It’s raining squares.
A tangle of multicolored squares.
They pour down from the painting and stream over the frame unto the wall, puddling underneath.
Yellow, blue, green, indigo, some a combination of all of the above.
They slide with all the ease you would expect from singular angled shapes that have been given new found freedoms.
Some are perfect in their shape, dimensions, and the colour of the sides. Others are muted and grey and far from perfection.
The perfect square exists, but not here. Not in this painting.
When I open my eyes again, the have reformed and look as if they never ventured beyond the tight confines of the stretched canvas.
But what is this?
A puddle of blue on the floor underneath. One square did not make it back in time. It lost its nerve and remained where its adventures ended with the opening of my eyes.
I scan the painting to see where it once belonged. Is there a gaping hole where once it stood, enmeshed with its brother and sister squares?
No matter how long I look I can’t find where once it may have stood.
I close my eyes in the hope that it might come alive again and find its way home. Up the wall, over the frame and back into the arms of its voiceless brethren.
Later I notice there is no blue on the floor.