Dark eyes, so much like my own, gaze at me with death.
They were never like that, never so lost within themselves.
An inner turmoil, darkness overwhelming you, taking.
Such fragile chalices of deep, dark chocolate, shattering.
Your body is fragile, wasted, nothing. Long I remember
What you once were such a short time ago.
Strong, yes, unbending an adamantine rod unwilling to
Break.
Now, your soul atrophies before me, slithering silently,
Slowly to pool at your feet.
Intimidation surrounded you like miasma
Frightening me, causing awe as you passed.
A cloud has covered your entirety, Fate woven
With unknown Darkness, uncertainty.
Your sires fade into the distance
Your siblings lost to Time.
Remember us I call to you, remember.
Your back is already turned, ridged.
Remember us, I call to you, remember.
You’ve already gone away.
Dark eyes, so much like my own, gaze at me with death.
They were never like that, never so lost within themselves.
An inner turmoil, darkness overwhelming you, taking.
Such fragile chalices of deep, dark chocolate, shattering.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Of Vinci
( This was my psychology final for Psychology of Art and Creativity)
The room I stood in was carpeted and silent, books lining the walls from top to bottom. They were old books, leather-bound and I could smell the musk on them. In the center of the room were three deep, crimson, leather high-backed chairs that you would see in some sort of old home or movie. I cocked my head to the side. Rollo May, Sigmund Freud and Leonardo da Vinci sat in those chairs, quietly looking at me as if waiting for something. Alright, I thought, this has to be a dream.
‘Come and sit young lady,’ May said, pointing to another chair directly behind me. ‘We were just about to discuss with Signore Leonardo here his process behind his work.’
‘I still think that you are repressing your emotions towards your sexuality, Signore,’ Freud spoke, his accent thick. ‘I mean, look at the paintings that you have done. All of them contain a woman, either with or without a child. Not to mention the fact that the way the woman is positioned is very sexual in nature. Your childhood must have been repressed. You have a strong connection with your mother, wanting to have the comfort of the womb once more.’
Freud nodded his head as if he had just explained everything and the discussion need not happen. Both Leonardo and May stared at him, silent. May laughed first, breaking the awkward pause.
‘So, Sigmund, you think you have me all figured out, eh?’ Leonardo chuckled, shaking his old head. ‘Maybe it is that simple, maybe it isn’t. Yet, I am sure this young woman here has a few words to say.’
The three men gazed at me again and I panicked.
‘You’ve been studying psychology, yes?’
This from Freud.
‘Yes, sir,’ I felt awkward. ‘I am currently enrolled in Psychology of Art and Creativity.’
This had to be a dream. You don’t talk with three dead men, two of whom are psychologists, and not feel you’ll need to go to a therapy afterwards.
‘Well,’ May said, smirking, ‘What have you studied?’
Silence.
‘Here is an easier request then,’ Leonardo said, ‘Tell me what you know of me and use what you learned to psycho-analyze me.’
May was smirking and Freud crossed his leg, holding his knee.
‘Alright, well…Your full name is Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci and you were born April 15, 1452 and died on May 2, 1519. You were sixty-seven years of age. You were an illegitimate son of Piero and Caterina both from Vinci, I think it was said your mother was a woman of…ill-repute.’
‘You mean a whore,’ Leonardo chided.
‘To put it nicely,’ I replied.
‘You see?’ Freud barked excitedly. ‘He does have repressed feelings for his mother due to her prostitution.’
‘It isn’t a solid fact though,’ I retorted, ‘So your theory isn’t valid in this point.’
May let out a laugh as Freud huffed at me, glowering. When did psychologists huff? I snickered at my own thoughts; Freud was known to use cocaine as a prescribed drug to his patients.
‘Let the girl continue, gentlemen,’ May said.
‘Um, Leonardo was educated by Verricchio, a painter in Florence. You worked in Rome, Bologna and Venice and the
last years of your life were spent in France.’
‘Hated the weather there.’
The men laughed.
‘Right…your best known pieces are The Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and The Vitruvian Man.’
The old Italian nodded at me, smiling.
‘Sounds about right.’
The three of them sat there in silence for another minute.
I twitched.
‘Leonardo certainly shows the Ego in his work,’ Freud nodded. ‘Take for example, The Vitruvian Man. The image shows a man with after images of his limbs about him in a circle. Now, the Ego, as you well know, is a balance between the Id and the Super –Ego. The Id being the childish portion of the psyche and the Super-Ego is the moral code of the psyche. From the image you have the sense of the impulse there from the stroke, yet, because of the tightness of the piece, the Super-Ego comes forth. Combined, the Ego balances out the image, allowing the viewer to accept the piece as it is.’
‘You make a valid point, Sigmund,’ May replied, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘But what of good old Mona Lisa? I must commend you, Leonard, for the courage that you showed the viewer in that painting.’
Leonardo waved his hand in dismissal, but May continued.
‘Honestly man. The creative courage that you show in the painting of Mona is fantastic. Take, for example, the horizon line in the painting. The right hand side is slightly higher than the left hand side. So much symbolism comes from this minute detail alone. The right hand of God, good and evil, right and wrong.’
‘Well, according to you, May, isn’t creative courage the discovering of new forms, symbols and patterns?’ I asked curiously.
‘Yes, exactly. From these new ideals a brand new society can be built and expanded.’
‘But how can a new society be built on an old painting?’
May stopped talking for a moment, Freud snickering.
‘That is the girl’s Id, my friend,’ the old Austrian said.
May snorted in annoyance but continued on.
‘Mona shows an innocence about her that causes the viewer to stop and stare. Now, Innocence is the pre-egoic part of the mind. Let us say the infant stage of the mind. The painting shows a woman, yes, but look at the way she gazes at the viewer. Her eyes are looking directly on, giving the illusion of watching the viewer as they move from side to side. The Innocence that Leonardo displays here is only what he must do. Yet, there is a will there as well, the sense of drive that the Innocence portrays at times.’
‘So,’ Leonardo said, ‘What can be told of her smile then, on a psychological stand point.’
‘Ah, the smile of a woman holds many secrets,’ May said, nodding.
‘In the case of Mona,’ Freud replied, ‘The smile can be seen as seduction. I believe Leonardo here was expressing the Life drive, or the Libido. The Libido would be survival, propagation, hunger thirst and, of course, sex.’
‘It’s always sex with you, Freud,’ I replied to him.
Leonardo and May laughed as Freud rolled his eyes and ignored me as well as them.
‘As I was saying, Mona’s smile can be seen as a seduction, which in turn can be tied in with the fact that Leonardo’s mother was a prostitute.’
‘Still yet to be proven.’
‘Hush child, let the Austrian finish.’
Freud sat for a minute, eyes closed as he pressed his fingers together, lost in thought.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I have lost my thought.’
A clocked chimed somewhere in the distance catching my attention. One, two, three chimes I heard.
‘Is that an a.m. chime or a p.m. chime?’
May listened for a minute and nodded.
‘That, my dear,’ he said rising, ‘Would be three a.m. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
Leonardo stood and stretched his old bones.
‘Come along gentlemen, let us return to our bed pans,’ Freud said, catching a chuckle before turning to me. ‘Next time you come, we shall talk more about the instincts of Life and Death.’
‘Oh, don’t forget the dreams, Sigmund,’ Rollo May called from the door that I hadn’t noticed before as he escorted Leonard from the room.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said as Freud turned to leave. ‘Isn’t this a dream?’
‘Of course it is. How else would you be talking to three dead men?’
The room I stood in was carpeted and silent, books lining the walls from top to bottom. They were old books, leather-bound and I could smell the musk on them. In the center of the room were three deep, crimson, leather high-backed chairs that you would see in some sort of old home or movie. I cocked my head to the side. Rollo May, Sigmund Freud and Leonardo da Vinci sat in those chairs, quietly looking at me as if waiting for something. Alright, I thought, this has to be a dream.
‘Come and sit young lady,’ May said, pointing to another chair directly behind me. ‘We were just about to discuss with Signore Leonardo here his process behind his work.’
‘I still think that you are repressing your emotions towards your sexuality, Signore,’ Freud spoke, his accent thick. ‘I mean, look at the paintings that you have done. All of them contain a woman, either with or without a child. Not to mention the fact that the way the woman is positioned is very sexual in nature. Your childhood must have been repressed. You have a strong connection with your mother, wanting to have the comfort of the womb once more.’
Freud nodded his head as if he had just explained everything and the discussion need not happen. Both Leonardo and May stared at him, silent. May laughed first, breaking the awkward pause.
‘So, Sigmund, you think you have me all figured out, eh?’ Leonardo chuckled, shaking his old head. ‘Maybe it is that simple, maybe it isn’t. Yet, I am sure this young woman here has a few words to say.’
The three men gazed at me again and I panicked.
‘You’ve been studying psychology, yes?’
This from Freud.
‘Yes, sir,’ I felt awkward. ‘I am currently enrolled in Psychology of Art and Creativity.’
This had to be a dream. You don’t talk with three dead men, two of whom are psychologists, and not feel you’ll need to go to a therapy afterwards.
‘Well,’ May said, smirking, ‘What have you studied?’
Silence.
‘Here is an easier request then,’ Leonardo said, ‘Tell me what you know of me and use what you learned to psycho-analyze me.’
May was smirking and Freud crossed his leg, holding his knee.
‘Alright, well…Your full name is Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci and you were born April 15, 1452 and died on May 2, 1519. You were sixty-seven years of age. You were an illegitimate son of Piero and Caterina both from Vinci, I think it was said your mother was a woman of…ill-repute.’
‘You mean a whore,’ Leonardo chided.
‘To put it nicely,’ I replied.
‘You see?’ Freud barked excitedly. ‘He does have repressed feelings for his mother due to her prostitution.’
‘It isn’t a solid fact though,’ I retorted, ‘So your theory isn’t valid in this point.’
May let out a laugh as Freud huffed at me, glowering. When did psychologists huff? I snickered at my own thoughts; Freud was known to use cocaine as a prescribed drug to his patients.
‘Let the girl continue, gentlemen,’ May said.
‘Um, Leonardo was educated by Verricchio, a painter in Florence. You worked in Rome, Bologna and Venice and the
last years of your life were spent in France.’
‘Hated the weather there.’
The men laughed.
‘Right…your best known pieces are The Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and The Vitruvian Man.’
The old Italian nodded at me, smiling.
‘Sounds about right.’
The three of them sat there in silence for another minute.
I twitched.
‘Leonardo certainly shows the Ego in his work,’ Freud nodded. ‘Take for example, The Vitruvian Man. The image shows a man with after images of his limbs about him in a circle. Now, the Ego, as you well know, is a balance between the Id and the Super –Ego. The Id being the childish portion of the psyche and the Super-Ego is the moral code of the psyche. From the image you have the sense of the impulse there from the stroke, yet, because of the tightness of the piece, the Super-Ego comes forth. Combined, the Ego balances out the image, allowing the viewer to accept the piece as it is.’
‘You make a valid point, Sigmund,’ May replied, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘But what of good old Mona Lisa? I must commend you, Leonard, for the courage that you showed the viewer in that painting.’
Leonardo waved his hand in dismissal, but May continued.
‘Honestly man. The creative courage that you show in the painting of Mona is fantastic. Take, for example, the horizon line in the painting. The right hand side is slightly higher than the left hand side. So much symbolism comes from this minute detail alone. The right hand of God, good and evil, right and wrong.’
‘Well, according to you, May, isn’t creative courage the discovering of new forms, symbols and patterns?’ I asked curiously.
‘Yes, exactly. From these new ideals a brand new society can be built and expanded.’
‘But how can a new society be built on an old painting?’
May stopped talking for a moment, Freud snickering.
‘That is the girl’s Id, my friend,’ the old Austrian said.
May snorted in annoyance but continued on.
‘Mona shows an innocence about her that causes the viewer to stop and stare. Now, Innocence is the pre-egoic part of the mind. Let us say the infant stage of the mind. The painting shows a woman, yes, but look at the way she gazes at the viewer. Her eyes are looking directly on, giving the illusion of watching the viewer as they move from side to side. The Innocence that Leonardo displays here is only what he must do. Yet, there is a will there as well, the sense of drive that the Innocence portrays at times.’
‘So,’ Leonardo said, ‘What can be told of her smile then, on a psychological stand point.’
‘Ah, the smile of a woman holds many secrets,’ May said, nodding.
‘In the case of Mona,’ Freud replied, ‘The smile can be seen as seduction. I believe Leonardo here was expressing the Life drive, or the Libido. The Libido would be survival, propagation, hunger thirst and, of course, sex.’
‘It’s always sex with you, Freud,’ I replied to him.
Leonardo and May laughed as Freud rolled his eyes and ignored me as well as them.
‘As I was saying, Mona’s smile can be seen as a seduction, which in turn can be tied in with the fact that Leonardo’s mother was a prostitute.’
‘Still yet to be proven.’
‘Hush child, let the Austrian finish.’
Freud sat for a minute, eyes closed as he pressed his fingers together, lost in thought.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I have lost my thought.’
A clocked chimed somewhere in the distance catching my attention. One, two, three chimes I heard.
‘Is that an a.m. chime or a p.m. chime?’
May listened for a minute and nodded.
‘That, my dear,’ he said rising, ‘Would be three a.m. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
Leonardo stood and stretched his old bones.
‘Come along gentlemen, let us return to our bed pans,’ Freud said, catching a chuckle before turning to me. ‘Next time you come, we shall talk more about the instincts of Life and Death.’
‘Oh, don’t forget the dreams, Sigmund,’ Rollo May called from the door that I hadn’t noticed before as he escorted Leonard from the room.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said as Freud turned to leave. ‘Isn’t this a dream?’
‘Of course it is. How else would you be talking to three dead men?’
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