I have this urge to buy a painting. I want to hang it on a wall and glance at it sometimes. But which painting, which maestro should I honour thus?
I always liked Peter Bruegel the Elder. I find his Triumph of Death the most realistic depiction of how Hobbes would, centuries later, define Life, without government:
Hint: He used the words “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short”, exactly in that order.
I honestly believe that Life with or without government, within or without Society, is a nasty, short, brutal, and disappointing experience.
But that is neither here nor there.
I am not sure I want the Triumph of Death to stare at me every day in my own living room. What kind of an existence would that be… for myself and my dear family?
But I am not sure about Buonarotti’s Last Judgment either. It’s too final. Too absolute. Too Divine, too.
I am leaning towards something laden with a different kind of symbolism.
I think I want to see Adam, in all his naked glory, about to receive His Gift from Our Maker and Creator.
I do believe this painting would inspire our family onto mental paths hitherto unexplored.
Yes, I am of a mind to acquire this painting. But how can that be? Isn’t it painted on a Vatican ceiling and thus outside the reach of man?
’tis true. But this is where the ‘miracle’ of modern science comes into play. I am talking of course about painting reproductions.
But what drove me to this decision? That’s easy… and incredibly hard at the same time.
The person who brought me into this world, who nursed me, who talked to me, who breathed life into me, who was God’s instrument on Earth, my First Lady so to speak, my dear and poor mama passed.
Her soul left the mortal coil of her body sometime a fortnight ago. She died alone. She died bad. She died far away from her only son. She left this miserable world of ours too soon. And she left me, a silly little man, with wild preconceptions about good and bad, and a mind full of ideals moderated by a strong survival instinct, she left me alone.
Her passing signaled an important thing to me. My mother told me from beyond the grave that I better watch out now. For I am next in line for the graveyard. Time is short. Time is always short.
And one must make hay while the hay is making.
So, why not honour her with a painting depicting her in her prime?! That is easy. She was not a vain person. She was a beautiful lady. But she was never vain like so many women are.
What my mother was, was a realist. She would want life to go on. And she would want her niece, my daughter, to realize the paradoxical dichotomy of Life.
Life is as futile as it is precious. Existence, our existence, is a mere prelude to something else.
The Cosmos is a mere reflection of the entropy of Man.
We gather, derive value from the short span of our lives.
And though each pace we take may be our last, we keep on walking the path as if we were all immortals.
Götterdämmerung 