In the last years of his life, dying of syphilis, knowing he would die, Manet painted flowers. A rather extreme method for giving the subject back its traditional pathos, nonetheless, it works.
Since October, I too have wanted to paint flowers. Or, I suppose, to paint grief. I’ve wanted to paint grief the way Camus imagined it in “The Stranger” when Meursault smokes in the funeral parlor. I’ve wanted to paint grief the way Knausgaard wrote it:
“And death, which I have always regarded as the greatest dimension of life, dark, compelling, was no more than a pipe that springs a leak, a branch that cracks in the wind, a jacket that slips off a clothes hanger and falls to the floor.”
Then one morning in the studio the sun came up, casting a plant’s silhouette across a blank canvas. Just like that the inner light of painting reversed, and I understood how to make a painting emptier.
-Seth Cameron