A Romantic Art

For many a work of art concerns an expression of a thousand ideas; its amounting stretches through vast terms and great ideologies. A portrait depicts a gross impression perceived or, rather, enthralled by the artist, boldly venturing to emphatically exaggerate unique facets evident upon the character, at times, much to the distaste of the portrayed. But why is he compelled, transcendentally obliged, in committing such risqué actions? Some could implore an infantile approach, accusing the Romanesque painter of deceit and treason of truth. However, the latter verdict seems shallow and intolerant, I sum to his defence, for what else may one practice when thrust into realms of divine order?

Here, I turn subject to immaterial confusion blinding the very essence of my direction. What commoves in impellent times? Well, all except clarity, whilst every bitter, cold, vociferous and euphoric emotion typhoons passage into mind, demolishing the abstract contact between psyche and reality. Withstanding, the cause is forever equal, in this sense I found my being supporting the crude intersection of artistic impression, as it filters its presence into human order through confounding mental ambiguity and eliminating the individual’s contextualisation of matter.

Alike Da Vinci’s incessant obsession with what inimitably was his master-piece, an inexorable thirst cruelly defines every man in his habitual endeavours. A travelling ship navigating amidst a sea conceptual of no tides until the first wave is encountered. Yes, I’ve come to my Mona Lisa, succumbed to an encapsulating captivity encompassing a draft, an unsuitably perturbing current of wind, infinite in all its extension.

Whatever scrutiny a fascinated artist is arrested by, all travel is a pointless exercise, and a drawing shall never be accurate to any truth. Each angle represents inexistent acuteness, at least not one in correspondence with that which our eyes envisage; thus, we fiddle an image satisfying our unquenchable lust, when, miserably, what we witness will forever more be immutable in our own mind. Similarly parallel to a sitting duck undisturbed by the absent agitation of the pond’s waters.

Nevertheless, beautiful figures are the nature of idealistically determined Universes. Furthermore, much to the light of my personal casualty, reason could indicate that what I sordidly created edified into an image of misguided deferring. And however straining the ulterior understanding seemed, She was impressively undeniable, in addition, the ideal that I shaped of her was provocatively ineffable. Consumed into solitude of lesser perfection than that of her manifestation, I fought indecision and time in continuums gazing at her habitual being.

Developing hours insinuatingly assimilated her study with that I made of Mona Lisa, striking and independent, She stood at the apex of my synthesis, unsurpassable and impenetrable. Yet this new theoretical plausibility was completely alien to my distinction in the presence of the occurrence, and I suffered, but not depressively, no, this was farther more abstract, an idealist’s deprivation of knowledge, for thus was an entire abnormality, an unprecedented abandoning of my security unto an island called Argumentum ad Ignorantiam.

As I afforded afore, She became the epicentre of all concern, and I couldn’t avoid the enormous void that suctioned my intellect. Perhaps, it was all because of her vitiated beauty, but I strove to align myself with that philosophical misapprehension that I faced, I felt challenged and invigorated. If only the opportunity allowed me to empower my mind with this force of incomprehensible fascination then I could abstain from the scenario... the choice might not have been the wisest of its kind, yet it was limited by projection and temporal indifference. I had likened her to a selection of magic that I couldn’t restrain from experiencing or, indeed, solving...

My character had always been inductively curious, never was a different idea resistible, I wished to explore every withholding detail of it’s comport. Inevitably, there was a grave notion of malady and consequence from the vicious dissection of metaphysical material, regularly would I fall ill due to the human inconvenience of unqualified exploitation, although the choice was limited, I still remained with the infantile demeanour of perilous endeavour.

Oh, yes! What delight became of those days musing over possibilities, details and progression itself. And whence hourly routines conformed, I strove to avoid her entirely, through fear, but, in greater majesty, I attempted to separate myself for desire to preserve her delicacies of intellectual ideals. She played her part beautifully, breathing superbly whilst waltzing along with her daily habits.

Settled happily within this satisfaction of sensation, feeling gushes, rushes and flushes of exponential emotion, my heart pumped with differing magnitudes of eagerness and pride.

Circumnavigation suited me well solely afar; my ship endured natural waves of reason, favourably functioning with vast tides off of independent oceans. But a storm wasn’t too distant, one that arrived and disconcerted the nucleus of her image. Hence, mannerisms of perception altered as it revolutionized gripping interpretations and redefined ideals. This aftermath was clarity like none other, an imperial fact of extraordinaire. My art was unobtrusively expressed. Remarkable descriptivism was drawn. Desire became of my lust!

But what was it that I became? Confined? Surely not, I was the farthest liberal persona about, content with acquired knowledge and colourful experience...

...Now, as I recount this unexpected tale, I am an evaporation of ink, spread across a canvas, one of many in this gallery, living in my ideal world sat beside the mental image of her that I have forever retained within me.