Wednesday, August 30, 2017
The Lamp
First
be a magnificent artist and then you can do whatever, but the art must be
first.
(Francisco de Goya)
A young father
buys a 70s Beetle fender that houses a chrome front light. The man
radiates the glow of restoration, but barely has the funds. He posts the
finished photograph of his invention for his son. There it sits in its
separateness, still, upright, neat in a corner window, balanced on a block,
polished, grinded, painted to look so perfect in its skin, its dim lighting. In
the darkness of a room, now a renovation, the lamp-fender glows with a dual switch
of light. Low beam for warmth, or high and bright as a car might shine on a
midnight run. It’s deft, intrinsic work.
Perhaps in the lateness of night, when all
is quiet, the lamp groans into ignition, twists itself away from a boy’s
restless dream – grumbles, just a little – to purr toward a great expanse of
naked road.
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