Rebirth is a myth. It’s what I’m thinking as I notice the faces behind the brown and red swirls. They distract me, these faces. Are they real? Yes, I’m sure they are. But no, not they. One. A face. Looking at me through foamy acrylic waves. Back there, deep, far behind a painted spiritual void of lumpy viscera.
“Hi,” I’m saying to this mystical face out loud as I again think about rebirth (as a myth). I’m saying it to myself quietly—Rebirth is a myth—so you can’t hear.
The face doesn’t speak, is shy perhaps. Which is appropriate because the artist himself hasn’t spoken to me in many hours. His voice has been snuffed out by circumstances beyond my control, though perhaps not beyond his. Indeed, you can always do one thing differently. Change your choice, take charge, choose another door. But he chose the one with the infinity sign, and now he’s quiet. I don’t hear him.
Where are you going? you might be wondering. Do you even know? The answer is simple because it’s screaming at me with the scratchy intolerant silence of the artist’s voice: No. (And neither do you.)
There’s a smell to the painting. I’m putting my nose up to it to confirm this. Yes indeed, an odor like death, like the pungent ethereal aroma when you drive by a rotting groundhog in mid-August. Lovely in its affirmation that all things end. Of course there’s never a wiggling baby lying next to it to provide visual evidence, the juxtaposition that things also begin.