How do you ever know when a piece of art is finished?
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes muses on one of those paintings that sits there, watching other paintings go by, until... at last… it’s completed (but is it?)
ROCKS ON A HILLTOP
It began as a blank canvas onto which I drew hillsides,
Longing for the view as I live in a valley. And of course
There had to be trees, because the bark, roots and leaves
Would punctuate the sky; they’d stand in defiance
Of winds that thrashed past as a metaphor for life,
Unobstructed on the plains and circumventing mountains.
The branches of the trees crept and curled, growing twigs.
But this painting was hesitant; it sat on my easel while I began
And finished other paintings, evolving slowly, puzzlingly
Unsure of its purpose. Time passed. I pulled down buildings
And built others, but the painting remained easel-bound,
Unchanging except for a brushstroke here and there
Until I felt it was destined to become part of the furniture;
Yellow rocks one week, pink the next, or grey, with clouds,
Or without clouds, and at last, with leaves, and finally,
With blossom as orange as a West Australian Christmas Tree
And as frothy as a bottle brush. I realised that having
Pushed those rocks up my painted hill in that invisible sun
For the last three years, I have been stunned into completion
By an accumulation of brushstrokes.