for Caroline D.
On the square canvas, the man three quarters to the right, is leaning over the woman, three quarters to the left. He is standing. She is lying. The man’s right hand, under the lady’s knees lifted to rest against her stomach, while holding her in his left hand under her head thrown back he is kissing with passion.
The painting looks like a still. It’s not indiscreet. It’s not indecent. There’s no perversion there. No perversity. Only attention. Passion. It seems opportune. A spontaneous testimony to a burning love in a fiery setting. Their flesh coloured bodies stand out. Summon the eye.
Who is he ? Who is she ? Strangers. And yet so familiar. They are anyone and everyone. You and I. Lovers. Love. Love at first sight ? A passing romance ? The rehearsal of a love that lives on and on. Of love carried over from the first love ever. Love forever ? Love everlasting. Love neverending. Love for all.
Frozen, the instantaneous explosion of a snapshot painted in a few minimal strokes of the brush. The attraction of the apparent crime of love deprived of criminal premeditation retains the attention. It orders a forcible prescription on the stance that makes the room stand still. I remain dumbfounded, voiceless, lost for words at the cry of freedom oozing from the painting. The mere depth of the painting pulls me down, forces me to my knees in awe of the work forbidding any form of retreat, of withdrawal. Caught that I was between the crossfires of shock and swoon. Forbidden to go and yet forbidden to stay. Nothing no one could tear me away from this erotic transfiguration. Crushed between the vertical and the horizontal, between 2D and 3D, between love and desire. Love and passion. Love presses. Love pressure.
Love in this simple expression, in this impulsion compels respect. Prudely, prudently, I want to turn my head, take my eyes away but I can’t… mesmerised that I am at the blatant blow of the artist. Is the painter in this painting ? Is he the man prey to a maddened irrepressible need ? Is she the woman with the restrained flame ? Is mere illustration ? Testimony ? Memory ? Desire ? Wishful thinking ? Call for tender ? Crime of passion ?
My reason finds nothing but all the more reasons to justify and finds itself in both agreement and disagreement with this art. Artefact. Arty facts of love. Brought, raised, thrown to the attention of the beholder. The feat remains suspended like in limbo, timeless, in this time-honoured celebration thus immortalised. The canvas renews their love over and over. Forever.
Feat. Feast of love. Here we are at the private banquet of love. Seated at the very altar of love. The incriminating proof of chastened and depraved love. A tenderising moment in the wild life of man and animal rolled all into one.
Animal anima animated by this transcendental growth exsuding an aura of the being to be.
My eyes eventually drop. My stare, my gaze, my gape fades and fails to maintain the focus. Torn between fruition and frustration I turn away. Numb. Benumbed from the experience I cannot but admire, amazed… Emotionally scathed at the fact and the art I fall back to this aberrant world of mine. Washed off and washed on by the watch of this visual trial that my eyes will never forget. Bemused and refused to take on to the work of art I have come back to this world that doesn’t exist anymore. That will not exist anymore. That cannot exist anymore now… as it doesn’t while we’re watching a painting.
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