The way the bamboo leans out of the frame, Some of its leaves cut short by the frame’s edge, Makes room for swathes of air which you would think, If it were sold in bolts, would drape like silk. Below, where one pond spills from the stone ledge Into the next, three carp as white as milk Glow through the water near the painter’s name, A stack of characters brushed in black ink.
The open spaces and the spare detail Are both compressed into that signature: He made his name part of the work of art. Slice of crisp leaf, smooth flourish of fish fin Are there to show you he is very sure Of how the balance of things kept apart Can shape a distance. On a larger scale He still leaves out far more than he puts in.
We’re lucky that he does. What he includes, Almost too beautiful to contemplate, Already hurts our hearts. Were he to fill The gaps, the mind would have no place to rest, No peace in the collected solitudes Of those three fish, in how each leaf is blessed With life. Easy to underestimate A name like his. No substance. Too much skill.
‘Signed by the Artist’ Clive James Spectator, October 16, 2004
— Read At my Dad’s Funeral last year. Missing him terribly