Clocks go round – even then they’re digital, and at times I wish I had got here without the getting. These late autumn leaves have no such qualms, I’m sure. What a slow future passes across their veins, butterflies of similar colours rolling their beautiful like dice inside this pallid white box of my mind. They belong inside my heart; a beating of wings and colour perfuming whatever sweetness it is that you could call home. I want to be buried there – like poetry – obsessed with describing you. Only, then I realise how meaningless that becomes – after the word, and so I leave you contextless like poetry should be.
I’ve always had a childlike obsession with love letters. Perhaps its the sense of genuine conscience rooted in self-affirmation; of mans search, by virtue and power towards the model of human nature, the unanswered and untouched. And so, this blog will from time to time house random love letters, written to no one in particular, though none the less real, much like the paradox of human existence where man must simultaneously seek closeness and independence.
O marvel! A garden among the flames… My heart has become capable of all forms. It is a meadow for gazelles and a monastery for Christian monks, a temple for idols and the pilgrim’s Ka’aba, the Tables of the Law and the book of the Koran. I profess the religion of Love, and whatever direction its steed may take, Love is my religion and my faith. ~ Ibn al-Arabi
This canvas reflects Klimt’s fascination with eroticism, and while its overall architecture is obviously phallic, it is renowned because of its tender representation of the female model who is tightly embraced within the overall geometry of the picture and whose body is formed from the most detailed, colourful and best expressed abstract passages of Klimt’s career.
The work is composed of conventional oil paint with layers of gold leaf, an aspect that gives it its striking yet evocative appearance. Depicting a couple embracing, their bodies entwined in elaborate robes decorated by both linear constructs of Art Nouveau and earlier organic forms while the background evokes the conflict between two- and three-dimensionality. A visual manifestations of decadence, The Kiss is a delightfully passionate icon of the loss of self that lovers experience in erotic love.
And when the sea swallowed up the shore and the waves heaved under the ship and the blue horizon encircled us, I immediately felt an overwhelming intimacy with the sea. I knew this green, infinite giant, as though it were roving back and forth within my ribs. The whole of the journey I savored that feeling of being nowhere, alone, before and behind me either eternity or nothingness. The surface of the sea when calm is another mirage, ever changing and shifting, like the mask on my mother’s face. Here, too, was a desert laid out in blue-green, calling me, calling me. ~ Tayib Salih
Just as we are inclined to watch the beauty of ripples catching sunlight dancing across the ponds surface as opposed to that which created the ripples, it appears that humanity finds it much easier to explore the mistakes of others rather than the mistakes of oneself. Why are we so afraid of exploring the self? “Mistakes are, after all, the foundations of truth” as Jung stated. As we grow, we perfect the art of adaptation, adaption being a natural function of the human mind in our quest to find balance… equilibrium. Perfecting the art of change, now that is a higher function which requires self-exploration and self-regulation. Vygotsky believed the goal of development is to make the transition from being other-regulated to becoming self-regulated and it would seem that we are orientated towards this existing individuality when, in profound reflection, we note denied reality always finds its way back to us.