The Village Aesthetic

William Doreski

Our local artists look from

windows and paint what they see.

But their canvases sprout demons

and monsters and sassy gnomes.

Does paint stick more firmly

to these faunae than to gardens

with rabbits and deer browsing?

Does a portrait of Frankenstein’s

latest nightmare cohere while

one of a feathery young woman

peels from the fabric and puddles

at the feet of the desperate painter?

I ought to ask if being an artist

unleashes the godless fantasies

I barely contain as I wander

through the village and peer

through art supply shop windows.

A wooden mannequin intended

for amateurs to learn anatomy

dances and waves its arms at me.

A package of tubed watercolors

bleeds a mush of brownish sludge.

I’ll never understand why oil

on fabric or watercolor smeared

on paper taunts us so cruelly,

but the makings of the greatest art

are those of the rankest beginner

and make aesthetic room for creatures

and distorted landscapes no one

as timid as me should inhabit.