“Eternal Sleep — Mors Vincit Omnia”, 80 x 60 cm., oil on canvas, 2021.
One of the largest challenges for an artist is possibly that of deciding / daring to envision and portray oneself as dead. While Death itself is a fascinating theme for many artists, the psychological and superstitious reasons for not painting oneself as deceased keeps many artists in lockdown as regards trespassing and overcoming this mental and emotional hurdle.
On ne peut pas vivre sa vie en ayant peur de la mort. Mais soyez assuré que la mort l’emporte sur tout, y compris la peur.
You cannot live your life being afraid of death. But rest assured that death wins out over everything, including fear.
When Twilight Comes.
When twilight comes and consciousness sleeps in,
age-old echoes from prehistoric times begin to hum
Ego’s cradle-song … first with low, dark-brown
cello tones which cause bone-marrow to tremble until
it flows, and then with high, glossy, unheard shrieks
which can only be made by angels who mean to provoke.
In time, my uneven breathing becomes transformed
into turquoise-colored waves which whip my oversensitive
psychic fortress from sobriety, and near panic.
There are no guarantees that I am ready for the
extraordinary gift that I am to be given:
a glimpse of existence in its unbelievable purity, which
is so personal that I am forced to grab onto
my earthly reality and smash the perfection
into countless, cloudy bits of mirror which rain lightly
upon my consciousness. I awaken sweaty, but not
completely empty-handed .. and I am not the person
I once had been.
In the twenty-fifth hour,
as sleeplessness concedes
to Jungian twilight,
the inviolate ticking
of the bedside clock
with sinister rhythm.
It is a requiem of
unprotected souls are
magically ushered to the
threshold of time’s end.
Clockhands melt into
surreal images of groping,
disembodied appendages which
pull me down into the
infernal swirling oblivion.
I seem to fall forever;
plummeting past floating
sandstone ruins, through
prehistoric jungles and
at last into a vast galaxy
of translucent emerald shards.
The heartbeats of innumerable
urge me to scream before
striking bottom, and I
awaken in panic: grasping
for the luminous dial
of my unwitting timepiece.