The brutally poetic art man
He was a brutally poetic art man. He painted it in a blizzardy force. It was methodless. And hence the blizzardy. He knew resorting to any method will lead to a methodic madness which would never equal the unbounded power of the methodless flow. He put himself in that painting along with all the others that were vying for his favour. In placing him in that painting along with all those others, he achieved the separation he so longed.
There, in that separation, in that painting, he became the utter creator, facilitator, manipulator, and keeper of: love, hatred, empathy, apartheid, war, greed, benediction, birth, chaos, fury, peace, vulgar decency, one exploding castle, two hidden breeding labs, some stolen sunrays, and an eternal space that remains boldly virgin.
In that separation, in that painting, he was an executor with no attachments. He would look into the eyes of the head he would sever or the head he would comfort, without attachment. Swing or rock. Chop or embrace. Shoot or kiss. Prokill or embond. All of it, without attachment. That was his art.
He was the maker of himself. That was his masterstroke. But then, there was something else that made him poetic. And something else that made him the brutally poetic art man that he was:
He painted an endless story. He could look at his separated self and its eyes in that painting. And when those two pairs of eyes met, there was no acknowledgement. There was no attachment.
There, in the essence of both his selves and in the image of each other, singularly, he was a brutally poetic art man.
- inspired by Darren Aronofsky’s, ‘Mother!’
