sitting in front of “wheat”
it’s mesmerizing. like a golden field stretched out for a thousand miles on a clear warm day—but not too hot. the kind of day when there’s a breeze that prickles your skin but you don’t go inside to get your jacket.
at first the grey border looks like one shade as you’re drawn into the fields of wheat, but after a moment you realise its two types of grey fringing the field like vaseline on a camera lens. it pushes you in.
wheat whispers to you so quietly that at first you’re not sure if its a voice or a gust through the tree branches. but it is a voice & you can barely make out what it’s saying. maybe the words don’t matter? maybe they don’t have any meaning anyway.
a woman comes into the gallery & stands in front of wheat. perfectly centered. the center column rises from her like steam.
she’s enveloped in yellows like a goddess or the painting of one, with a delicate shimmering halo.
is this what agnes wanted us to do? daydream into her paintings?