Thursday, September 08, 2005


My favorite artist of the 20th century is probably Francis Bacon (also known as the other Francis Bacon). He did some marvelous work on canvas, and some damn fine portraits. I don't know from where he got his inspiration, nor do I know anything about his methods with the brush. Sometimes I envy the visual artist because he's got both more freedom than a poet, a more universally understood medium, and more precise control over the images he portrays.

This is my favorite Francis Bacon painting. I don't like photographs of myself, but when I look at it, I feel like I'm looking into a mirror. If you want to know how I look, and the hand images are not enough to satisfy you, take a look at this wonderful piece of art:

Learn more about Francis Bacon. This is where I got the 1932.jpg image file that looks like me.


Laurel Makepeace O'Keefe said...

Somehow, not what I pictured when thinking of you---too masked and you seem to exist mostly without any least here..

Patmos said...

Within a second of looking at this picture both fear and sympathy floods into my thinking.

I remember as a child my brother's would tease me and try to scare me a great deal by telling me stories about the boogy man and how he would walk the alley at my grandmothers house in the middle of the night.

I remember even more so when my grandmother come up behind me as I sat on her 1/2 brick back fence the hour was extremely late for a 9 year old, I know this because we had finised watching Knots Landing and the news had even gone off and the house had grown still and I slipped out while she was taking her bath.

The tone of her voice I think at that moment made me a believer in the boogy man, she was so frightened and concerned for my safety. She quickly asked me, why do you sit on this fence child, I responded... "The boogy man, he must be so lonely."

My grandmother, knowing very well why I was living with her. Come next to me and sat with me, waiting for him to make his way down the alley. Her arm around me and no doubt exhausted from her labor, we waited.

I remember that night, because I watched the boogy man come down the alley, coming closer and closer, one back fence at a time, as he approached I will never forget, my grandmother speaks.. "Honey, we are waiting for the boogy man"

This man who all were afraid of, this man in whom all my cousins hid in the closet from, was the same man that we sat on his knee and felt his hand upon our back, keeping us from falling, yet making us feel as if we would surely fall. It was my grandfather, he walked the alley's of that town, collecting cans to salvage, to make sure his grandson was cared for.

My hero was the boogy man, and from then on I no longer hid in the closet with the girls.

Why did I share such a thing, Oh yeah, I remember my point. Thomas, you are my hero.