.
You say it happens when our brains mislabel a short-term memory
as long-term, which must be why this feels so familiar, your arm
around me, my hand in yours against my shoulder. The river is high,
geese paddle over park steps, almond eyes translucent as the drops of rain
pooling on their feathers. Time spins like the tree branch pinned
in the current by the stone footer of a building that used to exist.
In the museum, by Monet’s Rocks at Belle-île, Port Domois, we wondered
how vibrant the colors were when first painted, tried to guess
which stroke was the last. We’re laughing now, your face warm against mine.
Overcast clouds hold in the humidity. What’s more astounding—
the number of things the brain does correctly,
or that even its mistakes are a sort of magic?
At our wedding (almost two years ago now!) Brad and I had two dear friends play The Beatles’ song “In My Life” as I walked down the aisle. There were no lyrics, just guitar and violin, but we know the words well: “All these places had their moments with lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life I've loved them all.”
Since we were writing and painting before we met, Brad and I both have pieces, like “Explaining Deja Vu,” that feature “old flames”—a phrase that tickled me whenever older relatives used it. Now I see the usefulness of a word to describe those past affections that, while meaningful, feel so insignificant in the light of the love Brad and I share. Like the poem explores, memory is mysterious, and I feel like I’ve lived this poem anew with Brad over the years we’ve been together—walking by the Ohio River or visiting the Cincinnati Art Museum where my favorite Monet painting hangs. The Beatles’s song goes on to say:
“But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you.
And these mem’ries lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new.Tho’ I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before,
I know I’ll often stop and think about them,
In my life I love you more.”
Brad’s truck painting was done in Evergreen Cemetery near our house. We’ve passed by the old red F-150 many times on walks and runs, and Brad finally made it over there to paint with his dad Doug Davis earlier this spring. Brad teases me for thinking the two trucks are similar in any way, but the F-150 reminds me of the red Ford Ranger I drove in high school. It was the perfect little truck to drive around in summer, the windows down, listening to the country CDs my brother left in a leather zipper pouch in the glovebox. In in my defense, they’re both red. :) These days Brad drives the big white F-250 that he painted a few years ago, but when we first met he drove a black S-10, and then his grandpa’s 1988 Chevy 1500. Since I’m not very good at distinguishing truck models, I imagine that in a few decades this painting of the cemetery truck will blend in my memory with my little red truck or one of Brad’s.
Our desire to more deeply ground our work in the physical world led us to launch Plein Air Poetry Postcards for our paid subscribers! April’s postcards will head out this week, but you can sign up to get some art mail starting in June! :)
We’re continuing our goal of memorizing a poem every month this year! For May, we’ve chosen the poem “To This May” by W.S. Merwin. We hope you’ll join us! :)
We moved our shop over to our website! Check it out and let us know what you think! Paid subscribers still get free framing on plein air paintings—check out the paid subscriber chat for the new discount code.
Brad was recently interviewed by David Smith from Eisele Gallery in Cincinnati! They carry some of Brad’s work locally. Check out the interview below to hear more about Brad’s creative journey—Plein Air Poetry gets a shoutout at the end! :)
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