(After G. Hischak's performance piece)

by Paula Grenside

I should start with it, I know; it's so time absorbing, though, that I prefer traditional. I usually draw the eyes, two circles equally distanced. I don't fill them with color, don't want them to follow me while I sketch a straight line for the nose, an O-mouth breathing a white yawn, equally distanced strokes for the neck, then slope right, left for the shoulders. See? The face is there, but the body is the tricky part, lines have to foreshadow what the skin compresses, the bones' architecture, the muscles' tension

in the belly, the equally parted legs with toes tickling the air. No, I won't disregard any detail. I add ample curves for buttocks (goldfish-pink will add translucent roundness). See it? Wait, colors will come later, they make the difference, are sensation's metaphors. I'm serious, this thing is serious. I move upward now, draw two up-flattened circles for breasts, equally distanced— You know, symmetry is essential at least till the canvas lies spread on the floor; when standing, the left eye's green will squint and breasts will slightly bend to gravity—I'll paint the skin tanned, bones creak less if wrapped in warm

hue. Upward. Here, yes, here, between the breasts, I'll tattoo the diorama. A circle-hole. I close one eye, watch through the small opening, paint a lawn, more green and it's a prairie set against vessels, muscles, fibers. I turn sideways, slowly, look right, the combination of transparency and opaqueness in the skin, flesh and bones, creates movement.

A white mountain with a magenta shade, a river tumbling over pebbles, more white and black for hieroglyphics so that they won't be washed away by the boiling bubbles; flowers, yes, flowers and fruit and animals; here brushes get stormy—the sublimation of purple lilies, the glorification of yellow sun, snowdrops and daffodils, a basket of melons, an eagle with earthly brown on his wings, the acrylic smell of green. I turn left now, the hardest part. I need more light; maybe my conviction only, but I'll thunder red as if from an invisible pump, red to enhance, red zig-zagging over the woman walking along the water, grass blades between toes; she turns to the man in profile, stares at the hard curve of his cheek, chin up, eyes closed. She gets nearer, stretches a hand, touches him, almost. I add more light. Look! it is all metallic sky now. The small opening darkens, the tattoo fades to dots.

Maybe next time I'll start from it, I'll paint the man with his eyes open, I'll make them touch, will brush some sounds somewhere in the diorama—a lion's red roar, an opal creaking branch, a lemon chuckle or an aquamarine murmur. You think I lost sight of proportions? I agree. This tattoo-diorama has gotten invasive, has outgrown the body. Yet it's quite a view, isn't it; then, it is too late now to resize. I'll pour a can of night paint over the canvas.