bluish spatters delicate as micro-written cursive. Find a face in a tangled marble swirl. These are his Prussian blues, the indigoes Cézanne used to outline the three quasi-pyramidal skulls that populate a certain late painting: each smoked trace makes a velveteen aura for each cranium, cushioning the probable clank of bone on bone in his initial arrangement on the softened table. Find a face when you etherize your images, booting your desire up, and notice beauty’s parceled out so profligate earthward. Find a face in those skulls Cézanne blanketed, his pitcher whose knowing gleam arrests you like an eye.
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