“Choosing a COVID-19 Vaccine — The Three Prisoner Problem”, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 cm., 2021.
“Choosing a COVID-19 Vaccine — the Three Prisoners Problem”, oil on canvas, 50 x 50 cm., 2021.
From 1957 to 1980, Martin Gardner had a monthly column in Scientific American magazine where presented mathematical games. One of these games was the Three Prisoners Problem. Here is the problem explained in Wikipedia:
“Three prisoners, A, B, and C, are in separate cells and sentenced to death. The governor has selected one of them at random to be pardoned. The warden knows which one is pardoned, but is not allowed to tell. Prisoner A begs the warden to let him know the identity of one of the two who are going to be executed.
“If B is to be pardoned, give me C’s name. If C is to be pardoned, give me B’s name. And if I’m to be pardoned, secretly flip a coin to decide whether to name B or C.
“The warden tells A that B is to be executed. Prisoner A is pleased because he believes that his probability of surviving has gone up from 1/3 to 1/2, as it is now between him and C. Prisoner A secretly tells C the news, who reasons that A’s chance of being pardoned is unchanged at 1/3, but he is pleased because his own chance has gone up to 2/3. Which prisoner is correct?”
In this 24th self-portrait I create a new problem and dilemma: given the known and unknown information regarding COVID-19 vaccines today, which vaccine do we choose in order to better survive the pandemic?
Here the images resemble cut-outs that are cocooned within a violent and haphazard mass of white noise. The questions are many, and the possible consequences are yet unknown. Should I take a vaccine, or not? And if so, which vaccine is the right one (and the safest) for me? The whiteness promises hope and security, but the internalized drama is almost overwhelming. The seemingly unfinished background of the painting is by no means uniform. The sharp edges from the palette knife reveal both urgency and random underlying patches of darkness, both of which threaten to challenge the assurance of science. The message is clear: “Time is short. Humanity is at a crossroad. Choose your fate, and live or die with the consequences.”
Tout cela est d’ailleurs aussi aléatoire que futile ;
comparé au réchauffement climatique,
à la menace nucléaire,
aux tueurs en série, au terrorisme …
et que dire de ces satanées galeries marchandes !
Les posters qui ornent sa chambre
sont des photos de victimes :
de la Seconde Guerre Mondiale,
de catastrophes naturelles,
d’attaques terroristes …
ceux qui lui rappellent
qu’il a de la chance
peuvent aller se faire pendre !
Sa mère joue à plein volume
ce vieux tube disco “I will survive !” …
la rare fois qu’il décide
de faire ses devoirs.
Oh oui, c’est un survivant …
Painting: Oil on Canvas. “X, Y and Z Generations … in Troubled Times”, is a series of three self-portraits, challenging the ways I see myself vs. the ways I wish others to see/experience me. Today’s challenges are many, and the successive generations barely have time for needed self-reflection in the face of the daily, fast-changing technological, climate and other challenges. In this painting I invite the viewer to face himself/herself in this world where faces and Art are often just another image. I personally experience this painting as scary and uncomfortable. What I mean by saying that the painting is “scary” is that it confirms the dilemma that I face in today’s crazy World — an “unfinished symphony” that is essentially never to be totally understood. There were never to be any figures totally painted because the pictures represent people/humanity/me in development and unraveling. The pic of me all dressed up in a fur coat is the “show guy” presenting himself to The World … (x-generation). The y-generation me with the green face is the creative and thinking me — absorbed in my own thoughts and ideas, but battling against those imposed upon me by living in The World. And the z-generation is me blocking out and hiding from The World, the mental bombardments of images, coined phrases, propaganda, advertisements, and the glaring and oppressive heatwaves and sunlight etc. That image is in the largest state of disintegration, the skin coloring depicting a body that is almost lifeless and the head partially covered by a veil of mourning. Of course, all of the images are (as is the Internet, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, mainstream media and alternative media) manipulations — leaving out ears (i.e. really hearing and listening) and other details in order “to guide” the viewer into focusing upon the sunglasses, clothing and accessories (headlines) instead of seeing the person (content) inside … and we are consequently in a continuous struggle for self-marketing and esteem vs. incompletion and dissatisfaction with systems of ethics and values that both constrain and embrace us. The painting is “The Scream” that was never really expressed outwardly. And the minimalistic pastel-colored background is the general environment of denial — “everything is normal” — that acts as a sedative, more than inspiration. NB. See Urban Dictionary for definitions of Generations X, Y and Z.
THE SURVIVOR (of COVID-19) – 2021.
They say …
that now is the time
to accept yourself, and to accept others
as they are.
Facial wrinkles comfort me
in the era of the new plague.
I am old, but I am still a survivor.
It is so good.
But I really want to know:
What’s the value of that?
For example, on the stock market
of love and attraction?
THE SURVIVOR (of HIV/AIDS) — 1993.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
His alcoholic mother has breast cancer;
and his ‘dad’ left long before he was born.
Living in a trailer park has its perks:
no one really cares if you stay out all night …
or for days on end, for that matter.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
His sister is an ex-whore;
struggling to stay ‘clean’
so she can keep her job as a cashier at Wal-Mart.
Her loser live-in boyfriend is a ‘good-for-nothing’ …
a fucking bum who won’t even bother to recycle bottles
discarded in garbage receptacles or containers.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
He gets beaten every other day at school;
and slapped once-a-week at home.
He’s used to it: doesn’t care anymore really,
but he has recently begun carrying a switchblade
to see if it can be a deterrent …
like going to war in Iraq.
He dreams of getting a handgun,
and is hoping that someone famous
will one day pimp his ride.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
He takes his HIV-meds when he remembers.
Life is a sweet mixture:
sometimes ‘heaven’, and oftentimes ‘hell’ …
depending on the ‘high’,
the sex or the lack of either (or both).
A neighbor-punk called him ‘faggot’ once …
He just smiled …
causing the asshole to run in haste and fear.
Who cares?!! It’s all temporary anyway;
what with global warming, nuclear threats,
serial killers and terrorism …
and those fucking ‘super malls’.
His favorite posters in his room are pictures of victims:
from the second world war, from natural catastrophes,
from terrorist attacks …
anyone who reminds him
that he is one of the lucky ones.
Doesn’t matter.
For the moment anyway.
At least that’s what he thinks
when his mom blasts the old disco hit “I will survive!” …
the one time in a blue moon
when he sets himself down to do his homework.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
mumbles and whispers.
mumble and whisper;
a buzz, just out of hearing range.
i shout: “what are you saying? … i cannot hear you!”
Poems, painting and photography by Adam Donaldson Powell.)
The embrace.
Photo: Adam Donaldson Powell
WHISPERS…
I
Differentiate dream from vision: I heard a voice
telling me it was
so softly
in whispers become fingers insistent each
a separate story in whispers become
a hand coming to rest assurance
on my brow smudging wrinkle away from shadow
Shadows become whispers
sliding into sleep, dreams descending
to a new crescendo to vision turning
on its heel and reminding
in whispers as indifferent as relentless
as ocean waves
going about the business of being ocean waves.
II
SPLASHING whispers gone amok;
red paint SPLATTERED on white sailcloth …
one green eye and one brown
talking with one another
but without seeing;
leaving me DISJOINTED but not perplexed.
My dream-catching whispers are now
quite rambunctious and I’m feeling rather
PURPOSELESS while
GASPING for words on the edge of an eternal
moment for moment
flirting with smothering cobwebs …
TURN ME LOOSE!
You’ve shown me more than my whisper can digest.
You’re falling far … far past the point of
being in love with yourself and
I want to cry more but
my tears have given way to
HOARSE, LICORICE WHISPERS.
Turn me loose … turn me loose …
A pale oyster-moon has just slithered past
the sweet nothings and penetrated my inner ear
STOP … PLEASE
III
Don’t speak.
SHHhhhhhhhhhh……………
“Speak softly,” my conscience says.
There is no room for doubt in such proximity and
waking hours spent running and arranging
and defending and
composing and planning and
(GRUNT)
Sometimes I think that our sounds don’t
really match anymore … a mad woman running from place to place in
sensible shoes falling
asleep on buses and subways snarling
at old ladies coming too close with their
dripping …
If only men
could bleed for love
as only women can … perhaps
then I could surrender to your whispering.
You do still hear me, don’t you?
Umbrellas. THEIR
LARGE BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut, open and shut in silence.
You stalk my emotions, steal my words …
(Openings rest there near rapture.)
SHHhhhhhhhhhhh…….”Don’t speak,” you say.
Fuck off …
Meanwhile an honest feast takes place
unperturbed
in the moonlight.
Just because you’re not actually being
followed doesn’t necessarily mean that you
don’t have a right to be PARANOID.
Hey! Are we talking about your experience
of my words … or mine of yours?
I
CRASHED but nobody noticed my shadow mingled
swiftly yet another meek
whistle
among their own; they went right on eating.
I just want to SCREAM In silence.
SHHhhhhhhhhhh…………… WHAT?!!!
IV
All I do is salvage the remains and begin
again A Broken Child
teeters with epileptic balance
down along the sidewalk. Paranoia reduced to one
crystal fragment fractured and reeling in
umpteen patterns,
each collecting and then returning
whispers
in its own fashion. I can’t
catch up with it: it shifts
quicker than I can move quicker than
the frenzy of my thoughts. Shiny white minnows fly
into sight like mirrors, now gone
missing.
TIT FOR TAT this for that Heads
Nodding in implied
Consent PUPPETS not the thing like
the thing itself. We accept this deception
and ravenously A broken room and all the while
the heart beats a dogged rhythm.
V
I get spooked when you corner me inside myself;
especially when you whisper those seductive,
unspeakable psychological assessments
against my ear-drum …
tango-like rhythms bouncing
in a stilted, jerking fashion
I follow your lead
’round and ’round, closer and closer until …
Our precarious showdown brings us
face-to-face with insecurity and dream.
An orchid unfolds an insistent
vermillion informs
pink petals distended …
endings mute into beginnings …
Screeching, flamebreathing dragons soar low over
violated plains of brainmatter.
As silk upon iron.
Vibrato persists
confused but undaunted as wings span
a trembling distance
Fires of fear incite waves of internal uproar to sear the
ulcerated lining of delicate abdominal tissue, while
glowing corpuscles ferry hysteria into distended veins
and scorch alarmed nerve endings
… crops fail, dams break, control centers malfunction …
eyelids clamp shut in retreat from the horrors
of imminent disaster but optic darkness is cruelly
marred by vermillion blotches — proclaiming realization
of all that was dreaded yet intuited
as inevitable.
Unprescribed; an estimate of
mute yet yearning finger
tips trembling search. Desist (as)
and as the war-drum heartbeats of
a million Amazons prepare to vanquish
my masculinity with insecurity at its
first indiscretion, I load my tongue with
silver arrows …
Darts soaring swerve and distort
Falling short to collapse
mid-flight. One lone note
And mercilessly catapult the words ‘I love you’
against your brazen shield and prepare to fall —
breathlessly —
into the fiery ashes of countless charred impulses
raining heavily upon furrows of creativity;
cultivating retrospect with expectation.
Tests timbre tone tenacity. Yawns
and swallows seeds of hope.
One lone orchid
unfolds out of my throat
an insistent vermillion.
VI
Our whispering draws to a close …
the stillness of space around us
empty of airflow and sound;
all confirmed by the syncopated
racing rhythms of my own heart …
unaffected by the rotation of the Earth
while breakdancing clouds laughingly roar
with all the grace of
SHATTERING glass.
And there our whisperings remain,
rather indistinguishable from the multitudes
and dulled by disclosure and dessication.
VII
Je m’accuse … je suis tombé(e)
(IMPLICATED ..AND FALLING)
Openings rest there near rapture: A pale oyster-moon
has just slithered past the sweet nothings
and penetrated
my inner ear: je suis tombé amoureux. (
Implicated and falling in love …)
BIRDS’ MOUTHS open and shut open and shut in silence;
one lone orchid unfolds silver arrows
loading for flight.
Je suis tombé amoureux de ton chuchotement
A hoarse licorice whisper on the edge of an eternal
moment for moment shiny
white minnows
fly into sight
like mirrors, now gone missing.
Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell and Diane Oatley, 2005 “Whispers” (a dialogue for two voices) had its world premiere in Kathmandu, Nepal (at Gurukul Theatre) in 2006. Diane Oatley is a poet, writer and dancer. She is also the author of “Swoon”, published by Cyberwit.net in 2005.
“WHISPERS” IS PART OF MY BOOK ENTITLED “THREE-LEGGED WALTZ”. ORDER “THREE-LEGGED WALTZ” AND SEVERAL OF MY OTHER BOOKS FROM CYBERWIT.NET OR AMAZON.COM
This is the final painting in my COVID-19 painting series chronicle. While all «endings» of pandemics are qualified — due to the ever-present possibility of re-occurrence or new viruses/new mutations, the survival and future of Humanity is dependent upon science, technology, perserverance … and, of course, abstractions such as Hope. Hope is a universal conceptual archetype — not necessarily directly connected to any known entity or individual … and it is therefore represented here as a visual abstraction in the intellectual and sense-oriented «feel good» category — expansive, yet ordered; spiritual, yet not confined to religion; and inspirational, yet mysterious.
Oso Para Vos 
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