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Some years ago, I drew a picture in charcoal pencil on white canvas board, a naked and grieving figure with long light disheveled hair and black demon-style wings shielding its body, hands hiding its face, in something like the poses of Masaccio's Adam and Eve being driven out of Eden, for it too was being driven out, leaving in bitterness.
It hung on my bedroom wall for a long while after, as one of my favourite and most symbolic pieces -- like that crouching male figure caught startled, its body inked and wounded, white bull's-horns on its head, its features blindly masked with gold, gold overlay'd with bright fresh-blood red, barbaric and strange -- or the girl in green kirtle and hooded cloak, running up a hill into the shelter of the forest, in a hazy green overcast afternoon before the rain. Or the page of assembled b/w figure-vignettes, the same persona in different poses and states of abandon, solitude, falling, flying, rising out of a sunken grave...doubled even, split light-and-dark or twinned in sympathy, reaching out across a space of floor and tense-charged air.
All of these. But this one with my outcast angel-demon, it fell from the wall one day, when I was happy or had every right to be. Inanimate things try to tell us -- like when I was wearing my Thor's Wheel pendant and it fell off my neck, leaving just the stag's-head pentacle I'd been keeping undercover since then. The Thor's Wheel made a convenient cross, to those who would assume it -- and I had no quarrel with the concepts, either of them -- but sometimes there comes a time when one must let the assumption, no matter how harmless, fall, and claim the definite difference instead.
The picture is standing up in another corner, its action remembered now (such a telling anecdote) because I have remembered it. And yet it will not be a completed act till that outcast angel is answered and redressed (no, not like that.../:)), restored to its rightful glory.
Which requires another drawing, or painting, or two or three...fallen things must rise, must rise, must rise. Nevermind that tracery of anguished paint on the mirror there.
It hung on my bedroom wall for a long while after, as one of my favourite and most symbolic pieces -- like that crouching male figure caught startled, its body inked and wounded, white bull's-horns on its head, its features blindly masked with gold, gold overlay'd with bright fresh-blood red, barbaric and strange -- or the girl in green kirtle and hooded cloak, running up a hill into the shelter of the forest, in a hazy green overcast afternoon before the rain. Or the page of assembled b/w figure-vignettes, the same persona in different poses and states of abandon, solitude, falling, flying, rising out of a sunken grave...doubled even, split light-and-dark or twinned in sympathy, reaching out across a space of floor and tense-charged air.
All of these. But this one with my outcast angel-demon, it fell from the wall one day, when I was happy or had every right to be. Inanimate things try to tell us -- like when I was wearing my Thor's Wheel pendant and it fell off my neck, leaving just the stag's-head pentacle I'd been keeping undercover since then. The Thor's Wheel made a convenient cross, to those who would assume it -- and I had no quarrel with the concepts, either of them -- but sometimes there comes a time when one must let the assumption, no matter how harmless, fall, and claim the definite difference instead.
The picture is standing up in another corner, its action remembered now (such a telling anecdote) because I have remembered it. And yet it will not be a completed act till that outcast angel is answered and redressed (no, not like that.../:)), restored to its rightful glory.
Which requires another drawing, or painting, or two or three...fallen things must rise, must rise, must rise. Nevermind that tracery of anguished paint on the mirror there.
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