The tablecloth shows light and dark. The shadows reveal depth. It’s what I expect.
That piece of fabric proves there’s the all important z that lies beyond the x and y.
It’s all about depth right?
The cloth seems to agree.
I’m not supposed to look behind the canvas and question those dimensions.
I’m in a crowded room full of people that agree with that, maybe even I agree.
But it’s all a big lie.
The apples announce it.
The tablecloth is straightforward, I can get foreground and background. Up down and behind.
But those red, yellow and green balls are lacking. They don’t play along. Up down and Fin.
The cloth says the world’s deep.
The apples say it’s flat.
The problem is, I can only believe one story, the folds or the fruit, and I think I chose right away.
And I’m not looking at the tablecloth. The shadows don’t stir me, don’t give me a titular feeling.
It’s those coloured circles.
That story makes more sense.
So a painting is flat, this shouldn’t worry me but it does. Something has kept me here.
I want to say I don’t know what it is, but the longer I’m here, the less true that becomes.
I’m afraid I do know.
Afraid it’s a mirror.
I want to be that cloth.
But I’m afraid I’m those