Inspiring, evocative painting. Interestingly, it's quite similar to a painting I envisioned several years ago but only ever got around to sketching. And more interesting still, that sketch, that intended painting, is my one and only attempt ever at visually expressing my theory regarding man's highest potential, man's most succulent goal. I believe - as this posted painting seems to suggest as well - that we all possess an undiscovered bliss, deep inside our sky-sized skulls, way down inside that neck in our necks, where bliss isn't the bliss known to us here - it's a sparkling and magical origin of it. When we feel pleasure, we feel ourselves, otherwise it wouldn't be pleasure. Consider this: Pain insists that a feeler within it - us - can experience pleasure. It's not possible for pain to exist if something that prefers pleasure doesn't reside inside it somewhere. But when we consider pleasure, we find that it can't say anything more than itself exists in that same way pain can. Pleasure may hint at pain, but pain never exists within it. All that pleasure says is that a heightening of itself is possible. Yes, it can change and grow, but it just becomes closer to its highest self, further away from the pain that can only speak of pleasure anyway. There's a point of focus there, a point of eternal truth. It's immutable - our true selves. Pain but points at pleasure, and pleasure is just that. There's only one ultimate truth in this respect. Sure, the pinnacle of pleasure - our true selves - is something we are yet to experience. All we can know about our best selves right now is that the form it will take isn't imaginable from this vantage point of partial pain. But it is, nonetheless, something we can become. No matter how much pain we might lower into during our lives, or incomplete pleasure we might rise up into, the possible height of utmost pleasure still remains. It exists in potential, and being a potential better than all others, it deserves acknowledgement in a painting or the like. I mean, when I refer to pleasure as being a potential, I'm talking about the potential of existence itself, since that's what we are. And no potential in existence will ever be unfulfilled. So, before it is fulfilled, before we become ourselves, before we become the best existence knows of itself, I say that we should try our reaching-heart hardest to render the whole magnificence of possibility in art, so as to make a stepping-stone up to ourselves. Hence, my painting-in-mind, my sketch, is about this. It shows a muscle-bound man afloat in the air, suspended there horizontally by violently fast winds, his bulk flying through the ether at blast-force speed. Yet, instead of being ripped apart this way and that by the mindless-crazy winds, his limbs are stable, relaxed. He is, in fact, in that pose one holds while stretched out on the carpet looking at something mundane, body on its side, head raised up by a palm, elbow digging down into the carpet below - air in his case. Even though he's flying through the sky in this position, his eyes are focused on you alone, as if to say no end-of-days storm exists at all. Yes, he seems not to notice it. Except, there's a mild, almost mocking smile on his face, which reveals he does indeed know a storm surrounds him. Being unaffected by it, he finds this fact slightly funny. I mean, a second from now, you can imagine him bending a petal toward his lips and kissing it. No garden exists, but he seems amid one. I've painted and drawn next to nothing since sketching this sketch, imagining this image, for reasons I won't go into, except to say that I lost my arms and legs and then my head in a silly fight with my current culture. However, when I do finally resume my passion for painting again (hence grow back the required arms and head), and develop the technical ability I think the above idea deserves, I'll begin transferring it from paper to canvas. Before such an ability is attained, I'd best just paint my dreamed-of flying flower. Yeah, flower - flying way up in the air like a goose, its two leaves flapping like wings, roots almost horizontal because of the speed with which it flies, and petals just as wind-swept too, long and rippling in the air. Free. The whole flower free from what reality insists it must be. It's a goofy image, but symbolic of many a man's hopes in society. So, good in the meantime. -D
(Edited by Darin on 7/13, 6:26am)
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Ecstasy
