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An Incessant Dialogue

Sophie Rouméas


Painting by Konstentin Makowsky, The Muse of Poesie, 1886



She has piercing eyes,

deep blue and translucent.

I freeze for a moment.

She is painted upon a canvas,

a woman created and initiated

by the hand of her painter.


I was in the streets of Saint Paul de Vence,

I felt drawn into the feast of the senses,

its thousand and one inspirations,

its awakened spirit, 

its mad rushing portal.


I walk into a gallery.

The artist who owns it

starts giving a speech,

he’s been waiting for someone

to deliver his philosophy.


He never stops philosophizing,

It’s in his paintings,

He breathes it.


The painting is of his wife,

she is also a painter,

and both his muse and his partner.




Artists are chameleons.

they blend in their subjectivity and

bewitch yours,

invoke thought,

divert it, decomplexify it,

sometimes transform it, often 

transcend it.


Art is an 


arising every day

at the bend of the street.


It can be born of human intention

or a natural emergence:

the curve of a tree trunk,

interspersed with ivy in the evening sun,

a cloud’s destiny in the divine light

the flight of a butterfly among the wheatgrass.


Art is a 


It opens us up to other countries,

to other melodies, to others me.


It informs me of wars, torments,

concerns of the world,

of the heart and its destinations.




Art is Chagall, Da Vinci, De Sainte Phalle,

it's Schubert, Beethoven, the village pianist—

all found in the streets of Saint Paul de Vence.


It is Picasso’s Dove of Peace,

Schnabel’s purple Waterfall.


Passage witness, message bearer,

art is the world that expresses itself,

even values and positions. 


It’s the perfume of a woman, her blue wake in the street,

it is an exquisite chocolate dome from a great starred chef,


it’s the round of the senses,

yours, mine and what we make of them.


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