L’art et l’écriture se sont longtemps heurtés et, pour de nombreux écrivains de Kingston, l’Agnes Etherington Art Centre situé sur le campus de Queen’s a offert de nombreuses occasions officielles et non officielles de collaboration et d’inspiration.
En 2019, le poète, romancier, écrivain de non-fiction et musicien Steven Heighton – décédé en 2022 – a été chargé par le magazine Queen’s Alumni Review d’écrire un poème inspiré d’un tableau de Rembrandt nouvellement acquis, Head of an old man with curly hair (1659), offert à l’université par Linda et Daniel Bader. Tout en travaillant sur le poème, Heighton – dont le processus créatif était souvent très visuel – a fait son propre croquis de la peinture:
Head of an old man with curly hair
Rembrandt van Rijn, 1659
He has put away his hands and sealed his lips –
which anyway you can hardly see beneath the rabbinical
beard – as if he no longer needs to gesture or speak,
as if now his gaze is speech enough. And it is,
even with his eyelight dimmed (the light source lies
behind him in the room, maybe a transom or a small
dormer in midwinter). An old man’s window, like his eyes,
ears, mouth, takes in less and less of the world, until
finally none; no sunroof in a sepulchre, no skylight
in a tomb. Yet within this frame, in what photons
persist, his stare arrests, accosts us – not pensive, weary
as we first misread (scrolling past the old, as we do)
but urgent, facetiming us from light years off,
his patience lessening, shaded eyes demanding:
What are you doing there subtracting yourself
from the light? Or constraining your view
to the blue dormer of a screen that you stare into
as if to glimpse a future you’re already, frankly,
giving away. You the self-unseen, you the self-
eclipsed. If it’s not your screen, it’s the mirror.
I hold my breath for you all. It pains me to watch, even
this far removed. Your young are worst off, clearly,
though for them I still feel hope; it is not so hard to be happy,
billions have managed before you, and with far less.
I’ve managed. True, my day is mostly spent, and
here too there’s no reckoning the lonely, the broken.
But my world is dirty, poor and dim. What could be the reason
in your case? On you sit, staring at shadows!
My judgment may seem hasty, my tenor rude,
but the eleventh hour is every hour, as any old man
can vouch. I stand by every word, though I’ve spoken
none aloud. (He has sealed his lips, put away his hands,
and now his eyes, too, conclude.)