Hypocrisy of the critic

I stand
before this
masterpiece.

Numb and
unimpressed.

My eye arrested
more by
the craft
of the framer
the cursive
script of
the artists
signature.

Than the drab imagery,
repetitive, pylons
dotting a grey skyline.
And quilts of bocage,
breaking up
painfully etched pasture,
in shades of emerald green.

I’ve seen it all
in a thousand
student works.
My weary eyes feel
cheated by this
ugly imitation,
masquerading as
a unique creation.

But the artist is a prodigy.
So I nod and I smile
and I tell him I am
once again,
blown away
by the mastery of
his brush strokes.
I choke on my dishonesty.

The street is
streaked
with misery.
Rain
hides my tears as I
walk away from
another lie.
And the sin of
dragging beauty
down.

Dave Kavanagh

 

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