Morning Sun

Complexly wrapped up in his thoughts, Michael stepped off the curb in front of his office building and started walking. He thought of his job, his work-load, the man he had to meet in the courtyard, his upcoming plans for the weekend, his upcoming vacation, the plans he was working to put together for the summer, his search for a new home, and much more. Scurrying between each thought letting one iota lend to a subject change and then on and on, Michael felt exhaustion creep up his body. He wasn't about to let it get any further, however, as his mind had to stay sharp. Everything just meant too much to him.

As he stood next to a statue, he paused for a moment to breath in the crisp, clean air and gazed up at the sky. It was wonderfully blue with clusters of white, misshaped clouds and suddenly, everything began to fade. He commented to himself how peaceful things were at the very moment and thought about how he wished the weather would pause and stay the way it was. His tasks, his adventures, his worries all seemed to drown out in the wake of peaceful beauty that swept over. Despite it all, he remarked to himself from somewhere deep inside, "This is a good day."

Hoping he wouldn't lose the moment, Michael reached for his cell phone and snapped a few pictures. He was always one to stop and share moments like these with others not because they were badges of honor for him to wave around, but hopefully moments others can glean from and therefore find their own moment to escape binding monotony. In his heart, he knew it was all relative and when you get right down to it, his life was pretty good and he was enormously contented. The fury of each day's unrelenting waves of responsibilities really weren't that bad when he put things into perspective and for this one moment, he hoped others could feel the same way he did.

Morning Sun, by Edward Hopper (1882-1967), is the oil-on-canvas painting of a middle aged woman blankly staring out a window while the (aptly named) morning sun splashes her face and fills the room. It's a very simple piece using warm colors, subtle lines, medium brush strokes, brilliant use of shadowing, and wonderfully avoids complexity. The woman is scantily dressed yet void of any implied sexuality; she just seems to be lost in the moment, escaping her otherwise involute life for the sake of her well-being. Yet upon closer inspection, the one curious aspect about Hopper's work is the woman's blacked out eyes which seem to suggest she is feeling truly isolated both mentally and physically.

It is said that Hopper used his wife Josephine as the female subject in many of his works and in this particular one, I don't feel the audience even needs to know this. And despite having just shared it, think about how nice it is to have this nameless person gracing the center of this warm piece because she does not diminish the all too real feelings the rest of us experience. All of Hopper's work is conscious of this, as a matter of fact, which is partly the reason for his rise to fame in the 1920s.

And in this very moment, I can sense you are relating to the moment captured here and the very same feeling. You are thinking back to moments in your life where things became overwhelming and you too found something to stare at blankly getting lost in the purity of the moment. These are wonderful moments I know I cherish, and much like Hopper's paintings to the world, I try to take them and pass them along so others can be reminded that we all need them from time to time. For it is poetic and beautiful that hectic periods in life can be aesthetically escaped when nature and simplicity surround you. Embrace them all and do mankind a favor by sharing.

Les Enfants de la Place Hebert

So what's wrong with being different, unique? What's wrong with standing out in a crowd because you refuse to conform to ideals and stereotypes? Are you hurting others? Are you hurting yourself?

Are you genuinely you?

I won't profess to know the human psyche well enough to definitively say how we humans develop through adolescence and into adulthood, but from my observations, it typically goes something like this:  Innocence to curiosity; curiosity to exploration; exploration to decision. The process of becoming someone--something--isn't the same for anyone and can certainly take longer for a select few. For example, by the time I was 24, I thought I knew what I wanted. Relatively speaking, I was on the same track I'd later decide to continue to pursue but I had the wrong motivations and intentions. Life was topsy turvy for me 15 years ago and it was pretty evident I was unique and entirely different than the rest of my family. It wasn't intentional; it just was.

After settling back into what I felt was the correct path in life for me, I found out later I was wrong yet again. What I felt was a spiritual decision to venture in the direction I did was actually still very rooted in the same selfish purposes I had when I was in my young 20s. And by the time I hit my 30s, I was having to restart my life all over again. The emotional maturing and development I went through was supposed to have happened when I was 10 years younger, but for some reason, I stumbled into it later in life and to this day, I continue to develop. Frankly, I don't think I'll ever stop.

The paradox that is opened when choosing to take certain steps to define who we are is quite complex. To dumb it down a bit, we inevitably turn into dead-ends or open wastes that yield no direction. While we could be back on some other path headed towards success and satisfaction, we're instead trying not only to find a glimmer of hope, but ourselves. For the most part, we all wade our way through the difficult eras and then find our niche in life. Many will look back and regret the choices he or she made while others will admire the scars they endured and the experiences wrought along the way.

Ultimately and philosophically, we could then surmise that childhood is a beast, but only in hindsight. For me, the emotions I felt as a kid doing various kid things I cling to now with deep affection. Just the other day while I was on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, I had a moment where my chest started pounding with child-like excitement when we cruised through the cave of skeletons and treasure chests and gold and maps and cobwebs. I instantly relived dozens of moments from my youth and when we spat out the end of the ride, part of my soul was rejuvenated. I like it like that! Yet my heart hates that those years are gone and that I failed to develop in the same way many of my friends and siblings have. Where they are all married and doing family things, I'm about to hit 40 and am momentarily focused on developing my career because I really don't have much else to do.

Les Enfants de la Place Hebert, by Robert Doisneau (1912-1994)--a photographer and pioneering photojournalist--is the black and white image of three children on the streets of Paris. Capturing a moment like this isn't easy, especially when your subjects are three individual sets of random emotion and movement. Yet Doisneau has frozen time in such a way that with each child, we the audience are able to evolve our emotional response as our gaze moves from face to face.

Poignantly capturing the three basic phases of development, innocence, curiosity/exploration, and decision are mirrored in the respective looks and attitudes. In each child, we're able to recognize moments of our own lives during development and for those who are open-minded, the emotions of those moments can be felt once again. The small girl at the bottom center; such a cutie! She's completely mesmerized by the camera and moment and it's easy to tell that nothing else matters; she's completely Innocent. Right behind her and seemingly in charge of the youngest is Curiosity mugging for the lens while exuding her femininity. She's awkward yet signs of developing grace and ambition can be seen. And lastly, leaning against a police call-box, is Decision; he's cool, he's careless, he's not bothered nor interested in the moment. Oh, but he is ... he just refuses to accept it. Feigning his collection and suave appeal, he's at the ripe age of knowing it all and his choice to be who he is, is final. At least for now.

It's a simple image of three simple beings who have no clue what may lie in store for their lives in 10 or 20 years. Each one is rightfully ignorant of the trials and tribulations of adulthood so in that, they are all three very similar. Yet each one is at a stage in life that will set the foundations for whom they become later on in life. It's saddening, evocative, exciting, and almost morbid all wrapped up together. But who are any of us to discourage the explorations of others except to intervene when eminent danger lie ahead? For the most part and much like our three children here, we're all average and miniscule in the sea of others who are at their own stage of becoming who they want to be, wish to be, and hope to be. It can get crowded and uncomfortable and at times, elbows can be thrown, but we're all in this together and thus capable of being supportive and encouraging. Focus not on the aspects of how others develop, but embrace your own recognizing the philosophical journey is one you are not alone in doing. In the end, you'll come to realize it's all about harmony and that each step forward is a success.

Migrant Mother

She was earnest in her attempt to explain to him he meant the world to her. It wasn't meant to be but she ignored the quiet little voice in her head and figured she should at least try and explain to him how she felt. He cautiously listened--much to her surprise--and seemed to inch further away from her with each spoken word. She noticed but she didn't let it phase her, she was determined to show him how genuine her feelings were.

They spoke for a brief time and it did not go how she had hoped. She expected a bit more appreciation if not mutual affection and what she ended up with was pain. He explained who he really was wiping away the facade that had been "him" for the past six months. Each moment they spent together, she swore she could feel a connection that felt stronger with each meeting. Yet throughout, there was never any mention of romance or commitment, just friendly banter that often led to encouragement and optimism. And there, that night, the leap of faith of truly expressing her desires to him backfired in a way she was not expecting despite having the emotional scars of someone twice her age.

"I could never be with someone like you--at your age. It might be great for a while but I would worry as time went on that you're too old to be a good mother," he said without malicious intent but as if it was fair, relevant, and even logical.

She could feel the blood drain from her face as her mouth gaped open ever so slightly. There wasn't much she could say as the tide of emotions from this bold rejection overwhelmed her entire body. After a few moments, she could only look down, accept reality, and nod her head. She was done. Her case was plead and jury deliberations were quick and painful. She utter a few more words that were probably unintelligible, picked up their trash from the table, and headed out the door without looking back. The long walk to her car actually felt good and after getting in, she sat there for a while letting the truth sink in. It would appear his stinging honesty must have reflected how others feel, too. And so her thoughts turned to a grim outlook for her future and the seeming perpetual singleness that would plague her for the rest of her life.

Migrant Mother, by Dorothea Lange (1895-1965), is the black and white photograph of a woman named Florence Owens Thompson and three of her seven children. Her expression is derived from their family's car breaking down just minutes before the photo was snapped, yet in her eyes we can see miles of struggle and the last bits of hope fading off in the distance. In her arms is her youngest while her other two hide their faces in admitted shame; meanwhile her husband and two of their sons are off someplace else attempting to find someone who can repair their vehicle. Taken in 1936 during the Great Depression and during a time where many were still struggling despite some miniscule upswing in the markets, the image and the family exemplify pure poverty and destitution far too many others suffered during those days.

It feels as if this one moment captures an expression of how we all feel in our hearts from time to time. It's as if pessimism is no longer a reaction but a means to face reality. When so much has been lost and each attempt to move forward is met with failure, as a defense mechanism our emotions and minds begin to expect nothing good can ever come. For if nothing good is expected, only then can good truly be recognized as good, right? At least for some, this is the type of philosophical ideology that is accepted and is exuded in this portrait.

Reality, however, is not evil. The inclination to think the worst is all one can expect and to emphasize adverse aspects only serves to beget the worst. Therefore, I would suggest that pessimism is a faulty emotion stemming from weakness. Being human, of course there will be moments where it's near impossible to expect anything less than rubbish. But should one allow that emotion to run rampant and overcome one's ability to see beyond one's own feet, then one has allowed the reality of the future to become meaningless. And how foolish is it to think that?

Beyond our own pains and struggles, there lies the very real and true future of what has yet to pass. One could argue that tomorrow could bring fortunes a plenty, or a catastrophe that leads to one's ultimate demise. So who am I to suggest that either future outcome is something to be met with optimism? Because I have experienced both. I have had moments where amazing opportunities have been handed to me or earned, and I have lost my mother to cancer. Selfishly, those opportunities brought financial and professional benefits I am still able to reap. Unselfishly, my mother's passing has helped me grow up to be a man with strong morals and passions few others have the chance to experience.

And while imperfection lies at every turn my life takes and I have my moments where my heart expresses the same weary hopelessness we see in Mrs. Thompson's eyes, I have the experience to know that tomorrow is in fact a new day! Will tomorrow be wrought with fortune and blessings? Maybe not but it will most certainly have moments where I'll be challenged as a person, a professional, a brother, a son. And that's because I allow my optimism to overrule my inclination to be pessimistic. I've faced my own fair share of struggles but I decided long ago that I would learn from them and to accept my own failures as opportunities to make me a better person. And were I to die tomorrow, I can rest peacefully knowing those who have seen my plight to improve my life can find hope for themselves. I cannot change what tomorrow will bring and by accepting that, I can change how I will bring myself through tomorrow.

Vase of Flowers

The chill of the morning being wiped away as the rising sun peaks the horizon and its warm light bathes your face.

The simple sense of pleasure as you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale the enchanting aroma of a rose.

Wheezing through the thin air, you exert what's left of your strength and give it your all to pull yourself up the final rock as you crest the mountain only to behold the breathtaking view on the other side.

That instantaneous moment as you are on one knee, looking up at her face, and she answers, "Yes!"

Isn't it convenient that each moment we are met with a sense of optimism is the same moment one of our senses is overwhelmed? Well, perhaps not convenient but a blessing? With each of the examples above, though, if you're able to empathize with those moments, you're able to remember how it felt and how nothing else in the world mattered. Being overcome with reality in a way that surpasses frivolity is a moment in your life where optimism and hope were real. You were able to find a tangible source to remind you that things really are not that bad.

All too often and almost always coupled with complacency, individuals will miss out on the positive things in life because selfishness has become the dominant catalyst. Self-centered and apathetic towards others, he or she ignores the alleviating emotion that exists in nearly every single moment in life. Instead of walking away from a seemingly tragic moment reminded of one's own fortune, the individual allows his selfishness to promote anger. Instead of feeling genuinely happy for a newly wedded friend, the individual allows his selfishness to promote envy. You get the picture.

Not all circumstances in life will usher in obvious opportunities to feel good. In fact, it's foolish to expect it. But the individual who seeks to find the good in all things is the one who will yield the most fulfilling life. No matter how great or difficult life can be, it's up to every single one of us to dig beyond our own centric ideals and find the wisp of promise and relief that resides in each and every moment.

Vase of Flowers, by Jan van Huysum (1682-1749), is one of the most vivid still-life paintings ever created. On display at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, California, this work is masterfully described as:

Arranged in a terracotta vase displaying an antique relief, Jan van Huysum included flowers from all seasons of the year--roses, anemones, hyacinths, tulips, and more--and painted them directly from life. The flowers' nearly overripe quality attests both to nature's bounty and its transience. The bouquet is ordered in a loose pyramidal shape, with flowers and greenery almost bursting to be free of the vase. Butterflies and other insects fly or crawl amongst the arrangement, and drops of water are visible on leafs and shiny petals.

Meticulous in his method and famous for the genre, van Huysum would sometimes painstakingly take several years to complete his paintings.

I've never honestly been a fan of still-life. It's never felt expressive to me until I recently saw this piece in person. At the time, I was mesmerized by the stark detail and incredible colors. It felt like I was looking at something created on a computer rather than a 18th Century art piece. And then the last two weeks happened. Frustration after frustration, set-back after set-back; it was a relentless barrage of negativity and spurned on by apathetic masses who wallow in ignorance. With each wave of vitriol and having the responsibility of policing it, I kept screaming inside at the faceless crowds hoping it would end and that they would see the light.

And that's just it! There is light there! There is light everywhere!! No matter the circumstances or your understanding of the truth, there is light and if you refuse to find it, you are hurting yourself and everyone else around you. It's a simple law and it is flawless. When faced with adversity, if you seek to find the good, the hope, the light, you will inevitably bring good, hope, and light into your life and to those around you. Optimism is not a disease or a chore but a gesture of kindness, a sign of wisdom, and the result of a selfless attitude.

When I spend time examining the details of van Huysum's Vase of Flowers, I'm lost in color, beauty, detail, and simplicity surrounded by glorious complexity. The burdensome weights of this world and life and responsibility no longer matter as I am optimistically swept away with still-life that is calming and wonderful. If you're capable of doing the same, then no matter what type of situation you face, you can repeat the practice. Go on! Find the wisp of reason to be optimistic and then share with me what happened. I would truly enjoy it.

Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I

I am patronized by her face, by her eyes. She's at an unreachable distance right now, and at times, I can feel my heart become overwhelmed with frustration and desire. Just look at her! Mesmerizing in emotional portrayals, intelligent and talented; she's the crème de la crème of what the perfect woman can be. And in a wake of wantonness, I struggle to stay afloat in my mind's flood of projections and longing.

Why, oh why can she not feel what I feel? How do I subconsciously prove to her I'd be the special man in her life she's expressed yearning? In a fit, my emotions stomp and flurry around inside my chest each time I see her, and my screams for attention go unnoticed as if I'm trapped inside a soundproof cube of glass. Her world scurries around her as does mine; a chaotic dance of parts and responsibilities that swirl and clash, and all I want to do is brush them aside.

And with everything in perpetual slow-motion and the distractions falling to the ground around us, we'd finally be able to make that silent connection. We'd approach other and exchange looks that say we're both anxious, satisfied, and excited. No words would be spoken. We'd just suddenly, totally understand. Our lives would change and become that much more enriching. We'd spend as much time together as we could with each passing minute being more quality than the last. The move from infatuation and curiosity to pure love would be as smooth as pouring paint from a can. That love would be whole and unbreakable. She and I would completely know that our souls are now one having been enhanced in a way they never could have been without the other.

Are you able to feel what I feel? Right yourself at this dizzying moment of your life and see the subtle hints I've expressed. I know they are there, it was with purpose that I left them behind. Never has a moment passed that my attempts to connect were without the sole purpose of expressing my hope and true feelings. And I know in my heart of hearts, we'd make an incredible pair.

Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, by Gustav Klimt (1862-1918), is the stunning and beautiful painting of a wealthy woman from Vienna, Austria. Using oil and gold on canvass, Klimt weaves together a sense of hurry, sophistication, style, and fragility all at once which dazzles the eye and mind. Surrounded by implied movement, varying shapes, thin brush strokes, and bold, bright colors is the pale skin of a gorgeous woman lending momentary relief. Focusing closer, one begins to notice her expression, her lips, and her gentle eyes furthering the sensation of peace amidst havoc. This piece has long been heralded as iconic for the art nouveau philosophy and is one of the most duplicated and expensive paintings in the world.

I am struck by a sense of attraction, curiosity, and even pity as I take in this portrait. Immediately, I notice her beauty and delicate frame, and my desires to be in a relationship are inflamed. Then I notice her face and the look in her eyes and wonder if she's okay; if she's feeling something she wants to express but doesn't feel she can. Finally, I find her humble pose in striking contrast to the wild environment she's in and I want to pull her away, I want to help her find relief from the choking vividness in which she does not appear to be comfortable. This painting--for lack of a better way to put it that's not cliche--is haunting to me.

In the same way, when you see someone for whom you are suddenly overwhelmed with attraction, it can often be muddied by a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Like the dancing colors, shapes, and lines, in the middle is the heart of that person you may not know very well but can certainly feel an immediate connection. The world around both of you clogs your ability to express your feelings, and you're left with nothing but frustration and a muted heart that cannot be rescued. It's agonizing, it's unfair, and it leads to unrequited conviction you fear may never be answered.

There is no reason to lose hope, I say! Being an example of someone most people overlook or misunderstand, I know all too well what it's like to know deep down that a woman to whom I am attracted would find everlasting appreciation and dedication in me. Much like this two-dimensional painting of a woman I can sympathize with and towards, I am unable to remove her, to embrace her and help her understand that it's going to be okay; you're going to be okay. At a distance I cannot surpass, she has no idea at which lengths my passion for her stretches and that's just it! It's merely distance! Nothing is holding me down but my own fears of rejection. No, I cannot control her mind or her heart but I can control my own. And this is where we as humans are separate from inanimate objects of desire. We're capable of taking risks and we're not bound to an immovable canvas. My only hope is that my meticulous efforts here won't go unnoticed.

Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss

It is already beginning to feel like Spring in Southern California.  The past few days have been extremely pleasant with a touch of rain, plenty of sunshine, warm afternoons, mild evenings, and chilly nights.  It bodes a sense of hope that draws closer as Valentine's Day approaches and lovers come together.  Yes, this is a wonderful time of year and I, for one, can picture great things.

This sanguinity of love, however, reminds me of sacrifice:  To risk my whole self for the sake of the one who may capture my heart.  It is welcome and despite some nay-saying, it is anticipated with great optimism.  For to know her will grant me a sense of completion; an enclosure around the spinning motions of my life as I've tried to prepare to be the man she wants, she needs, and she hopes for.  I will be that man.

I have to be.

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

--William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss, by Antonio Canova (1757-1822), is the gorgeous and elegant sculpture of Psyche being brought back to life with a kiss from Cupid.  Very well known for his remarkable works, Canova creates a graceful and delicate piece which features a moment of love and tenderness that is difficult to capture in this form.  Psyche portrayed as a weakened but beautiful woman shows no signs of distress from her recent demise, but is enraptured in the moment as she brings her arms up and around Cupid's head.  Likewise, Cupid is portrayed as gentle but athletic as he carefully and ably lifts Psyche from her eternal slumber, doing so with grace and passion.  The lines and motion are phenomenal and it is no wonder this is one of the most beloved sculptures in the world.

Studying this sculpture brings me a sense of peace and hope.  It would be silly to fantasize about a moment in time with a woman that would mirror this moment, but in my heart, I feel it is absolutely relevant and will be experienced in spirit.  Struggles, disagreements, physical ailments, all such maladies will be met by me with heroic attention.  It's the gentlemanly thing to do.  And yet, this piece also suggests the need for practice which is all too often missing in far too many individuals.  Apathy and selfishness misdirect emotions and moralistic tendencies such that love has become a disposable engagement rather than a cherished enhancement to one's life.

Oh yes, Spring is coming and with it, I foresee the chance to love and be loved.  It's been the same these past many Spring seasons but giving up is not an option.  I was not raised to be that way and it would be a dishonor to my mother.  Some quip that chivalry is dead; I am here to tell you:  No it is not!

The Death of Socrates

I'm staring over a steep cliff into a fog-filled canyon where only the lush pine tree tops can be seen sticking out of the clouds like volcanic rocks along a beach.  Behind me is a thick forest and the shadows within push towards my back and I feel trapped.  I swing my head back around and gaze out into the narrow crevasse in front of me and I think, "How the hell am I going to make it through this alive?"  I clench my eyes shut tight and methodically step forward.  The rush of adrenaline is as immediate as the g-force and wind wrapping around my body.

Risk taking.  I've done enough in my life to fill twenty books or more; to have a very long series of films.  From career oriented ventures to dating, it's enough to exhaust me as I think of it.  Yet though I remain willing to tempt my future professionally and am still a bachelor, I cannot fathom a me that would not continue to be a risk-taker.  If I had an uneducated say, I'd assert that it is embedded in our DNA; that being subconsciously provoked to make risky decisions is who we truly are as human beings.  There are indeed some who scoff at the idea of making waves or even appearing to create dissension, but in my mind, there are far too many gray areas and unspecified lines that need to be explored.

For you see, I'm a tactile man.  In learning, I glean the most when I'm knee-deep in what I need to learn, running my hands in and through, along and around whatever it is I want to know more.  In love, I'm a wholehearted advocate of Public Displays of Affection, of lots of closeness, and of ensuring my sweetheart knows with each touch and each look, she's on a pedestal of appreciation she will hopefully never have felt before.  That's just who I am.

The unfortunate side to all of this is the lack of appreciation folks seem to have for those of us who are risk takers; for those of us who are expressive even unto the very last moment.  We sacrifice our own dignity and self-respect for what we are truly passionate about and in the eyes of far too many, we're shunned and outcast as weird, as weak, as compensating, or as someone who is implausibly manipulative.  Along the way, there are a few who look beyond the superficialities but unfortunately, there are a greater number who would rather selfishly wallow in a comfort zone of ignorance and apathy than step out and see the deeper qualities that make us unique, incredible, and most likely a dying breed.

The Death of Socrates, by Jacques-Louis David (1748-1825) is the painted illustration of the moment the great Socrates defies his option of exile and agrees to be put to death by the Athenian government.  With incredible detail, David captures the moment where Socrates' disciples rue in anguish while Plato (at the foot of the bed) and Crito (clutching his knee) remain in touch with the reality at hand.  And in defiance, Socrates expresses his continued passion for philosophy with a hand raised upwards, face turned away as he readies his final words, while his other hand reaches for the deadly goblet of hemlock his is to drink.

Socrates was a risk taker.  Defining the human psyche and giving meaning to the feelings humans felt, he went beyond what other orators and teachers did with gentle discernment.  One might argue the significance of these assertions I'm making today, but the proof is in his heralded and oft studied works.  One can't deny the fact that even to this day, Socrates life and defiance of then stereotypical prudence has changed the way we understand who we are and why we do what we do.

When judgment leads us with sound reason to virtue, and asserts its authority, we assign to that authority the name of temperance; but when desire drags us irrationally to pleasures, and has established its sway within us, that sway is denominated excess.  When desire, having rejected reason and overpowered judgment which leads to right, is set in the direction of the pleasure which beauty can inspire, and when again under the influence of its kindred desires it is moved with violent motion towards the beauty of corporeal forums, it acquires a surname from this very violent motion, and is called love.  (Socrates)

In both, Socrates lived by example and his wisdom is still revered by many.  Correctly expressed, Socrates defines the balance between reason and foolishness; between lust and love.  For in this painting these things are uniquely illustrated in the various individuals around Socrates.  Even in the background leaving the death chamber, we can see Socrates' wife making her way out before his ultimate demise.  No, she's not waving goodbye, she is grasping for emotional relief from the inevitable.  Much the same, the men around him clamor and cringe in emotional agony save for the two other like-minded philosophers, Plato and Crito.

So where are the risk takers?  Where are those willing to stick their necks out for what's morally right and for the greater good?  Where are those willing to set aside comforts so he or she can grow in wisdom and knowledge?  Where are those good enough inside to find the good inside others?  Where are those who can truly love?

Plato put it best when he said, "I exhort you also to take part in the great combat, which is the combat of life, and greater than every other earthly conflict."