He sits, stares at a single painting
in
the afternoon, rather abstract,
neo-abstract,
perhaps neo-realist
or
post something, he doesn’t know
but
it doesn’t matter, the painting
and
its moment, the painting
in
its moment is what matters
to
him, speaks to him, he doesn’t
understand
why but he’s beyond
understanding,
beyond veneration,
having
arrived at veneration,
the
painting is an icon, he thinks,
the
painting should be carried
properly
by priests in cassocks
and
belts of rope, priests
with
long beards, as they carry
the
icon flanked by acolytes
with
candles down the steps
to
Fifth Avenue and turn south.
Painting: September, oil on canvas by
Gerhard Richter (2005), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
