The Old Guitarist

Standing on his balcony facing south, he looked over the rolling hills dotted with homes and lined with trees, breathing in the fresh air coming in off the ocean. Birds were chirping all around him, and he could hear the faint sounds of light traffic coming from beyond his view. Despite the desperate times caused by the coronavirus pandemic, he was determined to not let the doom and despair felt by so many let him slip back into his old patterns of feeling anxiety. He was determined to just be in the moment, and then to think about what he hoped to accomplish once things had settled.

Yet, lingering in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind were thoughts of hopelessness and despondence. They were vividly present in his most emotionally-arrested moments because that's just human nature. He couldn't escape the images of forlorn people grasping for relief; the images of every single imaginable individual from every walk of life searching for a glimpse of hope in an otherwise depressing sea of media, news, and social media post. And then he decided to go spend time with a friend. The longing to be social too strong to resist, the idea of having to travel through back roads and hills to see said friend too enticing. He just wanted to enjoy some momentary human contact in order to reestablish a level of normalcy that—though not that far away—seemed unreachable in such a dire time.

As his friend and him chatted about various topics ranging from present life, to the virus, to philosophical ideals, to travel destinations, to overcoming the current troubling times, he was reminded of a love he once had that he sorely missed. A love that only comes once in a lifetime, and was gone just as quickly as it had previously sparked a revelation of newly unknown emotions. When his friend suggested that he was better off alone and not having to deal with the oft bitterly looked upon negatives of being in a close relationship, he scoffed and said that he'd rather have those negatives because of the overwhelming positives that come from a loving relationship. As he traveled back home after his short time with his friend, he thought about relationship. He contemplated how none are perfect and that many are flawed, but he also thought about how, in a time when most everyone is being encouraged to shelter in place, he felt especially lonely because his past love had moved on, and he was now left as solitary as the moon. Perhaps seen from a distance by some, likely ignored by more than can be counted, he felt as if he was beyond enveloped by seclusion.

The Old Guitarist is an oil-on-panel painting by Pablo Picasso (1881-1973). It's a vivid depiction of an elderly, blind, and haggard musician wearing tattered clothing while weakly hunched over his guitar playing in the streets of Barcelona (source). At the time, Picasso was in the midst of what he referred to as his "Blue Period", choosing only to use monochromatic bluish tones in his paintings. Also influencing his style were the facts that he was not leading a very healthy lifestyle, and a close, personal friend had recently committed suicide. In the midst of Picasso's desperation and irreparable state-of-mind, he painted what is now considered to be one of the most poignant pieces of art to ever grace our society. Picasso managed to capture pure despair.

Immediately standing out is the skeleton-like body which is feebly propping up the man attempting to find solace in music both for himself and others. He's frail, ailing, and poor, but he's also clearly attempting to bring joy to those in ear-shot during what must be the most troublesome time of his entire life. With his mouth agape, his shoulder exposed to the elements, and his feet ravaged and bare, he infirmly sits up against a corner in order to strum tunes hoping the emanating sounds can distract any passersby from harsh reality.

And that is the moral of this wearily-told story. Even in the darkest of times—even when you cannot seem to find hope—there, just outside of the darkness that you feel has overwhelmed you, is light. Hope and determination and inspiration and much-needed distraction and "the fire under your butt" that you need is right there. This old guitarist sought to bring some light into a dark world, and if he were real, I'm sure he would have. Such is true for you even in the midst of the most tenebrous depths of this frustrating, tiresome, and annoying COVID-19 outbreak. Prop yourself up wherever you can, reach for a talent that you have, and shine some light on the others around you no matter where you are and no matter how exhausted you feel.

I miss the love of my life so very much. So much so that, believe or not, in this time of shelter-in-place—as alone as can be—I am able to find hope in realizing once again what my true feelings are, and in regaining a seemingly unattainable optimism that maybe, if I'm blessed enough, I can reclaim what I once had and so dearly, dearly miss.

The Punishment of the Arrogant Niobe by Diana and Apollo

In Greek Mythology, Niobe was the daughter of Tantalus. She was married to Amphion and together they had seven sons, and seven daughters. One day, Niobe was attending an annual celebration in the city of Thebes to honor of Leto (Latona) and her two children, Apollo and Artemis. Many people assembled to pay tribute offering up frankincense to the alters while paying their vows. Niobe is said to have arrived wearing extravagant clothing and jewelry, and upon entering the area, she began to protest. She went on and on about her and her husband's power, the fact that they had fourteen children, and the fortune for which they had amassed. She was, in a word, arrogant.

Leto was not pleased and in her rage, she ordered her children to kill Niobe's sons and daughters. Apollo is said to have found the sons practicing athletics where he then began to snipe each one, one-by-one, from the eldest to the youngest. When word reached Niobe and her husband, Amphion immediately became overcome by grief and plunged a dagger into his chest. Niobe, meanwhile, rushed to where her sons lay, embraced their corpses, and taunted Leto again. But as her daughters began to attend to their brothers' bodies, Artemis arrived and began killing them as well. It is said that Niobe, with one daughter left, pleaded for her life but it was to no avail.

I'd be remiss to not mention that there is some back-and-forth disagreement as to how many children were actually annihilated. But one thing does stand: Niobe's pride and arrogance were destroyed. In the wake of this massacre and according to mythology, Niobe is said to have fled to Mount Sipylus in her homeland of Phrygia where as she grieved, she turned into stone. Since she was weeping so unceasingly as she transformed, it is said that her tears continue to pour from the rock to this day.

The Punishment of the Arrogant Niobe by Diana and Apollo, by Pierre-Charles Jombert (1748-1825), is the oil on canvas painting depicting the chaos that had befallen Niobe and her children. It was originally titled this and created as a oil on canvas sketch which won Jombert First Prize at the Prix de Rome in 1772. Jombert would later go one to complete the piece featured here which was much more exquisite and detailed.

In it, we see Apollo and Artemis in the clouds above loosing arrows into Niobe's seven sons and seven daughters. Meanwhile, a despondent and desperate Niobe clings to her last remaining daughter as she seemingly pleads for her life while futilely attempting to shield her. Given the time and era, this piece was quite graphic but certainly represented the lore. Notably, Apollo and Artemis exhibit determination in their expressions, while below, the faces that remain alive exhibit horror and disbelief. Among the motion, shadow, and incredible use of light is a very vivid painting that is beautiful to behold and frightening to conceive.

An old idiom that's often expressed is, "How the mighty have fallen." It's actually derived from Scripture in 2 Samuel 1:27, but over the years, it has evolved to become a phrase used to remark about how someone who exhibited a lot of arrogance now faces the consequences of his or her actions. Niobe--for lack of a better way of saying it--had a big mouth. She had power, she had beauty, she had it all. Yet, seeing others celebrate a goddess and her two children was more than she could apparently handle. Rife with pride, she bellowed about how she deserved the attention and adoration more than Leto, and that led to her downfall. Not every arrogant jerk will face such immediate peril for their actions, but over time, most do lose their grip on power and prestige. What baffles me is how examples like this and so many others don't cause more people to make better choices. Even if they are graced with great wealth and a large family, it is pretty safe to say that an arrogant, entitled attitude toward everything and everyone else will only lead to destruction. Logically speaking, therefore, humility seems to be the safest, smartest way to live. Don't you think?

Defiance

During World War II, a man named Tuvia Bielski, along with his brothers Zus and Asael, were called up to serve in a military unit to fight against Nazi Germany. Just as their units were being assembled, the Luftwaffe flew over and decimated their town. As they scrambled to regroup, they were ordered to assemble in the woods about 5 kilometers away. So they did. And as they did, another wave of planes flew over and dropped more incendiary bombs on the forest setting it on fire. When they finally caught up with their commander, he told them they were on their own. Grabbing their other brother, Aron, they fled to a small village in western Belarus where their parents lived.

Not long after, the Nazis made their way through the village rounding up Jews to move them to a ghetto in Nowogrodek. The brothers managed to escape into the nearby woods where they remained elusive. After a few months had passed, the Nazis murdered the rest of their family including their parents, two of their other brothers, and many of their extended family, wives and children included. Defiantly, the brothers remained in the woods and as they moved about, they began to encounter other Jews who were hiding. So they banded together and provided them with protection, shelter, and food. Over time, the group began to grow and their reputation started to spread.

Their efforts, despite all the odds, all the heartache, all the suffering, ended up saving over 1,200 Jewish lives. So astonishing was their story, Hollywood produced a film about them starring Daniel Craig.

Unknown facial expression study, by Franz Xaver Messerschmidt (1736-1783), is a marble sculpture of the artist's own face, and one in a series of busts meant to catalog "canonical grimaces". I've featured Messerschmidt before and mainly because his incredible attention to detail is, for lack of a better term, mesmerizing. Other than seeing a human make this very expression, I feel the only artist in history to ever be able to capture the very essence of an expression in pure detail is Messerschmidt. Bold statement, I know, but just look!

Just like The Vexed Man, the labored efforts to capture this particular emotion is almost frightening too real. In animation, I can picture kids in the store or on a playground who refuse to obey their parents or teachers. In adulthood, I see the look of a heart that refuses to let injustice, evil, or oppression prevail. I like the latter much more than the former. It's speaks to a time when this was the heart of a birthing nation, the heart of warriors in the heat of battle, the heart of explorers seeking to map the earth, the heart of inventors who were told it couldn't be done. And it's worrisome to me that inside my own heart, I wrestle with which picture to behold despite knowing which I appreciate the most. They flip-flop back and forth thanks to the taint of today's selfish, bombastic society, and my love of history, art, and success against the odds.

I picked the story of the Jewish brothers not just because of the film, but also to highlight the word defiance. Our world has too much of the adolescent appeal with millions of individuals feeling entitled, wrestling with low self-esteem, and clinging to rampant, unappeased ideology. They stare at others with the animated version in their hearts. Sadly, their version of defiance will fail and lead to further emptiness. Whereas, those who step up to do what's right and stare in the face of evil will find triumph regardless of outcome because their defiance is not unlike the kind our forefathers had when this nation was borne; theirs is not unlike the concerted efforts of soldiers who face horrific enemies who use women and children as bombs; theirs is not unlike those who took to uncharted seas to find new worlds; theirs is not unlike the researchers, scientists, and doctors who cured polio, fight to treat cancer, and save lives that would otherwise find death if it weren't for their tenacious expertise. Again, I like the latter much more.

Our Banner in the Sky

The events of these past few weeks have been festering in my mind. Hurricanes, major forest fires, massive earthquakes — our planet seems to be groaning in the midst of moral and political turmoil, and the only thing I can think of is human life. Color means nothing, religious beliefs mean nothing, location is irrelevant; what matters most are lives. I don't pen this blog as a means by which to be preachy, or to wave an imaginary and morally-superior finger at you. I am writing this because when tragedy strikes, it's good to regain perspective and to remember the important things in our world, which have been clouded in recent months by too many other things far less important than being able to live and breathe. While acts of nature can be horrific and devastating, they are also opportunities to do what we humans do best: pull together.

A week ago, a friend of mine brought up something important that I hadn't thought of deeply enough. He said that it seems like, in this digital age with news streaming at us at light speed and at our fingertips all day long, we, as a society, have become numb to tragedy. It's as if we have access to an "emotion epidural", he called it, which many have injected into themselves in order to avoid having to comprehend the level of pain and devastation that has occurred. Hurricane Harvey hit Texas and the latest tally says at least 70 people have died from of it. I'll risk ridicule to step up and state I'm sure most in many other parts of the United States and the world just kind of thought of this as, well, eh, that's pretty awful, and then moved on. But then my friend asked, what if those 70 people died on your block? What if, among the 70 was — heaven forbid — a friend or family member? Suddenly, that 70 takes on a whole other meaning, and would likely scar you for life.

The 70 lives lost during Hurricane Harvey were each connected to many, many others. I dare even try to quantify the numbers, but I'm pretty sure we're in the thousands of other lives who are left heartbroken, questioning life and meaning, and will never be the same. That might not be you or me, but it's still fact. And the numbers of deaths don't stop there. Irma has since hit the Caribbean and is moving through Florida right this minute, there was an 8.1 magnitude earthquake just off the Mexican southwest coast, there are dozens of massive wild fires going on in California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Montana; all of these current tragedies are leaving bodies in their wakes. The sad part is, for those lost, there is nothing else we can do. They're gone. But those who have had their lives upended and are fortunate enough to be alive, can certainly use help beyond a few social media posts saying "thoughts and prayers" are with them. Ultimately and in humanity, there is still hope.

Our Banner in the Sky, by Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900), is an oil-on-paper painting symbolically showing the Union flag in the sky seemingly attached to a destroyed tree as the flagpole. Church painted this in 1861 and in response to the Confederate attack on Fort Sumter which started the Civil War.

Church was a patriot and someone who expressed his hope in painting. (Some of his other works are quite marvelous to behold so I recommend checking them out when you can.) Fort Sumter was constructed after the Revolutionary War to help protect the harbor in Charleston, South Carolina. The men who guarded it had no idea the Confederate Army would attack them, nor did they know they'd be caught up in the beginnings of a very bloody war that still resonates to this day.

I love this piece because of what it symbolizes. Even in the midst of a terrible civil war, Church was able to show hope through his work. It's one thing to be at war with another nation, but the complexities of and the emotional roller-coaster that takes place in the hearts and minds of those caught up in a civil war must be much, much worse. Church, however, saw through it all and clung to his belief that hope would prevail.

By no means am I trying to demean what's happening in our world today. My heart breaks for those who have lost loved ones, had their lives destroyed, and are suffering right now to pick up the pieces. The level of hopelessness must be overwhelming, and it's resonating inside me. But I also know that good is coming. Good is happening right now! Hope is very much alive as millions of dollars are being donated, others are risking their lives to help save people and animals in need, and truckloads of donated goods and supplies are making their way to the victims right this second. Why? Because others who have the means are seeing beyond the tragedy and doing what they can to help their fellow human-beings in need. It makes for an interesting two-fold expression of hope: that there is hope to begin with, and that the acts of caring, selfless people are hope in action.

Escaping Criticism

It's nice to be able to be who you are. To think freely, to feel freely; to form ideas and pursue goals how and when you choose. It's nice to not be fenced in; to be able to roam about life and this world as you so choose. And while this all may sound nice and fluffy but unrealistic, on some level it's both. All of us are born out of the union of a sperm and an egg. All of us develop inside a womb. What happens after is completely out of our control. Some find themselves in a whole family; others in a "progressive" family. Still others in a broken family or in no family at all. As childhood sets in, rules, discipline, guidance, or the lack there of along with circumstance and environment begin to shape who we become.

If you're one of the fortunate to live in a region where you have true freedom, and you were able to navigate your way out of childhood in one piece, you're now hopefully being exactly who you are. You're now going after exactly what you want in life. You're hopefully being you, and not what others might want you to be or going after the things they've forced upon you. Your steely-eyed determination leads you down paths in life you've either found or forged on your own. Your morally grounded heart is your compass, and your true passions in life are your fuel. Yes, you had some uncontrollable things happen when you were growing up that might have scarred or influenced you in some way, but those things aren't stopping your curiosity from being sated and your dreams becoming fulfilled.

Or are they? Too often, culture, society, what's "in", and many other influential messages and customs shape us. In a way, they put a frame around our lives. They limit our desires, dictate our reactions, and manipulate our emotions. Deception is all around us taking on many different forms. And what's worse, in recent years, that deception has become a force of its own. In past times, deception was an unspoken thing that sat off to the side in life like a forced boundary. People knew it was there sometimes referring to it as "the norm". Deep down, they were uneasy about how that norm limited them in some way, but since everyone else went along with it, they did too. Now, however, if you don't tow the same line as what others feel is "the norm", you get ridiculed, shamed, and even broken. You can no longer be different in the eyes of those who are different without paying some price. That's not freedom.

Escaping Criticism, by Pere Borrell del Caso (1835-1910), is an oil-on-canvas painting that was completed in 1874 in true trompe-l’oeil fashion. Trompe-l’oeil (literally meaning "deceive the eye") is an art technique that has been around for centuries where an artist attempts to create an optical illusion. In this case, a young boy in disheveled clothing braces to escape the very painting in which he was created. As he braces his foot and clutches the frame, his eyes are peeled wide and he gasps as he sees the "outside" world for the first time. Some historians believe that given del Caso's distaste for following what other experts in his field wanted to see in that day, this piece was his attempt to show them that their perspectives were robbing the world of its vitality.

The irony of Escaping Criticism is that the painting itself is deception. The story being told is that this painted boy no longer wants to remain inside the frame and is attempting to get out. The world, meanwhile, is being told by this painting to stop limiting and robbing others of their vitality. Round and round we may go, but it's still fascinating and does exactly what art is supposed to do: evoke a response. Thus, my initial pontification.

Back when we were all zygotes, our conditions for existence were exactly the same. Every single human being alive today came from the exact same beginnings as everyone else. We only ended up changing and becoming different as a result of where we existed outside the womb. If you undo all the layers of life and get to the root of life itself, you'll see we all share something very much in common. So why all the fuss now in bending ears in directions those ears may not want to go? Is it pride? Selfishness? Greed? I suppose that depends on the person. Either way, this painting is a wonderful example of living freely, breaking away from "the norm", and being who you really, truly are. You. Beautiful, unique, one-of-a-kind you. Just like everybody else.

The Starry Night

"These last three months do seem so strange to me. Sometimes moods of indescribable mental anguish, sometimes moments when the veil of time and the fatality of circumstances seemed to be torn apart for an instant." —Vincent van Gogh - an excerpt from a letter he penned to his brother, Theo, on March 29, 1889.

In late 1888, Vincent van Gogh began to experience moments of mania and violent aggression. His friend, Paul Gauguin--another brilliant artist--was staying with Van Gogh and said that even he noticed his strange and scary behavior. The exact details of what really happened aren't known for sure, but what is clear is Van Gogh was struggling with some inner-demons that manifested themselves in gruesome fashion. Yes, I'm referring to when he cut his ear off with a razor and had it delivered to a woman at a brothel he and Gauguin liked to frequent.

After being found unconscious by police the next morning, he was taken to a local hospital in Arles where he was treated. It was then that Van Gogh was diagnosed as experiencing "acute mania with generalised delirium". From there, the downward spiral began and eventually, Van Gogh checked himself into an asylum in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, the birthplace of Nostradamus. His room faced the east and it is said that he was so inspired by the view, he churned out numerous paintings and drawings of it. This is one of those paintings.

The Starry Night, by Vincent Willem van Gogh (1853-1890), is an oil on canvas, post-impressionist painting which was completed in 1889. It depicts the French town of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence where he resided as a patient at a local asylum. There he had a studio on the ground floor, and a bedroom on the second floor. Of the more than twenty-one paintings Van Gogh did from the asylum, this is one of the most famous and obviously one of the most well-known pieces in history. Since the scene with the cypress tree in the foreground and hill-line in the background has been verified to be of the view from his bedroom window, and he was not allowed to use paint in his bedroom, it is believed that he first sketched this piece using charcoal or ink on paper, and then later painted it in his studio. The brightest star just to the right of the tree is actually Venus which astronomers have verified was visible at that time in that region. What's not completely accurate, however, is view of the town (which was not visible from the asylum), and the waning crescent moon which was actually waning gibbous at that time. Experts feel he used previous drawings or paintings to add in the town, and gave an artistic interpretation of the moon.

Imperfections and speculation aside, what is powerful about this piece is the dancing, swirling colors and seeming serenity the painting gives off. There's a certain tranquility about it, and at first glance, one feels at peace and in awe of this giant universe. Looking deeper at the details, though, I get a clear sense of his madness. When I inspected an extremely high-resolution version of this piece, there was something about the dark lines and angles of the buildings that spoke to me. They seemed to portray Van Gogh's mania in the way he appears to have obsessed over the detail. What's even more frightening are two of the lit windows just below and to the right of the church. Though there are a handful of windows glowing from candlelight, those two in particular appear to have ghostly figures in them looking his direction - figures similar to Skrik. I don't take them to be a fluke, either, because in great detail, you can see how much he labored to get the brush strokes and coloring just right. I also contrast this detail with the fact that the window to the church is stark black indicating that no one is there.

Any form of mental disorder is no joke so I don't share these impressions lightly. Van Gogh is easily one of my most favorite artists of all time, and though I am not a fan of all of his pieces, this particular one was one of the first I learned about when I was a kid and my passion for art began to grow. To me, it's awe-inspiring, and it's also a metaphor for human life. On the surface and at quick glance, many seem okay and to be moving along in life in rhythmic harmony. Like the waves of color swirling in the night sky, we dance and sway through each day never letting on about what's really going on in the dark recesses of our minds. But when you examine things more closely, you begin to see the brokenness and fear. In a way, I think this is what makes this painting all the more beautiful because it isn't just about oil paints on a canvas, but an example of how all of us can be at one time or another. Am I stretching a bit here? Sure, you can say that. Am I accurate in my interpretation? Who knows? But that's how The Starry Night speaks to me and that's why art exists. It stirs our minds and imaginations. It speaks to us . . . and when it speaks to me, I really want to listen.

Les Bourgeois de Calais

Arland had no idea on January 12, 1982, that he would make history and become a hero in less than 24 hours. Little is known about why Arland was where he was on January 13, just that he was a federal bank examiner and likely traveling for business.

The weather in Washington, D.C. that next day was freakishly bad. Snow, ice, and high winds plagued the region and plunged the city into an arctic state. Over 6 feet of snow had accumulated leading to the Washington National Airport to shut down. Prior to cancelling flights and despite repeated warnings, though, the pilot of Air Florida Flight 90 refused to abandon their scheduled trip. As Arland, 73 other passengers, and 5 crew boarded the plane, what would happen next left the world in shock.

As the plane taxied to the runway for take-off, human error was already in play and doom had set in. First, they gave a blind eye to the clearly visible snow building up on the wings as well as the runway and surrounding area. Second, the pilots failed to activate the aircraft's ice protection system while they chose to ignore other on-board warnings that the plane would not make it. Third, it didn't help that the taxi alone took 49 minutes thus exacerbating conditions, and that was after the towing vehicle couldn't even find traction to get the plan going in the first place. What was apparent, however, was that the captain was determined to get the aircraft in the air no matter what.

Upon take-off, the plane struggled to gain altitude, and immediately fell and struck the 14th Street Bridge less than a mile off the end of the runway hitting 7 vehicles, and killing 4 people. The plane then plunged into the Potomac River which was blanketed by jagged ice. When it hit the ice and water, the plane split in two and as the front section of the fuselage sank, the tail section stayed afloat in the water.

This is where things take a turn for the worse, but the better. Of the 79 people on board, 6 survived and they were badly injured. As they scrambled to the tail section to cling on for dear life and seek assistance, not one of them knew it would take so long due to the weather conditions. After 20 minutes of failed attempts to reach the survivors by land, boat, and even dog-paddling, a helicopter from the U.S. Park Police was dispatched to man a rescue. The perilous mission would prove there was and is good reason to have faith in humanity.

When the chopper arrived, a rescue rope was tossed down to Arland, one of the 6 survivors. Despite his injuries and weather conditions, Arland was surprisingly alert. Seeing that the other 5 people were in worst condition than him, he passed the rope to the person next to him. One by one, Arland continued to pass the rope so 3 of the other 5 could be safely hauled to land. That's when the pilots noticed one of the survivors had drifted away from the wreckage and was flailing in the freezing water, stuck on a chunk of ice. She was very quickly dying, and it was all captured on live TV. With two other rescuers who dove into the frigid waters, they were able to save her. The helicopter crew then turned their attention back to the wreckage to pick up the two remaining people. Arland and another woman were now separated by conditions so they lowered the skids into the water to haul the remaining female on board who was too weak to grab onto the rope. When they finally returned for Arland, he was no where to be found. They spent over 30 minutes searching for him before they were called away. Days later, it would be discovered that the wreckage had shifting sucking Arland down underwater causing him to drown.

Les Bourgeois de Calais, by Auguste Rodin (1840 - 1917), is a bronze statue depicting 6 burghers (politically connected and influential citizens) volunteering their lives to King Edward III to parley surrender on behalf of the city of Calais, France, in 1347. The piece was commissioned by the city in 1884, and it was completed in 1889. At the time, they wished to commemorate the lives of those who willingly gave themselves up at the command of King Edward III, and for the survival of the people of Calais who were embroiled in the Hundred Years' War.

Rodin is best known for his piece, The Thinker, but in all of art history, Les Bourgeois de Calais is known to be one of the most historically famous sculptures ever created. During that period in time, France was losing the battle against England, and as the city of Calais struggled to hold their lines and defense of the city and castle, they fell into starvation. This was when Edward offered to spare the people of Calais if 6 of its top leaders would give themselves up, wear nooses around their necks, and give him the keys to the city and castle. The first of the volunteers was a wealthy town leader named Eustache de Saint Pierre, and he is seen in the piece leading the group to the city gates to be turned over to the crown. It wasn't until Philippa of Hainault, the wife of King Edward III, stepped in and persuaded her husband to show mercy for the sake of the unborn child, Thomas of Windsor (who, ironically, died 1 year after birth).

I picked the Arland Williams story to highlight the significance of this piece because of the incredible amount of compassion and sacrifice he showed in order that others might live. Had he grabbed the rope and held on, who knows? Perhaps the woman seen struggling in the ice would have died instead. Much like Arland and all of the life he still had ahead him, Saint Pierre and the others were also willing to give it all up for strangers. It's even more astonishing to comprehend when you think about the life Eustache must have had. He was rich, influential, and according to painting of him by artist Jean-Simon Berthélemy, he was handsome, powerful, and well-liked.

Stories of heroism are, nowadays, a dime-a-dozen. Yet, with each, I find myself blown away by the sheer level of compassion and self-sacrifice for the good of others - often strangers. From Medal of Honor recipients to men like Arland and Saint Pierre, I'm reminded of the inherent good in humanity that the world and media would otherwise have you believe didn't exist. Let's none of us forget that, and let's also never forget those who sacrificed their own lives in order that others may live.

The Last Supper

One of the most legendary works of art in all of history is The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci. My original intention in writing about it was to forego an analogous approach because of how profound it remains to this day. Far be it for me to attempt to extrapolate some other message than what was originally intended by its creator due to the significance of that moment in time. Therefore, I thought a run through this work's history of abuse and destruction might be an interesting approach, and a bit different than how I've written about art in the past. I mean, it was nearly bombed to oblivion during World War II - that has to be pretty notable, right?

Then it dawned on me: comparing this piece's abuse via metaphor to anything else would do it a disservice and be an atrocity. Why? Because I don't believe it was painted to evoke emotion, but to capture a moment in history that tells a story while revealing a lot of symbolism. And not just symbolism inside the work, but also through its very existence. Instead, I'd like to dive into that symbolism because I think it's important and often overlooked.

Contrast was slightly increased in order to show greater detail.

Let me first note that two copies of The Last Supper were painstakingly created by da Vinci's assistants in order to preserve the details. As you can see from the image above, the original piece has deteriorated quite significantly over time thanks in part to a door being installed at the location which destroyed the lower-middle portion. Also note that this piece was done by da Vinci in tempera on gesso, pitch, and mastic (that is to say, egg-based painting medium on chalk, coal-based resin, and plant resin—more on this later).

Famous nowadays for how often it's been parodied, the original work was completed in the late 15th Century inside the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan, Italy. Depicted is Jesus with His twelve disciples on either side of Him. From left to right—according to notes taken by da Vinci himself—we see Bartholomew, James, the half-brother of Jesus, Andrew, Judas Iscariot, Peter, John, Jesus, Thomas, James, Philip, Matthew, Jude, and finally Simon. The moment being capture is the immediate reaction of the disciples after Jesus, in the Gospel of John chapter 13, verse 21, proclaimed, "Very truly I tell you, one of you is going to betray me."

Now then, the most poignant use of symbolism is that of the Holy Trinity. There are three doors on either side of the room, three windows in the back, the disciples are clearly clumped into groups of three, Jesus' form is that of a triangle, the legs of the table are triangles, and on Jesus' sandals are three lines in the shape of a triangles. Obviously, the number 3 and triangles represent the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The next symbol is Peter angrily standing and holding a knife pointed away from Jesus. Some experts believe this expressed what was to later occur in the Garden of Gethsemane when Peter chopped off the ear of a servant of the high priest who was attempting to arrest Jesus. This then leads to how the other disciples are reacting, as well. Bartholomew, James, and Andrew all seem shocked; John appears flush white and tilts to one side implying he may be faint; Thomas, James the Greater, and Philip appear upset and in search of more reason; lastly, Matthew, Jude, and Simon are turned towards each other in bewilderment.

Next, we have Judas Iscariot. Anyone who knows their history and/or the Bible knows that Judas was the one who betrayed Jesus for a bag of silver, which would have been worth about $200 U.S. dollars today. Some believe the bag he holds in his right hand indicates his position as the treasurer of the disciples, but I believe it symbolizes his forthcoming betrayal. I say this because he is also depicted as reaching for a loaf a bread in direct contrast to Jesus gesturing to a similar loaf in reference to Him being the Bread of Life. A small detail often missed is Judas' right arm knocking over a jar of salt. In those days, the phrase "betray the salt" was commonplace and used to express betraying one's master. Lastly, Judas is the only one obscured by shadow, leaning with his elbow on the table, and with his face turned far enough to make it difficult to see him.

Then there's Jesus. His eyes are clearly gazing downward and most will say at the loaf of bread in front of Him. I say His eyes are on His hand which would be pierced upon crucifixion. His right hand, however, is reaching for a cup and is likely a direct reference to the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 20, verses 20-23: "Then the mother of Zebedee’s sons came to Jesus with her sons and, kneeling down, asked a favor of him. 'What is it you want?' he asked. She said, 'Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom.' 'You don’t know what you are asking,' Jesus said to them. 'Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?' 'We can,' they answered. Jesus said to them, 'You will indeed drink from my cup, but to sit at my right or left is not for me to grant. These places belong to those for whom they have been prepared by my Father.'"

The final example of symbolism is purely speculative on my part. For you see, the materials used to paint this scene were woefully unreliable. Artists in the 14th and 15th Century all had much more reliable materials with which to create works of art that would last a lifetime. Given Leonardo's inarguable genius, I believe he purposefully painted this scene as he did with the full intention of it eroding over time. Why would da Vinci do this, though? I have no clue, but given his reputation for having a feverishly inventive imagination, I suppose it was to send a message. Perhaps this was the first notable use of ancient trolling by having such a powerful work of art vanish over time in order to draw attention to how much people placed value on material things. I guess you can say that I like to think of da Vinci having existed on a much higher existential plain.

I'm sure there are a lot more examples in this piece. My first thought was the varying expressions of the disciples and my guess is that they're based on each one's personality; Peter being the most obvious thanks to his reputation for popping off at the mouth so much. If you see more, I'd be curious to know! Please feel free to share it in a comment below.

Apparatus and Hand

When I was a child, I used to have a vivid recurring dream. I grew up in a nice home in Redlands, California, which was on the corner Franklin Ave. and Garden St.. We had a half-circle driveway which entered and exited on the two different streets. Across Franklin was an orange grove where we, as kids, would run around and play pretend. It was the middle-America life for us back then, even though we were on the West Coast.

This dream happened a few times when I was very young, if I recall correctly. It would begin with me standing in the front yard of our house, and I would hear pounding footsteps. (I would later discover the footsteps were from me hearing my own heartbeat as I slept.) My chest would compound and fear would rise as I would turn to gaze up Franklin Ave. I somehow knew something was coming from that direction and so its pace quickened. Sure enough, cresting the hill and streaming down the street was a creature about 4 feet tall. The best way for me to describe this creature would be to say it looked like a small Snuffleupagus draped in a white bed sheet, and covered with old, antique plastic play telephones. Dozens of telephones. This thing would zoom to the front of our house, and for some strange reason, I'd get on its back and go for a ride around the corner. That's pretty much when the nightmarish feelings would awaken me.

I can't say what spawned this dream so many times. Even now, some 40 or so years later, I can still picture it, but am at a loss as to why I had it. The only odd revelation was that it seemed to be directly linked to my heartbeat. And as enigmatic as it was, I now find myself wanting to examine it's meaning. Bear with me as this is completely spontaneous and purposefully not thought out.

My suspicion is that this dream was manifest from a combination of deep seeded desires. A) I loved adventure as a kid and getting on something as strange as the telephone monster seems fitting. Bear in mind, this was during a time when mothers and school teachers would iterate how important it was not to get into (or onto, in this case) a strange vehicle. B) My mother used to tell friends that when I was about 3 years old, I'd point to the TV screen as we watched I Love Lucy and say that that was what I wanted to do when I grew up. So, perhaps my desire for immediate and constant attention is represented by the phones covering the telephone monster's body.

Enter Apparatus and Hand . . .

Apparatus and Hand, by Salvador Dalí, is a pre-Surrealism painting which was completed in 1927. It's oil on panel, and it was Dalí's first work after returning from military service when he was 23 years old. According to experts, it was during this period that Freud's publications about psychopathology and dream interpretation were popular with Dalí, and so this piece was inspired by Freud's writings. Seemingly, the "apparatus" figure is representative of Dalí, while the grotesque hand is representative of his mind. Around him are visions of what truly beleaguers his thoughts, and thus implies what influences him to some degree.

This artwork was one of the first paintings to strike me when I was much younger and in college. At the time, I was busy being an actor when I wasn't bogged down by being a student. Art in this form wasn't really a passion for me then, but I suspect this piece is what triggered it for me. Since then, I've spent quite a lot of time studying the details, contemplating their meaning, and almost finding something unseen in previous viewings each time I looked at it. I knew the history of this piece was available online, but I never really wanted to know about it. Art, for me, is something I allow to speak to me as is and without context. If I don't know the historical context, then I don't want to know it because I'd rather art have its own uninfluenced voice. (You can see this effect quite well in my previous post, L'Ange du Foyer.)

I strategically used the term "enigmatic" above because that's what this painting has been for me for a very long time. It wasn't until about a month ago that I discussed it with a co-worker. You see, I had received a very heart-warming comment in my L'Ange du Foyer post which started the conversation. When we dove into picking this piece apart and analyzed its details, we both came pretty close to what experts have since determined with regard to its meaning. Yet, for over 20 years, it's been an enigma and a source of incredible imagination. Apparatus and Hand has been a very slow metronome where each beat reminded me to stop thinking about the here and now, to stop thinking about tomorrow and the next day, and to take a moment to contemplate the surreal. To stop and let my imagination run around and have some fun.

And so, I've returned to writing. Not just because this piece has been an intimate part of my life for two decades, but also because of that comment. If what I type here can make someone see their life in a new, encouraging light, then why should I deprive them of that? I have a gift, and so I've chosen to continue to use it.

L'Homme qui marche I

Fantastical whims churned inside his head as he sat nervously at the table. Visions of the potential future flashed before his imagination and quickly faded from one scenario to another, each including him and her. It was his methodical way of sifting through his emotions to decide if he felt the two could be right for each other. Indeed, conversation and the humanistic practice of revealing little eccentricities about themselves to each other would unfold; the archaic-laden and based courtship of the 21st Century. He was no master of the dating scene, but humble enough to know his faults and where his past mistakes ailed his cause: true love.

Moments in their exchange hit varied crescendos and every once in awhile, they reached a lull. He then would quickly turn to humor to hide his inadequacies, working his charm delicately to expose his vulnerability just enough to move the momentum back into positive territory. He'd been in similar situations many times before, and all of them left him as misunderstood. And here she was, exuding an inner beauty with each smile, and revealing moralistic and emotional similarities he often would not find. He did not want this one to slip away.

His walk through life as a bachelor has never once been an enjoyable experience. Like a penumbra between love and fate, his pace has only ever once faltered in his pursuit to find a mate, and merging into and out of the former and latter has proven to be a difficult, frustrating hope. Occupation, financial well-being, health, even style have all evolved and improved so that each frivolous exterior quality can be--and appear to be--the best they can be. As such, what was left was his longing to find the source of true happiness in a partner that would compliment him, complete him, and give new purpose. Possible? At times he's felt disheartened but with each emotion-jarring rejection and eminent desire to give up, he continued on, stride before stride, streamlined and determined.

L'Homme qui marche I (The Walking Man I), by Alberto Giacometti (1901-1966), is a bronze-cast sculpture of a 6 foot tall man, mid-stride, and focused in his trajectory. From Wikipedia's entry:  The piece has been described as "both a humble image of an ordinary man, and a potent symbol of humanity". Giacometti is said to have viewed "the natural equilibrium of the stride" as a symbol of "man's own life force".

For me, it's largely and metaphorically representative of all emotional journeys we each take. The steely determination in the stride, the evidence of wear in the humbled positioning of the arms, the subtle fear of defeat in the withdrawn shoulders; this person embodies knowing and understanding, and ultimately does not want to fail again or quit. He is a potent symbol of a purposeful humanity.

When I see this figure, I see myself insignificantly traversing through crowds of other figures hoping to meet what destiny, hope, or my goals would have me meet. And in the case of our love-seeking friend, it is his plight to weed through souls in hopes of finding his match. Yet the uniqueness and seeming bland qualities of this piece make it oh so extraordinary and extremely easy to find varying comparisons of life. Weight loss, health, professional determination, financial stability, support for loved ones; all of it is embodied in this sculpture and for something that came out of the Postwar America era, I think it is beautiful and moving.

The date ended and there was success and utter failure. He was an amazing catch, fulfilling many of the desires she wished to find in a partner. He was handsome, wanted marriage, a family, cherished little things and found bliss in simplicity. For him, she was bright, intelligent, meaningful, genuine in her interest, sincere in her smile. And in the end, it boiled down to an inconceivable gender difference where she ultimately did not feel the spice in their "chemistry".

In his heart, he began the process of mending the pain while emotionally pushing his chair back, heading for the door, and wading into the crowds of other shadows seeking that one, special person. Complexly intertwined yet kept very separate, he had mastered the experience of rejection and could manipulate the aspects of his being without needing one to support the other. Thus, his stride quickened, his head held high, and through the drifting abyss of solitude and potential, he sought out what next fate may have in store.

Niccolò Paganini

About 100 years ago, George was born the lone child of a father and mother who are long gone. As a youngster, George lived out his life in a pretty desolate place known as Pinta. Each day, he'd wake and slowly make his way around the rocky terrain in search of sustenance. Each night, he would bed down alone inside his small abode and dream of what could be.

Several years had gone by when George was awakened one day by the unfamiliar sounds of new neighbors. Boorish and abrasive, the new family to take up residency was clearly not what George was accustomed to. For him, each day was filled with friendly, sparse encounters with the few others that lived in the same area each living their lives in harmony, in unison, and without interruption. But the new family to take up a home in George's otherwise quiet world were less-than welcome. Sadly, over time the small brood had increased in kinship making George's small but spread out place of living far too uncomfortable and overcrowded. In fact, things got so bad and due to George's elderly age, he had to be assisted in finding a new home where he could continue to live peacefully with all the necessities.

George took on quite a bit of fame in the 1970s thanks to his unique life and story and after being discovered by a foreign scientist doing local research. His solitary upbringing, ability to survive on his own for nearly his entire life, and learning that he was the last of his family's lineage, George was greeted by many well-doers. Each person seemed genuine and sought ways to make what was left of his existence as enjoyable as possible all the while exploiting the ramifications of who he was so others could feel compelled to get involved. George and others like him should never be forgotten in such a large world filled with those who had or have a similar background. And while efforts to introduce George to a mate so his family name could live on have failed, there is still a glimmer of hope it is not too late.

Niccolò Paganini by Jean-Pierre Dantan is the plaster sculpture of an Italian violin virtuoso by the same name. Using his incredibly unique and expressive style, Dantan has created one of the hallmarks of his very bright and idyllic career. Not far from the reality of who Paganini was and how he played, the piece displays a man paying extremely close attention to his craft.

Externally, we're presented with a piece that shows a man with his hips askew and arms awkwardly pulled in as he seemingly reaches the crescendo of his music. Internally, we're able to notice not just a man playing an instrument but a man wholly focused on something that is truly a passion. Dantan's use of simple materials void of color show that the work itself is not meant to be expressive but the motion, the moment, and the emotions evoked. Purposefully, the piece was masterfully created in order to ensure who Paganini was as an violinist and how Paganini sacrificed his entire life for his work are intricately represented.

In real life, Paganini was not much unlike our friend, George. He lived a life of pure focus upon the one thing he felt gave him purpose while garnering his fair share of fame. Ultimately, though, Paganini passed away leaving very little to speak of behind. And like George, Paganini forged through his existence as someone who should have been much more well known and successful but apparently destined for nothing more than having controversy surround his legacy.

Who is George, you might be wondering? He's the last known species of tortoise that are indigenous to Pinta Island in the Galápagos. At approximately 100 years old, no other living species of George's kind have been found and hopes to avert extinction have been fruitless. In kind, how does George relate to Paganini? As one of the most beloved and vivid violinists of his time and at the height of his fame, Paganini reached the end of his life with no money, alone, and his idiomatic talent all but forgotten. On a symbolic road of destiny that could not be manipulated or influenced, both George and Paganini trudged through their lives focused not on what made them each special, but on what each most desired.

When the day comes that George passes away, the lack of similarities between a tortoise and a man will eventually fade. Though I suppose it has already begun considering the predicated comparison I've just shared. All boasting aside, however, the one thing that cannot be argued is the reality of some individuals who seem destined for a life of solitude. Completely engrossed in their dreams and passions, these folks endure years of loneliness despite having direct and sometimes infamous connections with others. Rightfully expressed in a song entitled, Misread Lyrics by Kings of Convenience, "All throughout history the loneliest people were the ones who always spoke the truth; the ones who made a difference by withstanding the indifference." The unfortunately truth is that indifference will be everlasting.

The Pietà

The Road Not Taken

 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
 --Robert Frost, 1916

Choices are a God-given right to all mankind and inevitably, each of us will make some that are not ideal and others that will be glorious.  What is left are these moments in the present to evaluate and learn from the past.  Perhaps some of us will enjoy the opportunity to revisit that diverge of roads and choose to take the one we did not the first time.  For others, though, the road chosen has become one-way with no chance of returning.

The Pietà by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is a sculpture of Jesus Christ in the lap of his mother, Mary. Christ is portrayed as deceased, feeble in size and from circumstance while Mary is shown as a younger woman than she was at the time of His death. The piece is a combination of classic beauty and naturalism and is considered one of the most finished and detailed works by Michelangelo.

Much focus has been given to the two subjects and to the implied interpretation of Christ's size and Mary's age. For one, Christ was sculpted to be smaller than was believed and is in a crumpled heap in Mary's arms. Secondly, Mary was sculpted to appear to be about the age she was when she bore her Son for whom she now passionately embraces. The detail of both, however, is incredible and there is much to be gained from spending a significant amount of time admiring the piece.

For me, I see a mother whose body expresses her love and anguish for the loss of her Son. Her face, though, appears to be at absolute peace signifying her acceptance and understanding of the sacrifice her Son just made. From a Christian point of view, there is some irony in this moment considering Mary was the one who bore Jesus, while Jesus was the One who bore the sins of man. Thus, a circle of life extending beyond conventional means is on display and pointedly so. Mary, for the sake of this piece and with respect to history, was a wonderful woman hand picked by God to bare His Child.

Christ in this display also creates an irony of circumstance. He is shown in His state upon being taken off the cross yet He is not actually Him. What I mean is that this is merely His body, not Him as a Man. Yet laying across Mary's lap, scars from His torture vividly displayed, He symbolizes His own existence and what could have happened to man had He not laid down His life for everyone else.

Though the subject of Christ's death and sacrifice are a controversial one, it is well documented that He had a choice and even struggled with it. His entire life was meant to come to this point and although He knew it, He was also a man embodied with the ability to make choices through free will given by God. Frost's poem, for me, is something I can envision Jesus saying to Himself as he ascended to Heaven. He had an opportunity to choose which road to take: One that would lead Him away from His purpose in life and mankind, or one that would lead Him to a moment where the sins of every man, woman, and child for all eternity would be paid for in full, by Him. Rightfully so, He-

He chose the road far less traveled,
And it has made all the difference.

The Philosopher in Meditation

I can't remember why or where I was exactly, but at some point during my youth, I found myself exploring the Sierras during a camping trip. There was a moment during my teens where I crossed into a realm of understanding about basic navigation and survival, and with that confidence, I set out into the woods. What I encountered from the camp area to where I ended up, I'll never remember. But what I will always remember was what I found. Through the dense woods, up and over a couple of hills, the ground abruptly ended at a line of large boulders which protruded from the edge of a very deep cliff overlooking an incredibly awe-inspiring valley. Words do the view and experience very little justice so I will allow your own imaginations to paint the picture in your mind. Just know that the dawning sunlight highlighted every single crest line in the distance, every single tree in view, and ran a river of warm, yellow and orange glow up that valley and onto my face. Perched on the boulders and beholding the peaceful view, I sat for hours contemplating life.

The Philosopher in Meditation, by Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-1669), was painted in 1632 and during a time when most feel he was in his prime for portraits. Already getting accustomed to fame, Rembrandt would take moments from his otherwise busy life of commissioned work to paint something meaningful and emotional. Here in this painting, he ventures away from his typical Biblically-inspired scenes to portray an elderly wise-man bathing in the sunlight through his basement window, his comfort being tended to by a maiden or wife, and pondering the meanings of existence, reason, and value.

What really impresses me about Rembrandt's work is his use of light and shadow. Taking that element away, the eye is immediately drawn to the spiral staircase and Dutch-style interior design. The portrayed home gives off the sense that this is a very cozy cottage aesthetically, but probably rather chilly. But why chilly? Even as I study the piece, my mind wanders a bit to the subliminal sense that the subtle temperament of the two lives illustrated are depressed, perhaps sorrowful. As a whole, the painting has a very deep, earthy glow about it and that makes me feel it's purpose is to encourage hope. But I cannot escape the down-trodden faces of the elderly man and woman even if one is supposed to be deep in thought.

I was able to locate a very large version of this painting online and took the time to examine the details. For example, just above and slightly to the right of the woman is a glass object which, when looked at in great detail, I was able to see the delicate time and attention Rembrandt gave to it. But why? Going further, my eyes followed the wood trimmed brick walls up and to the left where I can see each little crack and sign of aging the artist included in the home. As a matter of fact, it appears as if more time was spent detailing the living area rather than the intended "stars" of this painting. But to me, this is what embodies Rembrandt's incredible sense of emotion he is able to imply in every single painting he ever created.

If you look at the painting as a whole, you can see quite a large area of darkness which swallows up the leftmost portion of the piece. Reading the painting from left to right, I get the sense that despite all of what may bring us down, hurt us, or even destroy our lives, there is always a ray of light which leads to hope. I can't help but think these two lives are riddled with troubles, yet right in front of them, bringing warmth to and illuminating their home is an out of focus window due to the volume of light pouring in. And as the light fades going to the right, in the back of the room is a supporter, a woman tending to a fire which to me symbolizes each person's responsibility and plight to learn from their past; that learning doesn't always have to be done in solitude and without support.

Whew! Honestly, I am deeply moved by this painting and even feel emotionally exhausted having explored it. I would be remiss if I did not admit most of what I've shared here came to me during my process of studying this piece. I don't think everything I will ever write will be done in this fashion, but for this deeply emotional and hopeful piece, I'm glad I did. In my heart of hearts, there is a part of me that truly wishes these two found the hope and answers they were seeking.