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by Emma Moss Brender

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How do you paint 
               a wall in a painting?
A wall is mostly 
               light. So many colours go into making 
a wall look white. Can the eye see paint
               beneath paint?
My mother sees me and waves.
               By the drape of her clothes
there looks to be less of her
               lately but she still wears a crimson
lip and smartly applied
               metallic eye. Smiles at me,
a flash of innocent delight at recognizing
               one of her own
                              from distance.

*

At the entrance she ignores
               two paintings I thought she would like:
In one, the back wall looks organic
               so the plant in the foreground
can look alien.
               In the other, neon green to render skin
calls just enough attention
               to astonishment.
She strides by the curator’s notes
               into the main room;
after a cursory glance, asks,
               So, what are we
                              to make of this? 

*

At sixty-one the artist no longer
               wants to hide
her brushstrokes,
               the artifice required to make
something look
               natural. She depicts her studio
with scraps of
               source material
taped to
               the wall.
Naked failures—
               the body of a woman
from a magazine ad with the head
               of a cartoon mouse,
another woman’s face folded in half—
               my mother rushed here
still ill from a lingering cold
               for this.

*

If it were just up to here I would like it,
               she says. The wall like a wide smile
darker at the edges. Where one meets another
               it softens. Not allowed to touch
the paintings, I graze
               the gallery’s cool cheek.
Feels chalky, dries out the fingertips.
               What are we to make of this?
But she hasn’t asked me what I think.
               She wants to move on
                              to the photography exhibit.

*

If you stare at a white wall
               long enough the surface detaches
from its backing and dances:
               a portal opens.
I follow her into the next room,
               take a picture of her looking small
against a full-wall display of kilometres
               of highway
                              noise barriers.

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