The Cone, or Empty Canvas, by Desmond El-Jardin, circa 1946

The gallery

forked out millions

for this thing. You chuckle,

what a waste!

But I say there’s no

such thing

as a blank &

vacant canvas—

everything has a story

from which to share.

Ask the atoms

beyond our gaze,

fixed upon its pith;

how their collisions

will impact us

years from now,

at five-hundred

feet per second; surviving

life’s hard knocks.

Tell me of the

one who put the

wooden frame together,

to serve as border

for the white:

linen & wall & artist;

that cotton costs

much less

and serves as well,

absorbs the water-

colour like a leech,

a gift from horse-

whipped backs

that keeps on giving.

And then there is the

man who planted birch

which gave it birth,

thinking he would

sit beneath its shade

with all his children,

his now-gone

belovѐd’s initials

in its bark.

Relay how in war

he moved away,

how a clearcut

made a mall,

how paint is sold

for bathrooms

not for art.

Then share its

dénouement:

how the brush had

snapped

before a sunrise

stroke,

that there was so much

weighty baggage, nothing

could’ve captured every

heartbreak, throb of ruptured

dream,

but the snow on snow on snow

of all his sorrow,

ice cream never melted never

licked.

Andreas Gripp

July 2, 2025

RF Image