When the human race has once acquired a superstition nothing short of death is ever likely to remove it.
- Autobiography of Mark Twain
Artist Jeffrey Loura
5 years ago
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Monday, June 4, 2007
Blank Page
It stares at me. Wide and unblinking. The emptiness of it yawns—no, it laughs. In the large colorless expanse, the solid white takes on numerous shades and subtleties. In the center, it’s bright, clinically depressing white. Over on the side, it’s creamy, rich, delicious vanilla white. On the bottom right, it’s somber, light gray ash. In the corners there are even hints of blackness.
As I study it, it seems to expand…to flood from one horizon to the next. There are moving, living swirls in the shades of white, dancing and tumbling. It flows like an ocean wave, the blinding white tumbling over the softer cotton white, lolling from left to right and right to left. Writhing and turning, it churns, like a muted monochromatic kaleidoscope.
The longer I stare, the more colors there are. Flecks of red appear in the vast white expanse. If I try to find them, they wink out—to be replaced by blue dashes, irregularly scatted. Next are waves of black-white-gray static, falling merrily from the top corner to the far bottom one.
It is outer space inverted…an infinite plain of blinding white dotted with meager specs of color. What could be just beyond reach…new stars, new planets…that’s never been seen before? They are buried in the vastness, waiting to be discovered.
Continuing to stare, my eyes lose focus, and the mind wanders. The pallid sheen glitters like newly fallen snow over a frozen landscape, holding captive all the wonders of a mythical forest floor beneath its icy grasp. Beneath the rigid blanket could be a tribe of fairies, huddled next to a mushroom, waiting for the cold to withdraw.
I blink.
The cursor at the top of the page is winking, slowly, at me. I’ve still not written a word.
As I study it, it seems to expand…to flood from one horizon to the next. There are moving, living swirls in the shades of white, dancing and tumbling. It flows like an ocean wave, the blinding white tumbling over the softer cotton white, lolling from left to right and right to left. Writhing and turning, it churns, like a muted monochromatic kaleidoscope.
The longer I stare, the more colors there are. Flecks of red appear in the vast white expanse. If I try to find them, they wink out—to be replaced by blue dashes, irregularly scatted. Next are waves of black-white-gray static, falling merrily from the top corner to the far bottom one.
It is outer space inverted…an infinite plain of blinding white dotted with meager specs of color. What could be just beyond reach…new stars, new planets…that’s never been seen before? They are buried in the vastness, waiting to be discovered.
Continuing to stare, my eyes lose focus, and the mind wanders. The pallid sheen glitters like newly fallen snow over a frozen landscape, holding captive all the wonders of a mythical forest floor beneath its icy grasp. Beneath the rigid blanket could be a tribe of fairies, huddled next to a mushroom, waiting for the cold to withdraw.
I blink.
The cursor at the top of the page is winking, slowly, at me. I’ve still not written a word.
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