Excuse me, you’re a painter, are you not?
I saw you looking at that dealer’s show,
The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot–
What do I know of Art? What do I know…
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed,
“White Sorcery” it’s called, all gossamer,
And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid
(You like the little elfin face of her?)–
That’s good; but still, the picture as a whole,
The values,–Pah! He never painted worse;
Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal,
His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps… they say he labored hard and long,
And see now, in the harvest of his fame,
When round his pictures people gape and throng,
A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe;
A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit,
Unworthy of his art.… How should I know?
How should I know? I’m Strong–I painted it.
There now, I didn’t mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me–aye, stare and stare.
You think I’m lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt–
Think what you like, it’s neither here nor there.
It’s hard to tell so terrible a truth,
To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It’s true; that picture’s mine, done in my youth,
Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child’s my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That’s why I come and sit here every night.
