His canvases sagged with decay,
each a small shrine to imperfection, dereliction
infecting its seams and squares, left brittle
and opens, oils a fecund messenger.
a chorus if sores in line. It had to fester, like
damaged flesh, and drink from this corrupt well.
All the world was simply vaudeville.
His bankruptcy was inevitable.
What market is there for such things?
Ruin is not a commodity so much
as a global condition. Unnecessary
to be so reminded, ruin arriving for each of us.
Set aside for sufficient time.
There is a poetry of despair, a paean
to blotched faces and rotten meat.
That was not his style.
He sought the itch of existence, the very point
where life went off, irretrievably,
and lost its balance.
What he thought of as the honesty of disintegration.
– Tom Weston, ‘Painting the fall’, in Small Humours of Daylight (Wellington: Steele Roberts & Associates, 2008).