The Insights of a Madman

In society today we applaud William Blake for his masterful poetry and detailed illustrations. His work is studied still, generations after it was made, yet Blake’s peers of the 18^th century labeled him as merely a madman.  What made Blake so revolutionary was that he would take the social traditions and events occurring during his life and criticize them through his artwork.  He blatantly displayed his disagreement with the norm and this caused discontent within society. Ultimately, Blake used his artwork as a social commentary on the aspects of his time period, and in doing so, revealed his own character.

The role of gender and sexuality in society was a topic Blake openly disagreed with. In a time where women were meant to stay in the home and care for the kids, Blake believed this was a great social injustice. He asserted, through artwork like Oothon and Bromian Enchained Before Theotormon, that women should not be treated as inferior creatures but given the respect they deserve.  Moreover, another commonly held belief was that sexuality was a lustful sin and should be stifled to protect the fragile psyche of the woman. Blake contended, on the other hand, that sexuality should be thoroughly embraced and celebrated. This idea is seen in his work The Circle of the Lustful where lovers are portrayed kissing and embracing. Blake’s criticism of society suggests he was confident in his beliefs, despite the condemnation he would undoubtedly receive in return. His artistic commentaries also suggest Blake to be a thoughtful and intelligent man, not a raving lunatic.

Perhaps the biggest aspect of society that Blake criticized was the institutionalized Church. Blake defended the notion that the Church focused on the glorification of ceremony and procedure when it should have focused on love and faith. Blake held great disgust for the repressive Church and its authoritarian leaders, such as the pope, shown most blatantly in his art Lucifer and the Pope in Hell (shown above: Stahl 5).  One other painting highlighted Blake’s belief that the Church was a deceptive governing body: The Number of the Beast is 666.  In this painting, the Church is suggested to lead its people directly into the hands of Satan. As one can imagine, criticisms like this did not go over well with society. The main point though is that Blake boldly asserted his beliefs through his artwork, unafraid of the consequences. He was clearly influenced by the events of his time, and skillfully used his art as an in-depth commentary and analysis of what was socially accepted. The insights of this “madman” held truths that perhaps society just didn’t want to believe. 

Prompts:

1) William Blake expressed his beliefs on gender and religion through his artwork. If you were to critique society, how would you express yourself (what modes, would you be discreet or blatant, etc.)? What aspects would you criticize? You may choose to write a narrative to explain this.

2) Are all artists influenced by the beliefs and events of their times? Is it possible not to be influenced by what is happening around us? If not, are we merely a product of society?

3) Choose one or more of Blake’s works shown in the presentation and create a story explaining what you see. Be creative.

Oothon and Bromian Enchained Before Theotormon: http://i36.photobucket.com/albums/e27/dr_mindbender/Blake77.jpg

Circle of the Lustful: Francesca da Ramini: http://www.huma3.com/repository/reviews/William_Blake.jpg

The Number of the Beast is 666: http://www.apocalyptic-theories.com/gallery/beast/blakebeast2bg.jpg

Europe, a Prophecy: http://www.britsattheirbest.com/images/cr_blake_ancient_of_days_38.jpg

Satan Watching the Caress of Adam and Eve:http://biblioklept.org/2008/03/

The Whirlwind: Ezekiel’s Vision of the Cherubim and Eyed- Wheels:

http://fullhomelydivinity.org/articles/angels.htm

The Dutch Creature

The character of Suzanne Manet in Susan Vreeland’s Olympia’s Look is best portrayed through juxtaposition of Victorine Meurent as her foil. Whereas, Victorine is portrayed as “commanding” (73), “imperious” (76) and “confrontational” (76), Suzanne is quiet, demure, and inelegant. Suzanne appears to be the typical Dutch wife, dutifully loving her husband despite signs of transgression, never arguing, simply being an unembellished and humble creature. The Frenchwomen that surround her, from the royal Victorine to the “frivolous child” (77) Isabelle, never act as anything less than courtesans worthy of attention, and truly they demand it at every turn. This contrast starkly highlights Suzanne’s plain nature and wholly unpretentious character.

            The passage on page 74 beginning “She quailed every time…” and ending “That was the wonder of the man,” emphasizes this submissive nature of Suzanne. Suzanne describes the trepidation with which she wonders of Edouard’s affairs as well as the binding love she has for him that “felt the whole world sing” in spite of her worries. Suzanne reminisces on their glorious love and the way he always made her feel beautiful. This ultimately shows the dutiful nature Suzanne has as a wife and the innocence of her love. She fully believes in the strength of their love, yet has the knowledge of his model lovers in the back of her mind. The fact that she continues loving him so significantly despite his “secret” affairs is symbolic of her modest and unpresuming persona. Moreover, this passage is well written in that the power of Suzanne’s feelings is strongly portrayed through descriptions such as “those first breathless days” and “we loved with a love beyond all dreaming”.

            Additionally, the passage on page 86 beginning “Collaborated!” and ending with “knowing what she would say next,” reveals a transformation in Suzanne’s character. Unlike the demure Dutch wife, Suzanne is boldly and even imperiously confronting Victorine. It is as if there has been a role reversal for Suzanne is the one demanding answers and making accusations: “Where were you when he was pelted with a hail of insults while the Olympia was at the Salon?”, “A mere commercial venture. A deal.” The quiet, accepting character has been replaced with one much more similar to the traditional French woman: self-confident, arrogant, and even domineering in attitude. It is Suzanne who “felt a mounting thrill of exhilaration” at the sight of Victorine’s fear. This shift in character is significant because it suggests that Suzanne has finally had enough of being ignored and always being in the background. The bounty of Edouard’s lovers is no longer intimidating but a thing to be confronted. Although it is beneficial that Suzanne has finally found her voice and shows she does indeed have a backbone, it is too little too late. Edouard is dead, and Suzanne is alone with no husband to confront.

            It is suggested that Suzanne’s change in character will be permanent rather that fleeting. At the very end of the story, Suzanne mails Edouard’s love letter to Isabelle, with the word “Collaborator” (91) attached to the address. In this finally act of defiance, the new persona of Suzanne, slightly cutthroat, hardened, and bitter, is indicated to have permanence as the future continues to unfold. Suzanne’s new independence, modeled after the Frenchwomen, will continue into the future, slowly enveloping and ultimately destroying the bashful Dutch woman that once stood in its place.

Last Sickness- Explanation

Alice Neel's painting, Last Sickness, is a portrait of her mother in her last weeks of life. Her mother came to live with Alice after complications from a broken hip (the majority of research affirmed this as her ailment, though one source reported cancer as the culprit). Her mother came to live with Neel in 1953 and died the following year. No sources seemed to give her mother a name or any specific biographical information. In was a consensus though that the eyes and frail hands showed the weakness and decimation brought on by her illness, while the bold lines of the robe assert an inner tenacity and stubborn, independent soul. Ultimately, this portrait of Neel's mother is another empathetic and insightful piece of work in what Neel calls her "collection of souls."  

Children of the Screen

The bleak perspective of American society portrayed in Hannah Baylon’s essay, though accurate in many points, is also biased and melodramatic. Certainly there is truth in her assertion that humanity has succumbed to robotic antics lacking in vigor and enthusiasm as we blunder our way through the banalities of yet another day. Too often we complete our daily tasks without actively engaging in life or even really appreciating the wonders of the world around us. Society has become mechanized and technology-based, leading to a world where personal interactions are limited and it is easy to forget the enormous potential we possess. To this extent, I agree with Baylon’s analysis of modern day life. Yet, Baylon also asserts “the media is our environment.” Here I must disagree.

The media, although present in almost all facets of our lives, is not the problem but rather a symptom of the hectic lives we live. After a full day of trying to mold ourselves to what we believe society wants us to be, nothing is more appealing than relaxing, immobile and disengaged, in front of one of our many modes of virtual escape. Societal structure and the media truly do “feed each other” in an endless cycle of listlessness and discontent. Baylon suggests we have become accustomed to this environment and lack the will to change. On the contrary, I believe it is more than possible for humans to break from the mundane habits of our world. In fact, society itself isn’t really the chain holding us down, but it is our own perception of what we must do to fit in that inhibits us. Those who realize their potential and live true to their souls have no problem of becoming bogged down in a superficial society. Society does not shackle us; we bind our own hands with the chains. I believe the media is really not as detrimental as Baylon asserts; in fact, her one sided opinion instigates me to find a rebuttal and disagree. Her dismal analysis and adamant assertions are ripe for argument and controversy. I believe a less opinionated and more rounded presentation of the data would have bolstered her ideas about the constrictive and pervasive nature of the media.

Moreover, the photograph attached to the end of the article, although a very persuasive appeal to pathos, is entirely melodramatic. The media may chain us into a lifestyle in which the virtual is more appealing than that which is real, but that chain is self-imposed. We are not without strength and motivation to pursue other paths and engage in the living world. Additionally, the beaten child and the duct-taped mouth exaggerate the restrictive and abusive nature of the media. The media can be informative and enlightening; it is often a portal to the world outside our own limited sphere.  This is yet another example of the polarized view Baylon presents in her attempt to convince her audience of the detrimental affects of media and the loss of humanity’s spirit. To me, her propaganda is yet another media facet trying to impose a view on the human mind, merely contributing another link to the chain suppressing “this era’s zeitgeist.”

The Picture of Dorian Gray Analysis

The Picture of Dorian Gray vividly depicts the dangers of a life based solely on the pursuit of pleasure. The film centers on a young, innocent looking man named Dorian Gray, whose face can be described as nothing less than cherubic. This man’s face and demeanor convey a sense of naïveté and pure goodness; the portrait painted of him by Basil Hallward especially emphasizes these traits. Upon examining his own image on the canvas, Dorian remarks that he wishes the picture could age and he himself could remain as he is now. Unbeknownst to Dorian, his desire would be realized and his life permanently altered.

Living under the spell of youth and the pursuit of pleasure, Dorian embraces life whole-heartedly. He quickly becomes engaged to a singer by the name of Sybil. This relationship is not fated to a happy ending though; instead, Dorian leaves the woman he once loved to pursue other vanities and amusements of life. Struck with grief, Sybil takes her life and the first of Dorian’s malicious transgressions comes to a close.  With this ominous turn of events, Dorian notices something peculiar: his portrait wears an expression of malice not present before. Worried, Dorian locks the picture away, allowing no one to view the less-than-angelic portrayal of Dorian.

From this point on, Dorian’s life continues on a horrific path as he indulges in dubious acts and unsavory affairs. Perhaps worst among these is the murder of the man who painted the malicious portrait, Basil Hallward. The murder occurs, ironically, in the room where Dorian keeps his childhood memories, a stark contrast to the man Dorian has become. By this point, the portrait reflects all the evil that Dorian has secretly become while his outward façade remains the innocent mask of the young man he once was. Ultimately, driven to madness with the depraved creature he has become, Dorian stabs his portrait in the heart, causing a sudden transformation. All the features of the portrait detailing the foul deeds and malicious acts of this young man are transferred to his own face while the portrait assumes the innocent angelic aura that it began with those many years ago. With this ending, the film suggests that not all facades of innocence should be believed; the souls behind the face may truly be the most evil and malicious known to exist. The face can only reveal so much about the man beneath.

Of the many poignant scenes in the film, a relatively insignificant one is the one which caught my attention. Immediately following the murder of Basil, about ¾ of the way through the movie, Dorian prepares to leave the murder scene and the cache of evidence in the portrait room. Dorian descends the stairs, puts on a pair of crystalline white gloves, and exits. There is no dramatic exchange of dialogue, no grand gesture suggesting Dorian’s inner evil. Simply, it was the adorning of the white gloves that seemed so symbolic and ironic.  After committing such a foul deed, Dorian wears the white gloves on the very hands which were, moments ago, soaked in another man’s blood. This is symbolic of Dorian himself: of his childlike face, free of any impurities, which hides the wretched soul of a truly vile man. Similarly, the gloves cover up the hands that committed the murder, covering up the scandal in a wave of white. It is ironic that he should wear these gloves at this moment when white stands for goodness and purity, and Dorian is anything but these things. This scene ultimately symbolizes Dorian’s entire life of hiding his true evil nature behind a face of purity. For this reason, this scene fully encompasses the message that not all portraits portray the true soul of the subject and that one cannot ever truly escape the evil doings of his or her life; rather, the truth can only be hidden. At some point, all that we are and all that we have done will be written on our faces, as is the case with Dorian Gray as he lies dead on the floor, flaunting the face of the evil, depraved, and truly wicked man he had become.

Who is That Person?

My narrative focuses on portrait #4 of the old woman sitting in the chair. The narrative is told from her perspective:

   The grandchildren, God bless their sticky little fingers and unbelievably piercing voices, have just left. Silence again descends, though a slight ringing persists in my ears. Sinking into the antique rocking chair, I let the facade of durability that I put up for my family crumble. Faced with the sudden emptiness of my austere cottage and the haunting image staring back at me in the mirror across the room, I have no more strength to pretend. My heart wells with despair as I fail to obliterate the image of what I have become from my head. The mirror paints it all too clear (and the children, oh the children with their boundless energy and sense of invincibility! Have I really come to resent them too?).  The details are burned into my mind: the dips and craters that mark my face, erasing any traces of past beauty.  My mouth resembles the awkward beak of a sea turtle, while two furry creatures that look as if they have been ravaged by a fierce desert storm crawl over my skin. It takes me a moment too long to realize that they are my own eyebrows. No maidenly smile flits across my lips, no blush graces my cheeks. Instead my hair has become wisps of wool which I find in little clumps on my pillow in the mornings. The wiry frames hanging off my sharp nose feel as spindly and fragile as my bones, and probably would break just as easily. But the eyes. The eyes are what haunt me most; those forlorn globes peering from this unknown face are not mine. They simply cannot be. I am not that old, wretched creature I see.

   With trembling hands I pull the coarse robe I wear tighter around my body, attempting to ignore the curious lumps and jutting bones hidden beneath. I am afraid to see any more skin than I have to; the wrinkles did not cease with my face, but wreaked their damage on every surface. These days though, hiding is the least of my problems. I sit in this chair for hours, listening to life continue outside as children laugh and car horns blare. I sit in this chair, feeling the heat of the sun as it rises, waiting for the stars to appear so I can go back to bed. So I can continue this monotonous dance with mortality for yet another day. The throbbing solitude is broken only by the weekly visits from my family. I know they have better things to do than entertain an old woman; I am their chore now. If it were not for guilty consciences, they would not be here at all.

    Sighing, I shift stiffly in my seat, my gnarled hands grazing the rope holding my robe in place. I think of the struggle it was this morning to perform the simple task of tying that rope; the knot was nearly impossible because my fingers, plagued with arthritis, are constantly tripping over themselves. I realize I am a ragged heap of bones and out dated memories, really no more useful than the chair I sit in. A single tear slips from my lashes, racing up and over the moon craters of my face, sliding to the edge of my jaw and perilously hanging for a second before taking a suicidal plunge and disappearing into the oblivion.

Somewhere Happy

Home sweet home in sunny California.