Meditations is the second painting of Year Two, the first lengthily and superficially described in the previous post below. I painted Meditations outdoors in my garden.
The subject matter may indicate a sense of peace, serenity, or possibly, the end of an equilibrium, the start of something new, a zero zone, a no man’s land yet to cross and explore. Maybe so.
In a week, I shall be in London with no set purpose. I will, of course, visit museums and galleries, but also club, bars and pubs.
And I will draw from the experience.
As for Meditations, a curious or striking aspect are the artworks within the artwork. The Triangle of Elements, or The Ages of Mankind: Gold, Silver, Bronze, Iron. (My Classics education kicks in inopportunately, still upset I dropped out like a Golden Ass.)
The Ages hangs on the wall, dominates, possibly reflects energy and vibrations from the aforementioned metals our two human characters absorb, and are transformed; for one, they’ve stripped naked, meditation as foreplay to wild Saturnalian sex? The Ages as commentary: ours is which of the four represented, or have I left ours out: silicon? Whatever.
The room also features two sculptures, red and rounded, the woman’s possible projection; lava-like and angular the second to the man’s side.
Art within art, books within books, bios within alternative biographies, is an old trick, a game of labyrinths, Russian dolls, Borgesian parables, but here nothing more than a bare wall with a couple of holes that need to be covered. That, or the artist running out of panels to paint, or too lazy to actually begin a sculpture, get his hands dirty, or burnt, the second sculpture being metal, requiring torches and hellfire.
Or maybe he is just showing off, smiling wryly, reminding a small world that it might have been easier to paint Abstract, instead of Figurative Narrations & Modern Mythologies, but he and I say: I don’t know the lexicon.
And I don’t want to B.S. you because you are smarter and wiser. So you tell me.
Oh, but don’t get me wrong; as a writer of bad endlessly complicated and long novels I could write heaps, create ten characters standing before Meditations, each person offering their interpretation to anyone with the time and patience to listen, but we have neither time nor patience, and words are sometimes best left unspoken, each one of us pleased, satisfied, and gloating in our own solipsistic nuclei that the truth we hold dear is ours alone.
And nothing can be taught, the reason for Meditations.