My grandma used to paint.
Of all her paintings, my favorite
depicts a dirt road in an autumn wood.
The road stretches out straight ahead
from the foreground
and leads to a weathered gate
in the center of the painting.
Beyond the gate,
the road curves off to the right
and disappears into
orange, green, and gold foliage.
For years I’ve looked at this painting
and wondered:
Is the viewer arriving somewhere
or leaving?
If arriving or leaving, where?
I could ask my grandma these things
but she’s dying.
Once
I was drawing a picture,
and one of the trees
wouldn’t entirely fit
on the page.
Grandma said
I shouldn’t try to make it fit.
She said the picture you’re painting
is always bigger
than the canvas,
and you have to let things go
beyond
the field of view.
As I look
at the road in the wood again,
grandma’s words return to me.
The answers to my questions
can’t be found within
the frame
but lie outside it
where the road leads.
Of all her paintings, my favorite
depicts a dirt road in an autumn wood.
The road stretches out straight ahead
from the foreground
and leads to a weathered gate
in the center of the painting.
Beyond the gate,
the road curves off to the right
and disappears into
orange, green, and gold foliage.
For years I’ve looked at this painting
and wondered:
Is the viewer arriving somewhere
or leaving?
If arriving or leaving, where?
I could ask my grandma these things
but she’s dying.
Once
I was drawing a picture,
and one of the trees
wouldn’t entirely fit
on the page.
Grandma said
I shouldn’t try to make it fit.
She said the picture you’re painting
is always bigger
than the canvas,
and you have to let things go
beyond
the field of view.
As I look
at the road in the wood again,
grandma’s words return to me.
The answers to my questions
can’t be found within
the frame
but lie outside it
where the road leads.