Painting Horses

I was a drifter before

I started painting horses.

 

Hollywood was no longer

young. And the West

 

was a heartless

technicolour dream.

 

‘Pale horses’ they said,

‘belong in the past, unable

 

to reflect the camera

lines we need to draw.’

 

Horses, you see, are part

of the myth, in the same way

 

canyons and deserts

and the hangman’s rope

 

tell us something

about ourselves.

 

‘Paint ‘em’ they said,

‘so folk see the land with new eyes.’

 

So I painted.

Cobs and mares

 

thoroughbreds, warmbloods…

I took pride in my work

 

same way a salesman

takes pride

 

in the goods he sells

or a huckster

 

takes pride in the lies

he fashions before

 

an expectant crowd.

I was particular in the way

 

I mixed the colours -

a thick shining paste.

 

The studio liked me for that.

Deep, deep, chestnuts,

 

stallions shining black,

light dappled greys,

 

powering an industry

of illusion.

 

I painted their flanks, their

necks, legs and calves,

 

endowed those leading men

with the grandeur they craved.

 

We were born of a dream

and the dream turned into a lie.

 

One day, I told them,

the colours will fade

 

take after take,

shot after shot.