Don Quixote
“Don Quixote’s Illusions” / Painting / 1998 / Gifted
I. THE MANIPULATOR II. THE COMPULSIVE LIAR III. THE MIND-TWISTER IV. THE UNJUST ONE V. THE JUST ONE VI. THE SLY TRANSMITTER VII. THE BACK STABBER VIII.THE INFORMER IX. THE VERBALLY OVERBEARING ONES X. THE FACEBOOKOBSESSOR XI. THE CONCLUSION JUMPER I. THE MANIPULATOR Is Non-stop in motion, discontent with matters the way they have become; he must alter current configurations that displease his playful mind. His aim is not to change the chaos into order, repair the broken – mend what is torn or beautify the mediocre. No, his objective is to render all quarrels, change, remodel sentences and tailor facts for his own gain. He feels to rearrange whatever is neat; to twist the straight, unravel the genuine and forthright. He plots without a story and reinvents a situation with way-out opinions. Nevertheless, whatever he deals with is not for progress but for self-esteem to reconstruct without sense so he may rule and command his own world of make-believe. *** II. THE COMPULSIVE LIAR like the Exploiter, will also change what passes through His blunt, judgmental, censoring mind that suffers from blindness to reality. Suffers as those who are blind to colours and believe that whatever we call red, in fact for them is green, grey, or something else that we do not know, because we cannot see into their minds, nor have a reference to their sensation, so as the liar has No reference to what we call a comparative truth. His driving ego cannot understand the injury, caused to Himself that could rescue him from faithless lies. Instead, He will modify disputes and themes, in question or not, to assure His vanity and Self-righteous power may remain Intact. Since nothing else is worse to the obsessive Liar than a defeat of his own truth to make him think that for once, a verdict (true as light of day) degraded him. As end-result, besides his own sightlessness to ‘reality’, conniving needs, He will ignore the evidence and call the facts as they appear in warping mirrors falsifying all true reflections. *** III. THE MIND-TWISTER Is rather intimate with you while searching high and low what makes you tick, while saying – ‘I tell you the truth’. And you believe that what you hear is like the naked landscape of his mind, inviting you to enter. Trustfully then you assume, thinking ‘now he will see me as I am and find my virtues.’ But little do you know that in his mind his statement was merely an intent he will never honour. It is like an illusion that only will encourage you to open up and transmit your secrecies. Meanwhile, past this Twined and twisted magic, his busy and deceitful hands would snatch what you had offered, and twirl, spin and twist it in a silent hurricane past recognition and hurl it into an ugly lie that ever had invaded your exploitable, searching mind. *** IV. THE UNJUST ONE survives far-off from stable dwellings like wolves roam in the wilderness who follow an instinctive pre-set cycle. He chases His own needs that are cursed with human wickedness, alike theft, shameless disregard, resentfulness and revenge. He bears a resemblance to wolves that hunt, except for evil human traits clinging to Him like tar and make Him blind to insight and reason, while abusing anything to reach his reckless objective, disrupting order to which he does not concede, nor trust. However pays the price yet again in a cycle of catch 22 – between offences with harsh punishment, for which he will revenge himself. But then again they will punish him to no other end as being exiled and cursed as a pitiful product of creation that will be damned to linger segregated in the wild like howling wolves in winter’s cold and gloomy nights. *** V. THE JUST ONES (sarcastically) provides His opinion with certainty: “In all fairness,” He will Exclaim, “If it were up to me, I would hang them all. There’s no excuse for all those many crimes!” The Daily News informs Him, Her on page one – where they report on Murders, Rapes and Thieves. Of course, the Just Ones had never done any of those crimes, so it is only fair that They are judge of those Transgressions. No, They never sunk to levels of misdeeds, committed in desperation; all They ever did perhaps was to tell a White lie, discriminate or feed on bigotry, or maybe would try to keep down and out all who tried to come up for air—but always, you must understand, for a damn good reason. No, They never have carried out those crimes, except perhaps had cheated secretly on Their spouses; abused a poor, defenceless soul or crucified someone’s timid ego insidious and slowly in a cold and silent war. The Just Ones had never anything else except had it Their own way, because Their claim is to be the fairest, unbiased Judge that is infallible and peerless. Of course, they never grew up with parents who would beat Them senseless for minor fallacies or for no reason at all – beat Them just for being a part of poverty, misguided and unwise breed, poor health or ill fortune, expanding into repeated, senseless fights and exploitation. Likely some Now-offenders, whom They should hang, have been the victims of Their past in which our way of Justice had already haunted Their existence with efficiency because the apparent willing voices call relentlessly – demand equity if not revenge but have put to rest unbiased compassion. *** VI. THE SLY TRANSMITTER engages himself between the source and His receiver, alike an Antenna, except that He is not a cold and passive component. He never is at the beginning, nor at the end of a conversation or engagement; does not establish an idea, however toys with the received, as we arrange the rows of letters in a scrabble game, transforming the content before transmitting it. Whatever He is trying to convey will change the meaning. For example, from ‘very kind’ to ‘evil mind’. However, we have never a script or some Digital devise to replay the switch of words, in order to expose the cunning transmitter. We only pick up reports from His Antenna, reflecting imageries in mirrors or as smoke-Signals that go from mountain- to mountain-peak, reporting that the enemy must be around the bend, when in fact, He is within us. *** VII. THE BACK-STABBER Is not what you think—a sneaky attacker, ambushing from behind, no, He is polite and kind, will listen, agreeing with your Heartfelt desires; pretending to shelter you from attacks, like Hagen did who in the Nibelung’s assured to safeguard the Invincible Siegfried, except for the mark between his shoulder blades that made Him mortal. Moreover, while you too believe of being safe, one day it may surprise you when, in spite of pleasant words and praises, you will notice a show down of mean intrigues. It will makes you swim against the crowded stream of twisted perverted events, realizing that for every step ahead, the sly conniver thrusts you two steps in reverse: Invisible forces find your fragile sign that use your strength to advance like the deceptive Hagen, when his deadly spear had pierced the spot between the shoulder blades of the unconquerable Siegfried. True, Hagen stood his ground as Brutus did when Caesar fell, knifed by Nobel Romans who were absolved from guilt — secretly, likewise you too may observe, with every stab at you, a smile of the obscure one, or find that He has vanished silently, akin the scheming Brutus or Hagen before your eyes. *** VIII. THE INFORMER has no News Agency, He does not write or print nor Does He broadcast when spreading his message. His approach is trivial and may meet you offside to let you know about discriminative activities against you, to win your confidence and trust that later He will pass on Distorted to someone else. He is a likeable body, selected by superiors and used by them like Wikipedia that will inform about associates in question and speak so well of those He expects a favour; of others that He needs, desires, uses or abuses. At any point, He will release His information freely as a disease and spare no one. Whatever it is – He has heard it first – perhaps will say, “I hate to break the news to you but your employer may let you go”. The Informer is the mercy Executioner with endless awkward abundant Judgmental material filed away to be selectively retrieved like nuts, hidden by squirrels in autumn and re-claimed in winter. If you have given the Informer your entire trust to be stored away – He will find it, crack it open, and spread it all over common places. He will achieve that minds confront Each other over something they had said to one another, yet, they never really did. He is never short of wit and stories, anecdotes. His mission is to rise above His subjects that He by the way dishonours and seen in his deceptive window of Impulsive events. *** IX. THE VERBALLY OVERBEARING ONES They are determined to bring Their point of view across, regardless how muddled its content, however, They will not miss a beat and run you over verbally so as machineguns fire and forcing the enemy into submission. There is no chance replying or cut in for one second – it’s like a one-way street on which one will be run over when entering at the wrong end. Their gift is juggling words before they are able to think of them, without a pause or intermission, while deaf to answers that come from you across the table, unless you wave your hands at their nose and shut their babbling mouth. The only successful option is avoid a conversation over the phone and say, please Email or text me, write a letter per post as long as you wish and I will reply. Alternatively, not. *** X. THE FACEBOOK OBSESSOR makes Them happy. Before They had signed up, They were ignored, a nonentity, known merely in a narrow circle as Their family, few friends, small gatherings that had no sense, no gratitude, who got the better of everything and dialogues went on, without conclusion, endlessly, forever, a waste of time, quickly coming to a dead end. However, Facebook-connection, has unlocked the many doors, a world that is open now to all and everyone, with links, as chains that row on row present Images, worth a thousand words if one could unriddle them. Moreover, sentences of plain and tame connotation, clones of empty content, go back and forth, pretending its Technology has blessed us with creative power, when in fact has handcuffed us alike the image in the Sorceress Apprentice. Yet, there is no lack of search, and communication becomes as once we had accused old women meddling in affairs and gossiping about others across town. However, about the Facebook obsessed with dubious replies, their exercise resembles more like clearing out a reservoir of uncertain thoughts as one discards leftover junk in ancient dwellings. They do that all hours, day by day and nights; Their prying gives Them no rest, regardless how trivial the findings are. They cannot miss nor neglect a thing or else They would return to former ranks of being again unknown, being no one, and the new won, apparent good friends, who, as it seems exalt each other, they would abandon Them and lose Their self-assurance, within an elusive state. *** XI. CONCLUSION JUMPERS are anxious meddling in one’s affairs. They are not waiting until all the facts are in, if ever possible. Their restlessness averts those reaching fair decisions, enticing Them to make quick judgments, forcing Them in short-sighted fashion to beat, as a main resolve, the opposition that extends the spiteful argument; They speak and act ahead of time, before the words In its connectivity have ripened, until there is only a minimum of doubt of its validity. Equally, they long so much for a verdicts and result of their own making, so that there is no other choice as come to an End, by jumping the gun, without the evidence and certainty of those enshrouded still in a helpless question. ***
Short Story“GOOD NIGHT or should I say, GOOD MORNING!” yelled Harry as he waved to his departing friends. With his right arm up in the air almost threw him off-balance. The gin and whiskey consumed earlier had also slowed his reflexes, but who needed reflexes at two a.m.; floating was a better term. Again, they all had an adventurous night! Everyone agreed—he was just about the funniest guy in town. “Take it easy, Harry, and watch out for the tiger!” a voice shouted. Loud laughter of the group in a Jaguar followed, mingled with the roar of its engine that burned the rear tires for few seconds before disappearing into the early morning. Harry grinned. Sure, watch out for the tiger, he repeated, then turned around and stared up at the twenty-storey apartment building trying to figure out, which of the lighted windows on the sixth floor was his apartment. Spotting the light, he could have seen if his wife, Marian, the tiger, as the boys called her, was still waiting up for him or not. After bowling, he spoke to her briefly over the cell phone. He told her that he would go for a short drink with the boys. Although he knew that she wouldn’t approve of him extending the curfew for hours and kill her Saturday night, he could not resist a free drink. Therefore, a wild guess told him he could be in for an earful. However, so what – he had only a few drinks, maybe once or twice a week? According to the boys, he was such a great entertainer. Married for two years, still, letting go of old bachelors habits wasn’t easy. Anyhow, he was far better as some of his friends who were on drugs. Who said that he was bad? While Harry examined his situation, he searched his pockets for the entrance key. Doing so he also decided that if Marian was still waiting for his return, he wasn’t going to stand there and take all her nagging. He had to think of something. Again, he turned all his pockets inside out but couldn’t locate his keys. He either forgot or lost them. Moreover, this occurrence he needed like another drink. On the intercom system to his left and above the buzzer it read, Harry and Marian Webster, Apt. 610. Pushing the button would have been so easy; however, his better judgment told him — don’t wake the tiger. Was he afraid? Not at all! He was floating anyhow. However, why should he get into an argument? Then, on second thought why not? Maybe he felt like blowing up for a change, to show Marian who was boss. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure, first, how to get in and then, how to plan his defence. As much as he had in mind to lay it on the line, he wisely hesitated to buzz the apartment intercom. As he collected his scrambled thoughts for the great attack, the elevator doors in the lobby opened. A young man in a bathrobe stepped out. He carried a pile of old newspapers that he threw into a paper bin. “Great!” exclaimed Harry enjoying his luck and knocked with his fists against the glass partition. The young man turned his head. Harry waved and mimicked a few gestures to suggest that he wanted to get in. As he kept insisting, the man came over to open the door. “Oh thanks,” Harry said. He was about to force his way in. “Hold it, man! Do you live here?” “Damn right!” “I have never seen you before.” “I’ve never seen you either!” “And you are drunk, too — eh? Where exactly is your apartment, if I may ask?” Harry pointed to the intercom list. “There, 610, Harry & Marian Webster, if you don’t mind. I forgot my keys. Get it?” “I get it, so why don’t we buzz your apartment and speak to your wife?” “No, no, I can’t do that. “Why not? “I don’t want to wake her.” “Man, under those circumstances—no deal!” Just then, someone left the elevator. Harry shoved the man aside, “Now, will you excuse me?” He said forcefully and entered the lobby. However, when Harry arrived at the elevator, the doors closed on him. He waved his hands in disgust, hurried over to the staircase, and ran up as fast as he could. Walking along the sixth floor corridor, puffing away, he thought, man, you’re a bit out of shape. At Apt. 610, he stopped. Now, what was his plan again? In the next moment, the elevator door opened and the young man, who had blocked his way down at the entrance, stepped out. There he stood in his bathrobe, just watching. What a nut, Harry thought. Of course, if Marian had locked the apartment door, he would be in a tight spot. Annoyed, Harry waved off the young man, who was spying on him from the elevator. After all the fuss, Harry was a bit wound up. He was even ready for some battle or to execute one of his offbeat acts to dilute the situation if need be. The boys always enjoyed his flair to entertain. Some nights he would direct midnight traffic at an intersection downtown; play a mouth-organ dreadfully for a hand-out in a subway station, while the boys stood offside, laughing; or bet that he would stroll through a ladies convention in the nude. Just a few hours ago, he had climbed one cement arch crossing the fountain on the town square at the old city hall. Unfortunately, a cop without humour gave him a fine, and, regrettably, Marian had no use for his pranks either. Harry carefully turned the doorknob. What a relief, it was open! Again, he waved at the man at the elevator and tiptoed into his apartment. The floor lamp in the far corner was still on as well. How lucky could he get? Nevertheless, shortly as he praised his fortune and advanced half into the living room, a voice said, “How about that!” The lights came on as if it were a surprise party. Marian stood at the bedroom door in her long turquoise nightgown. Her blond hair covered her narrow shoulders; one hand rested on the light switch, the other hand carried a book. Well, he thought, what is so frightening about that? “Harry, you have done it again!” Marian exclaimed. “You promised three days ago that you would hang up your ugly habits. Now look at yourself. It is disgusting!” “Yes, I know, but the boys . . . “ “The boys, the boys . . . To hell with the boys! Don’t you see? They just use you. All they are interested in is that you entertain them.” “And why not?” “Because they do it at your own expense.” “Doesn’t cost me a thing, Marian, listen . . . “ “Harry, I am not talking about money. Sure, they feed you booze, so they can get you going and you become reckless. Something is going to happen if you don’t stop. You’ve got to grow up and quit clowning around—audience or no audience!” “So you think I’m a clown, eh? All right, watch this. To show you that I also play tragic parts – what would you say if I jumped off the balcony?” Marian looked away, shaking her head, thinking, for sure he had again too much booze. “That in itself proves you are going off your rocker”, she said, trying to keep her composure. However, when Harry made this dramatic statement, it occurred to him that it wasn’t such a bad idea. That was it! He was going to teach Marian a lesson. Of course, he wasn’t going to jump. He would lower himself on the outside railing of the balcony, then hold on to the bottom steel rod. This would be one of those funny acts, which the boys might want to hear about. Before Marian had a chance to react, Harry dashed through the balcony door as he had anticipated. Sure, it was way up on the sixth floor, but in his floating condition, he was certain he could pull himself back up anytime. “Harry, stop! Are you crazy?” She cried and rushed after him. “O, God, he has disappeared. Harry!” She called again, frantically, as she leaned over the railing and looked anxiously down into a dark space. “Hello there,” Harry’s voice came from below, casually. Marian spotted him at once: “Harry, Harry! Thank God. You’re still here. Please, hold on. I’m sorry. I promise . . . Never again . . . I’ll get help—get a rope or something.” Swiftly she returned to the apartment, repeating to herself, what a fool, what a fool! Harry moreover, was quite content. Man, was his plan working or what. She was at his mercy. This would be the last reproach to his lifestyle. Through the open door of the balcony, he could hear Marian. She went confused from room to room, opening, and slamming doors and drawers; she was talking to herself, then getting impatient, angry and finally ended up crying. Then it became worrisome quiet. Harry decided to end her torture. He was ready to pull himself up to the next steel bar, so he could get his knees onto the cement ledge. The rest would be easy. Yes, he was ready, but no matter how much he tried, he failed to reach the other steel bar. It was incredible. He didn’t seem to float anymore either. On the contrary—it felt more as if one had filled his body with lead, while the gin and whiskey played games with his mind. Stay cool, man, he said to himself but realized that he might have stretched his luck. Looking down, the distance to the ground was a lot more than his body could absorb. Again, he gathered all his energy but he failed to grasp the top bar. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, hoping Marian had come up with a good plan because he hadn’t much strength left. An odd quietness lay in the air, not a soul to applaud or pity him. Wouldn’t this have been an enjoyable site for the boys? “Marian,” he whispered. God knows where she had gone. Maybe she panicked or fainted. If so, there was for sure only one-way to go — down. A fine lesson he was about to teach her. He could feel the cold sweat on his neck, running down his back. The pain in his arms and shoulders gradually gave way to numbness. Oh God, was this a sign that he was going to lose control? He had read somewhere that before one freeze to death, a feeling of warmth and comfort would surround the body. Similar, his pain easing off could be a sign of his doom. “Help!” He cried. His head kept swelling, as if hooked up to a compressor. At any second, his eyes could have popped out of their sockets. Harry had lost track of time. It seemed he had hung there for hours. A feeling of desertion overcame him. Then, faintly, didn’t he notice a light on the balcony below him; hear voices, shouting? Didn’t someone just call his name? Perhaps all that was an illusion. His fingers began inevitably to lose their grip. No matter what, he had to let go of the steel bar. His clinched hands opened slowly, and he was perhaps on his way to greet his maker. Just then, something pulled at his ankles and a second later Harry slid down a mattress that covered the railing of the fifth floor balcony. There he bounced off, rolled over and hit his head on the cement floor, where he came to a stop. “Harry,” uttered Marian, kneeling traumatized beside him. She wiped the perspiration off his face. Harry lay on the ground with a bump on his forehead and all his muscles ached. For a minute, he felt dizzy but when that eased off, he looked up astonished at his fifth floor neighbour. Did he see right? He had met the same guy earlier in the lobby. His spouse in a nightgown stood beside him. “So, we meet again,” the young man, said. “Look at that!” Addressing Marian, “Are you sure this is your husband?” “Yes, I am,” she replied while drying her eyes. “Well, you see, this is a long story.” “I bet it is.” Turning to his spouse, “Would you believe me if I told you, he is the pushy guy, Harry, down in the lobby?” Then, approaching Harry – “Anyhow, I’m Tim. This is my wife, Jenny. Hope you’re O.K.” He stretched out his hands and helped Harry to his feet. “Thanks, Tim, more than O.K.; I’m a thousand times better than if I had landed down in the parking lot,” Harry muttered embarrassed as he leaned against Marian, still trying to catch his breath. “Sorry I’m such a jerk,” he added. Tim looked at Marian: “Harry, you should know whom in the first place to thank. Yes, I agree, you were a jerk but that’s not really my concern, ’cause I’m not married to you. I just hope I don’t have to regret helping to save your butt. However, if I were you, I wouldn’t try it again, because next time we might not be here.” Marian took Harry’s arm, went to the elevator, upstairs to their apartment with the door still open, telling a tale. Exhausted and still a bit shaky he spoke no more, except, “oh boy, “and surrendered his mind like a ship sinking to the bottom of the sea. The End painting- “Friendly Avenue” / Watercolour / 1959 / JR.
Time is running out, Man, Noah said when he built his Ark. It is an assumption that life hung on A thread then but time kept running. Time is running out, Man, Saint John said in Revelation. For Millenniums other prophets declared The images of an Armageddon, Have warned of earthquakes, Floods, Disease, Falling of stars, Fire and brimstone On last judgement’s day. Heralds of the desert still call For penance, and yet Time keeps running. It seems, the threat is merely A game, a fairy tale In a holy script. But while I recent doomsday’s forecast, Life’s resources diminish day by day- Oil slicks cover Oceans and coasts, Lakes and rivers consume industries waste As smokestacks, catapult the acid rain into The still growing land and Millions of Exhaust pipes enshroud the sun, Pock holes Into the atmosphere that upturn Heats And raise water levels to floods, irreversibly Will strangle this planet into submission. At the prime of Man’s achievements, Where Nature reveals itself through calculation, Books of science open suddenly and Old Prophecies return like ghosts of haunted places; Prophecies that sounded like Fairy tales. Time is running out, Man . . . Now say computers’ calculations. Still, I reply I believe when I see it. Indications are so unexpected none of The holy signs as trumpets, lightning, Thunder; They are not pompous, dramatic, no, These signs are calm, unassuming, And scientific: Pollution creeps in like A thief in the night, weakening, Decomposing the substance of growth, While capital and wealth triumphs on And on, hailing the monument Of fortune. Time is running out, Man . . . One reads, faintly written like A watermark, in the book of science: “Life of mankind fifty more years to go . . . ?” Unless the nuclear, Our garbage in space Or nature’s way of asteroids Will strike first . . . ? Or Will time keep running? *** painting – “Arctic Heat Wave” / 1996 / JR.
Understanding Art Over the many past centuries, the upper class only had reasonable contact with art that was of a higher standard. Consequently, they understood its application and purpose. For the common, uneducated person the nature of those realistic paintings, without considering its meaning, were still pleasant simulation of nature. It is possible that since those times one is think that everyone should be able to understand Art. However, there is a good reason why this cannot be so. Art, telling us in words, music and images, who we are, has gone through many changes in its form and appearance. They all correspond to an epoch in history when we experienced the lowest human standard fighting wars, followed by destruction and more hate, shifting to the highest achievements at intermissions, by, again erecting, constructing, inventing and creating from a nature given, spiritual capacity mirroring our existence. A rather large group in society believe that painting is a simulation of an apparent reality, nothing more. They have always acknowledged the skill to execute an object as the main purpose, but considering the importance Visual Art has taken in daily life generally, there is no surprise to find a lack of understanding. Language, such as, is the only creative expression that has some advantage in comparison with other art forms, which does not always mean that literature is widely understood but already the broadly distribution and accessibility is a benefit through theatre. The other advantage is that language has a practical use in everyday living and is a basic subject taken, so far, seriously in education. From that point of view, it is a personal choice and gift to develop this communicative tool to a higher level and understanding. Music, in comparison, has no practical use, except for enjoyment and entertainment; it belongs generally to the performing arts. The participation as a performer depends on early education. Its effectiveness varies and the choices multiply with time. Through technology, we have no lack of exposure around the clock. Still, from having talent and mastering an instrument, it is a long stretch to compose music, unless one lowers the norm and bar, what we still consider as music and excellent, to child’s play. That applies as well to other creative categories. Then there is visual art, painting, perhaps a stepchild, because it is a stationary and a soundless occurrence, restricted to one site only, if chosen at all, placed on a wall, waiting for a viewer passing by. For the reason that visual art (aside from applied art, which is important for advertising or some aesthetical use in society alike), does not directly touch anyone’s life, and takes partly a back seat in education as well. It is usually also the last item, if it has any value at all, that a household will acquire. Of course, we have acknowledged for many decades expressive drawings of children and taught art skills in senior classes but passed on very little about creative meaning or Art history. To some extent those instructions are as luxurious as music, and yet this silent expression, the interpretation of our visual world in subjective colours and forms, deal with dimensions that should be explored. Although the artists have greater insight through extensive studies and practise, the viewer’s mind has the same opportunity to find knowledge that helps reading Visual Art. I am using the word reading for viewing a painting because there is an ABC that is form, colour, composition and more that becomes a style and language. Of course, reading a painting does not, as far as time is concerned compare in the same way than reading a book. (However, one should make the effort to take nothing for granted and give it more than fifteen seconds.) To begin with, there is, as established, overall better training and teaching for language and the written word, something we cannot claim for visual images. For that reason, alone the public looks often at a painting as if written in a different, unfamiliar code. Various expressions: For every Style, so to speak, we have certain forms, colours, spaces, compositions, subjects, and even techniques in place. Looking at these or even more details in a work of art, compared with another, a viewer should normally contemplate over the many possibilities, unless a trained expert’s eye is searching for specifics that may show or not. But reading would also mean to think about those attributes mentioned above and come up with individual creative interpretations. It follows; the prerequisite in reading a painting would acquire some knowledge and overview of arts development: First, we have a general impression and expectation. Unconsciously we ask ourselves – what is familiar or new, different, offbeat, and what appears to us like an old hat? Understandable, the latter will make the viewer move on faster. We could say the same about a work that goes beyond our understanding, except here we should consider our shortcomings. If anything, to agree will depend on interaction with the artist and other creative individuals on one end, and the viewer on the other end. What then is the Artist’s objective? I believe his/her first concern would have to be the task as how to follow an intuition of transformation truthfully, regardless what the viewer may say or think, or if it will make any money. Only then, the artist is free to create. However, few who set out have the drive and determination or lucky support to follow their star. Most artists settle for concession. Either way, they create by insight; work alone also on different levels with variant expressions. The same goes for the viewer whom we also could divide into, more or less, knowledgeable individuals. This would largely find a degree of understanding. As pointed out –Some of us have accepted Visual Art as a language, as one reads literature or analyses music or various art forms – others merely believe that art should speak to everyone, something one can understand at first glance. (The latter probably mean the Applied Arts or Entertainment.) Then, a last group has no link to visual art at all. Regarding language, we would call them illiterate. Nevertheless, whatever stage one occupies the subject, minds should not become complacent. Active involvement is essential. In other words – one should try to seek knowledge in a field that has appeal and exercise a creative mind, so one can elevate the level of appreciation. Most artists take this path: They study, discuss, compare, and consider diversities. Classical Art consists mainly of skill, technic, aesthetics (Composition), symbols, and metaphors. The first three qualities gave overall viewers always the impression that they understood its presentation. In other words, the simulation of figures, structures, landscapes were obvious – no guesswork. However, even so, the content as the primary aim lays often in allegorical symbols and metaphors, one cannot understand without necessary insight and preparation. Changes that took place in the first half of the twenties century was ignored for the earlier strict emphasis on skill and aesthetics. Perhaps Surrealists excluded. With this mode disappeared realism as well. Photography replaced mainly that function of reproducing a sight or view. However, on the upside, the Impressionists showed new light and colour, a new point of view that no one had ever paid attention to before. The Cubists removed a spacious dimension on a given area, according to their own perception, but had a keen interest in composing and shifting planes, a view that is unrestricted to one point of view. This was the beginning to consider Art as an independent expression. In other words, visual art had now much less to do with simulation of an apparent reality but the mission was transformation. Everything that followed, they created within those guidelines. Expressionists emphasized psychological characters of objects or situations. The Surrealists gave an opportunity to retrieve the unconscious. Moreover, the abstractionist avoided simulation of outward reality entirely, alone to find reality within. (Perhaps another form of surrealism.) What followed were added changes and will continue. My consideration of “Understanding Art” will leave it at that because much of contemporary or experimental art, as for example “Minimalism” or “Installations” need usually all the rhetorical help they can muster. It is art, that is often not very much to look at but one can discussed its approach endlessly, and would need a separate enquiry. Nevertheless, in general, once we inform ourselves about developments of art in history, we will expand our horizon. Every epoch, meaning ‘changeover’ that occurs in society, has its own highs, and lows in every respect, and creative minds are the first ones reflecting on it – in many ways even to start the change. We must view art in this context. In every era, artists have striven to refine style or language in their meditative work and mirror the time we live in. Once we consider all possible angles, looking at art, we begin also to set aside inflexible judgments. Besides, appreciation of Visual Art should not be limited to personal preferences, e.g., the spectacular or sentimental – as Sunsets, Horses, Seascapes, etc. We rather should contemplate over the alteration from old, universal themes into a new light and perspective. For the question: “What is Art actually?” it is best that we never know, because if we did, we would stop to develop and grow. One thing is certain – the most important knowledgeable ingredient in life as in Art is transformation, but without innovative perception, we would carry out very little. Inspired awareness should make involvement more enjoyable and above all more balanced. ***
Alien His distant beginning was timeless, without vision and transfixed. And then he appeared with bated breath of spring and warmth of summer – games on end; a childhood, blissful existence until rebirths of Icarus had touched his soul and daring destiny with fate unknown. It was but a dream that he could reach the sun. The blazing Star dissolving his manmade wings, curtail his ascent by gravity that pulls him down toward the mortal depth. Last rays of light cling for one more instance to the mountain peak, reflect his desolate composure. Shattered remains of lost labour decompose beneath the heights, he could not conquer; the tunes he failed to play as Orpheus did. May then his useless instrument disperse against the boulders so deafly and numb which obstruct his path as if he never knew the glow of charity, never had given but taken. He had emerged Stark-naked, out of nowhere and similarly he vanishes as ripples level out in waters after birds fly off, frightened, as if there never were motion nor vision or time. *** painting – Icarus 20 century
Poem – Sing to the Wall a Requiem a wall, dividing you and me – dividing us since I remember. Once I assumed that you were I, until it proved suspicion looked through mirrors loopholes, secretly striking me as a game of which one grows tired. Sing to the walls, unseen, raised between mankind – dividing him since ancient time; sing to hoisted flags, hidden arms, readymade — waiting for hours born out of darkness. Waylaid by terror, eradicating last hope for communiqué, suspicious loopholes with one-eyed ghosts engage deceivingly. Red sky and six feet of earth surround the buried – while survivors urgently try to carve symbols and names into walls to immortalise the fate of fatal mistakes that no one ever will remember. Sing to the wall a Requiem.
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