Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Monday, January 26, 2009
What Do I Want MY Life To Look Like?
We've been engaged in an amazing conversation about what others want their life to look like [READ IT]... and I'm ready to present what I want my life to look like... ready... set... go...
In my fictional den, there are two paintings that depict my life.
The first, which hangs on the wall to the left of the fireplace, is a Norman Rockwell-like painting of a man riding a unicycle down a cobblestone street. He looks sharp: top hat, tuxedo jacket, pressed white shirt, blue jeans and thick, white socks, but no shoes. He has one hand at his side and one on his chin in contemplation, an eyebrow raised. Above him, the sky remains in motion, shifting from day to night and through all four seasons. On the sidewalk of the street, from right to left, stand twin children, who look identical, a worn-out palooka and a gaggle of lookie-loo revelers crowding the window of a bar. The twins are a brother and sister holding hands and smiling at the passing man, while the revelers spill forth from the window while doing the same with their drinks. Between them, the tired prizefighter slumps with his head between his shoulders, laces of his gloves undone, shirtless, sweaty and tired of his trade.
On the right side of the fireplace hangs a Dali-esque oil painting of a pint of Guinness beer. Yet, the beer is not contained by glass, it is walled in by red brick. Spying eyes from the outside, trying to see the spectacle, live in dark spaces where the bricks have been chiseled away. In the liquid of the beer, there swims a harnessed fly, wings beating furiously in the dissipating foam, pulling a one-eyed brain. The fly has been captured by the intoxication of the liquid, but the brain is trapped by its broken wings and cannot leave the alcoholic prison. A brain-riding cowboy is saddled behind the eye, one hand on the saddle and the other holding a looking glass. Towed by the brain is a banner that reads, “VINO IST VERITAS.” The fly-brain-banner parade float endlessly circles the dark liquid forming the aforementioned cloverleaf pattern.
Between the two pictures is the masonry and heat of a fireplace. It‘s built from the local land with an oaken mantelpiece that supports trinkets from the past and a large mirror. The frame of the mirror is a rustic metal that has collected the wisdom from many years of overlooked dust. If you look into the mirror, you’ll find a woman basking in the warmth of the blaze, reading a book and sipping from a glass of red wine. Her resting place is that of a worn, brown leather love seat that has soaked up the caress of many conversations in its lifetime. Her own antique bicycle leans up against the bookcase behind her. She just so happened to finish her day before mine; some days the lighting of the fire falls on my shoulders and most days we're out on an adventure together. On her face, she wears the look of content, knowing that her man will soon ride home, collapse to the crunch of worn leather, latch onto her smile and begin an evening of conversation that will take them to unknowable destinations.
There are days when I have to entertain the masses by pleasing all of those that have expectations of me. If I had to commit myself entirely to their whims, the extroversion would ultimately wear me out. On other days, I must find the time to recharge, to let my mind loose so that it can push the limits of thought, strange and rational. Though my nomadic soul loves to wonder, it always wants to come home to the love found in the heat of a warm fire.
The look of my life.
In my fictional den, there are two paintings that depict my life.
The first, which hangs on the wall to the left of the fireplace, is a Norman Rockwell-like painting of a man riding a unicycle down a cobblestone street. He looks sharp: top hat, tuxedo jacket, pressed white shirt, blue jeans and thick, white socks, but no shoes. He has one hand at his side and one on his chin in contemplation, an eyebrow raised. Above him, the sky remains in motion, shifting from day to night and through all four seasons. On the sidewalk of the street, from right to left, stand twin children, who look identical, a worn-out palooka and a gaggle of lookie-loo revelers crowding the window of a bar. The twins are a brother and sister holding hands and smiling at the passing man, while the revelers spill forth from the window while doing the same with their drinks. Between them, the tired prizefighter slumps with his head between his shoulders, laces of his gloves undone, shirtless, sweaty and tired of his trade.
On the right side of the fireplace hangs a Dali-esque oil painting of a pint of Guinness beer. Yet, the beer is not contained by glass, it is walled in by red brick. Spying eyes from the outside, trying to see the spectacle, live in dark spaces where the bricks have been chiseled away. In the liquid of the beer, there swims a harnessed fly, wings beating furiously in the dissipating foam, pulling a one-eyed brain. The fly has been captured by the intoxication of the liquid, but the brain is trapped by its broken wings and cannot leave the alcoholic prison. A brain-riding cowboy is saddled behind the eye, one hand on the saddle and the other holding a looking glass. Towed by the brain is a banner that reads, “VINO IST VERITAS.” The fly-brain-banner parade float endlessly circles the dark liquid forming the aforementioned cloverleaf pattern.
Between the two pictures is the masonry and heat of a fireplace. It‘s built from the local land with an oaken mantelpiece that supports trinkets from the past and a large mirror. The frame of the mirror is a rustic metal that has collected the wisdom from many years of overlooked dust. If you look into the mirror, you’ll find a woman basking in the warmth of the blaze, reading a book and sipping from a glass of red wine. Her resting place is that of a worn, brown leather love seat that has soaked up the caress of many conversations in its lifetime. Her own antique bicycle leans up against the bookcase behind her. She just so happened to finish her day before mine; some days the lighting of the fire falls on my shoulders and most days we're out on an adventure together. On her face, she wears the look of content, knowing that her man will soon ride home, collapse to the crunch of worn leather, latch onto her smile and begin an evening of conversation that will take them to unknowable destinations.
There are days when I have to entertain the masses by pleasing all of those that have expectations of me. If I had to commit myself entirely to their whims, the extroversion would ultimately wear me out. On other days, I must find the time to recharge, to let my mind loose so that it can push the limits of thought, strange and rational. Though my nomadic soul loves to wonder, it always wants to come home to the love found in the heat of a warm fire.
The look of my life.
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