I was going through a pile of drawings at the secret bunker when I rediscovered this one. When my daughter was a crawler, she often scribbled over drawings as I was making them. I drew on the floor so that we could work “together.” Or else I taped my paper to the wall at a level she could reach. Lots of drawings on the floor we made during that all to swift and brief season (she’s almost a teen now). I think her scribbles always livened things up. Sometimes it seems like they were the best part of the drawing. And not in an “abstract” sense — not at all. Her scribbles had the force of real ideas to them, which is very different from adults trying to be “random” or whatever. It’s just that these were two-year-old’s pre-speech rigorous gestures and their meanings are rather opaque though forceful in grammar.
I was reading another of the late Paul Squires’s poems and it fits this picture so marvelously well that I republish it here, though you can find the original at Paul’s gingatao blog and get the total Paulesque experience.
Those who say that flowers have no sound have never heard the generousity of tulips in your smile nor watched the synchronicitous flight of gulls like white orchids at the whisper of your touch. They have not been released into the world of sunflower splendour or tiny blue delphinium delight nor set the direction of their dreams by the scent of apple blossom on a chilly night. They doubt the giggle of gardenias when I demonstrate my geranium brain again and are blind to that outrage of yellow hyacinth in the corner of your eye that warns of lightning strikes. I thought of them again this morning when I heard you laugh circus pink camellias into an azure sky and I hope that if they are reading this they experience now as I did then a truly gypsophila anticipation.
Paul was not afraid to depict beauty, as you can see.