Mark pol
2 min readMar 19
Shadow of a tree in misty weather

Sit in my studio watching the play of shadows. The sun plays with the contrasts laid out over the floor and walls. Follow the slow sliding of the shadows.

Suddenly remind my teacher at the academy: where there is light you can shoot!

With the passing of the shadows, I also see my life slipping by, as I stare at the white canvas. Sighing, I get up. Thirst. Glass of water. The miracle of the current infrastructure: water from the tap.

As in The Summer of ’42, by Michel Legrand, so I get carried away in the flow of that music, I am also carried away in shadows of life. A shadow passes across the canvas. Follow it. Amazement. I once put some hyacinths in my studio by the window. They look at the light in amazement and know that spring is coming.

Light and shadow an endless rhythm. Like life and death. As long as this planet will continue to exist and the sun is not extinguished. Look at the hyacinths.

Doorbell! Ah, my ordered canvases. Sign for receipt, thank you. Shadows tell me the time, as they slip into eternity. In my mind I close the door. Unpack my new canvases and clean up. It’s Friday. A party tonight. Hate parties. Well-known gallery owners come together there. Have to peddle with my work there.

Open the door of my storage and store my new canvases there. In the kitchen, I pull open the fridge. Go cook something. The street lamps take over the shadows. The deadness of that never ceases to amaze me. And always fills me with nostalgia for tomorrow.

Above the dishes I observe dark figures, strolling past my window. Their shadows are drawn on the pavement.

Check if I have put my latest works on my mobile. I must stay ahead of the shadows of time. It’s quiet in Amsterdam. Reluctantly get into my car.

It’s busy. Lots of booze and slime. False laughter. No appetite for snacks. Manages to make an appointment with a gallery owner in the center of Amsterdam. Smart woman! Slowly I shuffle towards the exit.

Life’s shadow stretches out her hands to me. At home. Throw the car keys on the table. Fall dead tired in my chair. Slowly drink some water and check my calendar. Zap through a number of channels. Nothing interests me.

The present casts its shadow ahead to the future. In the future you still see the shadows of the past.

My thoughts sink into the cushions of my chair along with my head.

My shadow of life will cherish me in my sleep.

Mark pol

I am an artist:painter. I paint and draw. Its a kind of figurative surrealism.