Interior1

The sound of the artist
pouring turpentine,
       his insidious brush and
his wife’s slightly
eroded hand, are all
       silenced by a thickness
             of paint
we see appear
between pale lights
       that have no particular
source. The grays, which possess
a softness not unlike
       bruises on pale skin,
             give the impression
that we have entered
a cloud’s throat, and despite the
       fact that Hammershøi is said
             not to allow for
such abstraction, it is almost
immediately evident
       that his disembodied
             gaze is not entirely
of this world; in every one
of his few works, in fact,
       he undresses his heart
             and dabs it simply
onto the
gaping canvas.
       Here, the perspective, which
             swallows itself in the
emptiness
between doorways,
       is a reminder
             of his constant pilgrimage
toward this
unattainable intimacy.


We are left to wonder
whether his wife is present
       in the studio at this time,
             treating his throat
cancer which
has already begun
       a slow growth, or whether
             his self absorption
is total. The latter is more likely,
as evidenced by another
       work in which she
             sits opposite him,
her mind wholly elsewhere and only
the shallow folds of the
       tablecloth
             uniting them.
There is no question, however, as to whether
he feels every emotion
       creak between them,
             there is only a question
as to how many rooms he
walks through
       with the weight of that
             infinite echo
on his shoulders. In this painting
he leaves only
       four visible, but the mirror,
             tilted under
an edgeless
shadow, allows
       for an endless
             number.


In this way it is easy to picture him,
the man of absolute feeling
       roaming the empty apartment,
             from one room to
the next, indefinitely;
by his death he must have discovered that
       often the self
             is an onion,
vast and coreless—
here, we see him wander
       around thin walls
             and assume that he
never turns his head to view
his wife in the shadows,
       her simple braids and
her deep brow, and that as a result
she never expresses
       her concern about
             that odd lump in his
throat.


1Based on a painting of the same name by Vilhelm Hammershøi

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