When the landscape breaks, shards of painted trees,
clouds, turf cascade in crystal slabs onto
the carpet – and the landscape is there still
on the next pane. Over the brow of the rise
are the world’s kingdoms: deserts silenced
by polished bone; uneasy rooms where
sepia furniture flowers; canvas; wood;
the gallery’s wall solid as money –
asservir le bourgeoisie through draughtmanship.
The artist’s mother was pulled from the Sambre,
a suicide – the night-dress shrouding
her face. When the world breaks…breaks…there is death
only or servitude.