A Soliloquy for Midnight

A Soliloquy for Midnight

By Dave 

The hour arrives, its inevitability a construct of human design,

A culmination of moments accumulated, discarded, forgotten.

The world beyond these walls erupts in orchestrated euphoria,

Yet within, the quiet hum of solitude persists, unyielding.

No intersubjective connection interrupts the stillness here,

No lips poised to exchange the intimacy of fleeting certainty.

Instead, the absence becomes palpable—a negative space

Defined not by the kiss withheld, but by its foregone impossibility.

How curious, this ritual of longing,

To seek affirmation at the stroke of midnight

As though love or connection might materialize

Within the prescribed confines of temporal markers.

And yet, the mind lingers on the notion,

Examining its contours with clinical detachment:

The neural pathways of desire,

The sociocultural weight of expectation.

Tonight, I am the sole observer of my existence,

The subject and object of a thesis unwritten.

Perhaps the conclusion lies not in what is absent,

But in the reclamation of this quiet autonomy.

Here, in this liminal space of reflection,

I resolve not to mourn what never was,

But to embrace the possibilities of what may yet be

As the new year unfolds, uncharted and unclaimed.

The Mirror Which Flatters Not (1639)

Dear Journal,

A new year always seems like the perfect opportunity to take stock of where I’ve been, who I am, and who I want to become. This New Year's Eve, I find myself returning to one of the more eccentric books in my library, Jean Puget de la Serre’s The Mirror Which Flatters Not (1639), and its unrelenting challenge to confront one’s true self. De la Serre’s metaphor of the unflattering mirror reverberates deeply with me, not only because it forces a reckoning with reality—the unvarnished truths about my character, habits, and intentions—but also because it makes me question whether even the act of reckoning itself can ever be truly complete. A reflection, after all, is not reality; it is an image, a projection shaped by the limitations of the surface that casts it. As I examine myself through this metaphorical mirror, I am left wondering: how much of what I see is authentic, and how much is crafted to satisfy my own expectations of self? This interplay between the reflection and the deeper truth compels me to ask what it truly takes to see beyond the surface, to confront the parts of myself that lie obscured in the shadows of my own design. Yet, as I reflect on the idea of the mirror, I find myself questioning: is even the mirror’s reflection the whole truth? Or is it simply the self I choose to present to myself? What does it truly take to see beyond that reflection?

De la Serre’s observation that, “This Mirrour, which flatters not, represents unto us the deformities of our soules, and makes us see those secret stains which we endeavour to conceal from our selves,” feels particularly relevant. It echoes the Stoic exhortations of Seneca and Marcus Aurelius, who advocated for self-discipline and a candid examination of one’s flaws. This year, I want to embody this principle by engaging in regular self-reflection—journaling, yes, but also confronting my inner narratives without the usual filters of ego and justification. My journal itself becomes a mirror, one that I hope will not flatter but instead reveal. Yet I wonder: even as I write, am I not crafting an image of myself that I find palatable? To see truly, to move beyond the comforting half-truths, perhaps I must confront not just what I write, but why I write it.

Another passage from de la Serre strikes me with equal force: “Men love rather to be deceived with a pleasing errour, than to be informed of a profitable truth.” How often have I opted for comforting illusions over uncomfortable truths? Montaigne’s Essays come to mind here, with their exploration of humanity’s tendency toward self-deception. Journaling is not exempt from this danger. The act of writing can itself become a tool of evasion—a way to narrate oneself into a more favorable light, to organize the chaos of thought into something deceptively cohesive. This year, I resolve to embrace truth in all its forms, to prioritize reality over convenience, and to resist the subtle ways that dishonesty—with myself and others—can creep into daily life. But I will also ask: what lies beneath the reflection? Can I find the courage to see it?

Perhaps the most poignant reminder comes from de la Serre’s line: “The world is but a great Inne, where we are to lodge but a night or two, and then to leave it; and yet we make provision as if we meant to dwell there all our lives.” The Renaissance’s preoccupation with impermanence is reflected everywhere in its art and philosophy, and it speaks to a truth I often avoid. Life is transient. The material pursuits, the endless quest for security—they distract me from what truly matters: relationships, experiences, and the legacy of my actions. Yet even here, I must question my reflection. Are the relationships and experiences I value genuinely meaningful, or are they curated to satisfy a narrative of significance? This year, I want to recalibrate my priorities. I want to live more purposefully in the present, knowing that what I do now echoes beyond its immediate context, and to let go of the illusions that cloud my vision of what truly matters.

There’s wisdom, too, in de la Serre’s admonition: “He is truly wise, who can discern the follies of the world, and contemn them; who sees the snares that are laid for him, and avoids them.” This reminds me of Erasmus’s The Praise of Folly, where he critiques societal vanities and extols wisdom as a guiding principle. For me, this means staying focused on what’s meaningful, avoiding distractions, and dedicating myself to intentional, thoughtful living. Wisdom, I’ve realized, requires more than intellect; it requires a willingness to challenge my own assumptions, to question the very framework of the reflection I see, and to engage with the discomfort of not knowing. To see beyond the reflection, I must embrace the shadows it cannot capture.

De la Serre’s celebration of virtue also stays with me: “Virtue is a rich stone, best plain set; learning is wealth to the poor, an honour to the rich, and a support and comfort to all estates.” The Renaissance ideal of virtù—a blend of moral excellence and personal efficacy—resonates here. This year, I want to pursue virtue in both private and public life. Small acts of kindness, a commitment to lifelong learning, and consistent moral integrity will guide me. Yet even here, I wonder: am I pursuing virtue as it is, or as I wish it to appear? Is my kindness truly selfless, or does it reflect the image I wish to see of myself? The pursuit of virtue, I realize, must begin with unflinching honesty—an honesty that extends beyond the surface of the mirror and into the depths of intention.

As I reflect on de la Serre’s work and the Renaissance’s rediscovery of Stoic wisdom, I am reminded that the pursuit of truth, self-awareness, and virtue is timeless. These principles transcend history, remaining vital to the human condition. This year, I hope to live with authenticity and intention, striving not for perfection but for integrity and purpose. Yet my greatest challenge may be to see beyond the reflection, to look past the surface I construct for myself and engage with the reality that lies beneath. If I can do this, perhaps I can carry these ideals into each day, letting them shape not just my goals but my actions. And in doing so remember that a life lived with honesty and virtue is a life well-lived, even if it is one whose truest self lies just beyond what the mirror can show.

Striving always to better know thyself,

Dave

We like to play.

 

Now Showing: A Complete Unknown

Setting Sail

I'm so happy with how this turned out! It's hard to really capture just how great a job Katelyn did with a picture. If you're in the market for a tattoo, check out the Katie at The Raptor Collective. 

Kats_tats: https://www.instagram.com/kats_tats._?igsh=cG01NTJ6ZDV1dGU5

Now Showing: Nosferatu

Why, Hello!

 

The Feast of the Bean King (1645)

As the semester draws to a close, the day is filled with luncheons, celebrations, and heartfelt farewells. It’s a time when we pause, step away from the daily grind, and reconnect with each other before we scatter to spend the holidays with friends and family. These moments of joy and transition call to mind Jacob Jordaens’ The Feast of the Bean King, a painting that vividly captures the essence of celebration, community, and the diverse energies that accompany such gatherings.

The painting, centered around the crowning of the Bean King during the traditional Twelfth Night festivities, offers a rich tableau of human interaction. Laughter, conversation, and perhaps a touch of chaos fill the scene as participants revel in the merriment. At the heart of the painting is the Bean King himself, wearing a simple paper crown, a symbol of the fleeting and playful nature of his “reign.” His expression, like those of his companions, brims with the joy of the moment—a reminder of the importance of taking time to celebrate together.

Twelfth Night, or the Feast of Epiphany, traditionally marks the conclusion of the Christmas season and commemorates the visit of the Magi to the Christ child. It is a time for reflection, gratitude, and the acknowledgment of gifts—both literal and symbolic. In Jordaens' painting, this spirit of Epiphany is expressed through the gathering itself: a community coming together to share in abundance, laughter, and the warmth of each other's company. The Epiphany reminds us of the balance between giving and receiving, celebration and introspection. It is a call to recognize the divine in our shared humanity and to embrace the connections that sustain us.

Yet, what makes this painting particularly memorable are its quieter details, especially the inclusion of the pets. A dog lurks under the table, eagerly scanning for scraps, its presence a testament to the generosity and abundance of the feast. Meanwhile, a disgruntled cat crouches near the bottom of the painting, its expression almost comically at odds with the noise and jubilation above. These animals ground the painting, reminding us that even in our grandest celebrations, there is a world beyond our own exuberance.

On this final day of the semester, the painting feels like a mirror to our own experiences. We gather to eat, laugh, and exchange goodbyes, creating memories that will carry us through the break. The symbolism of the Bean King—a temporary figure of joy—echoes the transient yet meaningful connections we forge in these moments. We, too, are kings and queens of our celebrations, if only for a day.

Rest is an essential counterpart to these celebrations. The Feast of Epiphany marks a time of transition not just in the liturgical calendar but in the rhythm of life. After weeks of effort and productivity, holidays and feasts offer the opportunity to pause, recharge, and reconnect. Rest is not merely an absence of work but a vital space for renewal. It allows us to reflect on what we have achieved, to deepen our bonds with others, and to prepare ourselves for the challenges and opportunities ahead.

As human beings, we need holidays, feasts, and community because they provide structure and meaning to our lives. They remind us of the cyclical nature of time, the importance of gratitude, and the value of connection. Celebrations like the Feast of Epiphany anchor us in the present while linking us to a tradition that transcends individual lifetimes. They give us permission to set aside daily worries and immerse ourselves in the joy of being together.

But as the day winds down, we prepare to leave this shared space and return to our personal worlds. Like the dog and cat in Jordaens’ painting, we each take something different from the experience. Some of us seek the warmth of community and abundance, while others might quietly retreat, finding solace in the calm that follows the noise. And so, we part ways, carrying with us the spirit of the feast and the anticipation of what awaits with our loved ones over the holidays.

Bon Voyage my Friends

 

Date Night

 

Christmas Sale of Carps (1983)

Today, I found myself immersed in Peter Pollág’s painting Christmas Sale of Carps, a work that immediately drew me into its chaotic yet strangely familiar atmosphere. At first, the blurred figures and layered brushstrokes felt overwhelming, almost disorienting, but the longer I looked, the more the scene became clear: a bustling Christmas market alive with movement, tradition, and anticipation.

I couldn’t help but think about the tradition Pollág captures here—the Central and Eastern European custom of buying a live carp in the days leading up to Christmas Eve, the last day of Advent. It’s fascinating to me how this fish, humble and unassuming, can carry such profound significance. Families keep the carp alive, often in bathtubs, which transforms a mundane act of food preparation into something magical. I imagine children peering over the edge of the tub, mesmerized by the fish swimming in their home—a living emblem of the holiday.

The carp is more than food; it’s a symbol. Resilient, adaptable, and practical, it represents survival, prosperity, and renewal. I find it remarkable that a simple meal, born of necessity in times of scarcity, has evolved into something sacred—a ritual that brings families together and ties them to the rhythms of their history. 

Pollág captures this beautifully. His painting doesn’t provide clean lines or easy answers—it’s intentionally chaotic. Figures blur together, dissolving into the wintry grays and browns of the landscape. It reminds me of the way memories work: fluid, imperfect, and shared. The marketplace is alive but muted, as if the painting itself understands the bittersweet nature of tradition. Yes, there’s joy and energy, but there’s also a quiet melancholy—a subtle recognition that time is always moving forward.

Looking at Pollág’s work, I felt like I was part of that crowd—hurrying through the cold air, navigating the noise, my hands numb but my heart warmed by the collective anticipation. The beauty of this painting lies in its universality. Though it captures a specific tradition in a specific place, the scene resonates with anyone who has ever prepared for a holiday. It’s about the work, the chaos, and the effort that make celebrations meaningful.

The more I reflected on the painting, the more I thought about the importance of traditions—both preserving them and allowing them to evolve. The carp tradition has survived generations, but it hasn’t remained static. Today, some families reinterpret the ritual—perhaps choosing sustainable alternatives or modernizing the meal to fit new values. And yet, the essence remains the same: connection, preparation, and celebration.

I think there’s something powerful about creating new traditions, too. Whether it’s trying a new recipe, sharing stories, or simply spending time with loved ones, the holidays offer us an opportunity to be intentional. Like Pollág’s painting, traditions can feel messy and imperfect, but their beauty lies in the effort we make to honor them.

Peter Pollág’s Christmas Sale of Carps has stayed with me with season. It reminds me that rituals—even the seemingly mundane ones—are threads that bind us to our families, our histories, and ourselves. Traditions, whether old or newly created, carry weight because they give meaning to the moments that might otherwise slip by unnoticed. Like the carp itself—humble, resilient, and enduring—these rituals sustain us, offering continuity and connection in a world that is always changing.

Golden Eyes and a Pink Nose

 

A Tree in Late Autumn (1911)

Egon Schiele’s A Tree in Late Autumn is a striking visual exploration of themes that resonate deeply with Hannah Arendt’s philosophical framework in The Human Condition. In Arendt’s work, she defines two modes of human existence: the vita activa (the active life) and the vita contemplativa (the contemplative life). These two modes are distinct yet interrelated, representing the tension between engagement in the external world and introspection within oneself. Schiele’s painting encapsulates this dynamic tension. Through its solitary, barren tree, stark composition, and muted tones, A Tree in Late Autumn embodies the withdrawal and introspection of contemplative life while remaining grounded in the cycles of nature and existence. Reflecting on this work through Arendt’s lens reveals not only its artistic depth but also its philosophical and personal resonance, especially as it speaks to the balance between action and contemplation in the human condition.

In The Human Condition, Arendt describes the vita activa as a life focused on labor, work, and action. These activities are outwardly oriented, tied to productivity and engagement with the world. Labor sustains life’s necessities, work creates lasting artifacts, and action fosters relationships and political life. The vita activa, in Arendt’s view, represents our involvement in the ongoing processes of the external world: “Action...is the activity through which human beings disclose themselves, their unique personal identities.” This outward orientation grounds human life in the communal and the external.

In contrast, the vita contemplativa is inwardly focused, emphasizing reflection, thought, and self-awareness. It is the life of the philosopher or seeker, one who steps back from the fray of action to question, analyze, and search for deeper truths. Arendt frames this life as essential to understanding human existence, even as it risks detachment from the realities of the world. She writes, “Contemplation...is the thinking activity that stays in silent dialogue with itself.” This silent dialogue allows for the discovery of meaning but often requires stepping away from the demands of labor and action.

Arendt acknowledges the tension between these two modes of life, neither of which can fully replace the other. While action gives life its vitality and public significance, contemplation provides depth and clarity. It is within this interplay that we find the essence of the human condition. Schiele’s A Tree in Late Autumn visually embodies this interplay, capturing the vulnerability and isolation of contemplative life while remaining rooted in the inevitability of life’s cycles.

Schiele’s solitary tree is a potent symbol of the vita contemplativa, standing exposed and isolated against an empty, pale sky. The tree’s stark, skeletal branches stretch upward, evoking a sense of yearning and introspection. Stripped of its leaves, the tree appears raw and vulnerable, much like the state of the human soul when it turns inward for contemplation. The barren branches suggest a shedding of external distractions, mirroring the inward withdrawal necessary for reflection. The muted tones—grays, whites, and browns—further emphasize a contemplative stillness, evoking the quiet and solitude of autumn as a metaphorical pause in the cycle of life.

In Arendt’s terms, the vita contemplativa is an essential retreat from the demands of active life. The tree, in its barrenness, embodies this retreat, reflecting the process of stripping away the external in search of the internal. This act of withdrawal, however, is not without its challenges. As Arendt notes, “Thinking, though it may bring forth no tangible results, is the outmost of all human capacities.” Schiele’s tree, fragile yet enduring, illustrates the strength required to engage in this inward process, even in the face of existential uncertainty.

While the tree primarily symbolizes the vita contemplativa, its roots remain firmly planted in the earth, suggesting a connection to active life. The textured, earthy base of the painting contrasts with the pale, ethereal background, grounding the tree in a world of cycles, seasons, and physical realities. This duality reflects the interconnectedness of action and contemplation. While the tree is stripped and still, it is not lifeless; it remains part of the broader rhythms of nature, a reminder that contemplation is never entirely removed from life’s processes.

Arendt’s framework emphasizes that contemplation is not an escape from life but a necessary component of it: “The life of contemplation and the life of action are not opposites, but complements.” Similarly, Schiele’s tree, though solitary and barren, remains engaged with its environment through its roots. This dynamic speaks to the balance required to live a full and meaningful life, one that integrates reflection with engagement.

The seasonal imagery in A Tree in Late Autumn underscores the transitional nature of contemplative life. Autumn, often associated with decay and preparation, is a season of reflection before the dormancy of winter. The tree’s barren state suggests the process of letting go, a necessary step in both nature and human thought. In this sense, the transition from autumn to winter becomes a metaphor for the cycles of contemplation and renewal. As Arendt suggests, “The end of labor is not mere rest, but the creation of conditions for thought.” Similarly, the tree’s pause in activity is not an endpoint but a stage in the ongoing cycle of life.

For me, this transition mirrors the dark nights of the soul that often accompany periods of existential reflection. Like the tree, I find myself stripped down during these moments, confronting the raw truths of existence and questioning my place within the broader cycles of life. Schiele’s work captures this discomfort but also its necessity, reminding me that these moments of pause and transition are integral to both growth and understanding. 

I am often drawn toward the vita contemplativa, preferring reflection and introspection over the demands of active life. Schiele’s A Tree in Late Autumn feels like a visual representation of this tendency—a solitary figure pausing to confront the darker aspects of existence. The vulnerability of the tree resonates with my own experiences of stepping back from action to grapple with questions of meaning, mortality, and the self.

At the same time, Schiele’s work reminds me of the importance of remaining rooted. Just as the tree’s roots connect it to the cycles of nature, my own moments of reflection must eventually return to the world of action. Arendt’s insistence on the interdependence of the active and contemplative life offers a valuable reminder: contemplation enriches life, but it cannot replace participation in the external world.

Egon Schiele’s A Tree in Late Autumn is a profound visual metaphor for the balance between the vita activa and the vita contemplativa. Its stark beauty and emotional depth align with Arendt’s philosophical exploration of the human condition, capturing the tension and interconnection between action and thought. For me, the work serves as both a mirror and a guide, reflecting my own proclivity for introspection while reminding me of the necessity of engagement. Like the tree, I strive to navigate the cycles of transition and renewal, finding meaning in the balance between stillness and movement, contemplation and action. As Arendt reminds us, “The task is not to choose between them, but to weave them together into the fabric of a fully human life.”

Las Meninas (1656)

Diego Velázquez's Las Meninas is a fascinating and layered masterpiece that defies simple interpretation, revealing its complexity only through thoughtful observation. At first, I thought the painting was straightforward and unremarkable, with Margaret Theresa in the center as the obvious subject of attention. But as I studied the work more deeply, it became clear that Las Meninas rewards careful, sustained engagement. The painting functions as a mirror—both literally and metaphorically—challenging viewers to reconsider their assumptions, perceptions, and the act of seeing itself.

Initially, the composition seems direct. Margaret Theresa, brightly lit and centrally placed, captures the viewer's gaze immediately. However, the more closely one looks, the more layers of meaning emerge. The faint reflections of the king and queen in the background mirror upend the initial reading of the painting, presenting them as both participants and observers. Velázquez’s self-portrait complicates the scene further, raising questions about his role: is he painting the royal portrait, documenting Margaret Theresa, or inviting the viewer to consider the act of artistic creation itself? Each element—the attendants, the mirror, the open doorway—adds to a deeper and more complex understanding of what the painting is really about.

This gradual discovery mirrors a larger truth about art and life: both require more than superficial engagement to be fully understood. Socrates’ idea that “the unexamined life is not worth living” resonates here. An unexamined piece of art remains flat and shallow, just as an unexamined life lacks depth and significance. Velázquez’s painting challenges viewers to look beyond appearances, to probe beneath the surface to discover the rich meanings hidden within. This dynamic interplay between visibility and invisibility transforms Las Meninas into a philosophical exploration of perception and understanding, offering insight into the limits and possibilities of vision.

The mirror at the back of the room is central to this reflection, both literally and symbolically. It captures the faint images of the king and queen, reshaping our understanding of who the true subjects of the painting might be. At the same time, it draws the viewer into the scene, making us aware of our own role in interpreting the work. This interplay between observer and observed is further emphasized by Velázquez’s presence in the painting. With his palette and brush in hand, he stands as both the creator and a participant, complicating the boundaries between artist, subject, and viewer. This self-awareness in the composition turns the painting into a dialogue about art, perception, and the act of looking.

The philosophical ideas embedded in Las Meninas go beyond the painting itself. They encourage us to think about how we see and interpret not only art but also the world around us. How often do we, like my initial encounter with this work, stop at surface impressions and miss the deeper meanings beneath? What beauty or significance do we overlook when we fail to engage with what is in front of us? Velázquez reminds us that appearances can be deceiving, and that deeper truths are often accessible only through careful and critical examination. The painting becomes an allegory for the examined life, rewarding introspection with profound insights into both the external world and our inner selves. 

Ultimately, Las Meninas transcends its historical and cultural context to become a universal meditation on art, vision, and the human condition. By drawing the viewer into its intricate web of gazes and reflections, Velázquez transforms the act of looking into a shared dialogue. He compels us to rethink not just what we see but also why and how we see it. This ongoing dialogue reminds us that the unexamined life—like the unexamined work of art—remains incomplete, waiting to be enriched through careful thought and meaningful engagement.

Honey Pot

 

Scrooge's third visitor (1843)

Father Christmas, as depicted in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, holds a special place in my heart. The Ghost of Christmas Present, with his exuberant personality and profound lessons, stands out as my favorite interpretation of Father Christmas. Through this vibrant and larger-than-life figure, Dickens provides a vision of the Christmas spirit that transcends the holiday season, offering wisdom about how to live life fully and generously every day.

The Ghost of Christmas Present is the embodiment of abundance, joy, and goodwill. Draped in a green robe with fur trim and crowned with a wreath, he echoes the traditional imagery of Father Christmas in English folklore. His torch, shaped like a horn of plenty, spreads light and warmth, symbolizing enlightenment and the nurturing power of generosity. To me, this light represents the spirit of Christmas that should illuminate our lives throughout the year.

John Leech’s engraving in the first edition of A Christmas Carol beautifully captures this depiction of the Ghost of Christmas Present. The illustration portrays him as a robust, jovial figure surrounded by an abundance of food and drink, emphasizing his connection to the themes of plenty and celebration. The wreath on his head and the torch in his hand align with traditional representations of Father Christmas, further reinforcing his role as a symbol of festivity and goodwill. The vibrant detail in Leech’s work brings to life the Ghost’s larger-than-life presence, making it easy to imagine the warmth and cheer he brings to Scrooge and the story as a whole. This visual element complements Dickens’s narrative, making the Ghost’s lessons even more vivid and impactful.

One of the Ghost’s most memorable moments is his invitation to Scrooge: “Come in and know me better, man!” This line resonates deeply with me because it encapsulates the Ghost’s open-hearted and welcoming nature. It is an invitation not just to enter his world but to embrace a way of living that is rooted in compassion, generosity, and presence. It is a call to break down barriers and connect with others, to step out of self-imposed isolation and into the vibrant, interconnected tapestry of humanity.

What I love most about the Ghost of Christmas Present is his focus on the here and now. He teaches Scrooge to see the beauty and value in the present moment, to appreciate the joy and connection that can be found in everyday life. This lesson is especially poignant in a world that often emphasizes planning for the future or dwelling on the past. The Ghost reminds us that life is happening now, and it is our responsibility to engage with it.

The Ghost’s feast, overflowing with food and drink, is another powerful symbol. It represents the joy of sharing, the richness of community, and the importance of making time for celebration. Yet, this abundance is not merely about material wealth; it’s about the wealth of the spirit, the richness of relationships, and the simple pleasures that bring people together.

As the story progresses, the Ghost’s time grows short, and his vitality begins to wane. This reminds us of the fleeting nature of the present moment and the urgency of living with intention and gratitude. The Ghost’s lessons are not meant to be confined to Christmas Day; they are a blueprint for living a meaningful life year-round. Keeping Christmas in our hearts every day, as Scrooge vows to do, means embodying the spirit of generosity, kindness, and joy in all our actions.

In the end, the Ghost of Christmas Present is more than just a character in a story; he is a manifestation of the ideals that make life worth living. His vibrant personality, his wisdom, and his unwavering belief in the power of the present inspire me to embrace life with open arms, to carry the light of Christmas into every day, and to strive to be a source of warmth and joy for others. For me, he will always be the ultimate Father Christmas, a timeless reminder of the magic that happens when we live fully in the moment. None have every said it better: Come in and know me better, man!

Wheatfield with Crows (1890)

Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows has long captivated me, not only as an extraordinary example of his mastery but as a painting that seems to hold profound truths about life’s uncertainties. Though I have not yet stood before it in person, my experiences seeing other van Gogh works have taught me that no reproduction can fully capture the energy and depth of his work. His impasto technique—thick, layered, almost sculptural—creates a dimensionality that makes his paintings feel alive. Knowing this, I can only imagine how standing before Wheatfield with Crows might feel: overwhelming, intimate, and deeply reflective.

This painting, often regarded as one of van Gogh’s final works, speaks to the tensions and ambiguities of life. The composition is simple yet powerful. A wheatfield stretches outward under a stormy sky, pierced by black crows flying in erratic patterns. Paths wind through the field, leading nowhere in particular, as if to emphasize the futility of human attempts to impose order on the natural world. The absence of a central human figure feels deliberate, leaving the viewer alone in the landscape to grapple with its ominous beauty.

I find myself drawn to the diverging paths. They suggest choices, yet none lead to a clear destination. Looking at them reminds me of times in my own life when I faced decisions without clear outcomes, particularly in my career and personal relationships. One such moment came when I decided to pursue teaching, a path that was neither obvious nor guaranteed to succeed. Much like the paths in Wheatfield with Crows, my choice was surrounded by uncertainty, but it carried me into a field of possibilities, both rewarding and challenging. The painting’s ambiguous paths remind me that the direction itself is often less important than the act of moving forward.

To better understand Wheatfield with Crows, I considered its connection to an earlier work, The Sower (1888). In The Sower, a solitary figure scatters seeds under the radiance of a golden sun. The painting brims with purpose and optimism, presenting the beginning of a cycle. The wheatfield in The Sower represents potential, a symbol of growth and continuity. By contrast, Wheatfield with Crows presents a different moment in the cycle. The wheat is fully grown and ripe for harvest, yet the foreboding crows and stormy sky suggest an impending end. Together, these paintings illustrate van Gogh’s fascination with the cycles of life, capturing both its beginnings and its inevitable endings.

The crows themselves are perhaps the most debated element of Wheatfield with Crows. Are they symbols of death and despair, harbingers of an end, or creatures of freedom, liberated from the constraints of the land? I am struck by their movement, which feels chaotic and unsettling. Yet, I wonder if van Gogh saw them as more than ominous. In their flight, there is a suggestion of release, a sense that endings might also carry the seeds of something new.

It’s tempting to view Wheatfield with Crows solely as a reflection of van Gogh’s troubled mental state in his final days. The darkness of the stormy sky and the absence of human presence lend themselves to this interpretation. However, reducing the painting to a symbol of despair diminishes its complexity. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo reveal a man who, despite his struggles, found profound beauty in nature and its rhythms. This painting, like so much of his work, is deeply tied to the landscape he loved and the emotional resonance he found in it.

Standing before other van Gogh landscapes has taught me how his brushwork transforms a scene into a living, breathing world. In Wheatfield with Crows, his bold, sweeping strokes give the wheat an almost audible rustling, while the sky churns with turbulent energy. The tension between the vibrant golds of the wheat and the deep blues and blacks of the sky captures the duality of life: its beauty and its fragility.

I am also reminded of the Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi, which celebrates impermanence, imperfection, and the transient beauty of nature. Wheatfield with Crows embodies this philosophy, embracing the inevitable changes that define existence. The painting does not shy away from endings but approaches them with a sense of acceptance. In this way, it feels less like a lament and more like a meditation on the cycles of life.

For me, Wheatfield with Crows is a painting of profound honesty. It acknowledges the uncertainty and impermanence of life but does so without despair. Instead, it invites us to stand amidst the wheatfield, feel the wind, and watch the crows as they take flight. It is not a painting about answers but about the experience of standing at a crossroads, surrounded by the beauty and chaos of the natural world. It reminds me that life’s paths, however uncertain, are meant to be walked, and that endings, too, are a part of the journey.

King Hobgoblin Sleeping (1896)

Hugo Simberg’s King Hobgoblin Sleeping presents a mythical figure at rest, bathed in the soft glow of a serene, moonlit landscape. The king, a creature of immense power and otherworldly presence, lies vulnerable and still, reminding us that even the extraordinary must pause. The painting’s muted palette and dreamlike quality evoke a sense of calm, almost sacred in its simplicity. It is a moment of quiet renewal, a reflection on the universal necessity of rest.

This painting resonates with me now in a way it might not have when I was younger. As a youth, I didn’t yet understand the value of rest—how it restores us and allows us to be present for the demands of life. It wasn’t something I dismissed outright but something I lacked the experience to fully appreciate. Back then, the world felt so immediate and full of energy that pausing seemed unnecessary. As I’ve grown older, though, I’ve come to understand rest as essential—not a sign of weakness, but a source of strength.

This understanding came in part from my father’s example. Every day after work, my dad would nap from 3 to 4. This was understood as his time—a moment to recover after working early hours and long days. As a kid, I didn’t quite grasp this. My father’s adult world seemed foreign to me, and his need for rest was something I accepted without fully understanding. Now, I see how vital those naps were. They were not just for physical recovery but for transitioning from the responsibilities of work to the role of father and husband. It was his way of recharging so he could give his best to us in the evenings.

During the pandemic, I found myself napping for entirely different reasons. Living alone for the first time, I used naps as a way to cope with depression and loneliness. Those quiet moments of rest became a reprieve from the weight of isolation and uncertainty. My cats, always by my side, brought warmth and comfort during those times, their presence turning my solitude into something less stark.

What began as a coping mechanism has since become something I cherish. These days, I look forward to a short nap after work—a chance to refresh and find balance before the evening. My cats still curl up beside me, making those moments even more special. Napping is no longer just about escaping the day’s burdens; it’s about renewal, about finding a small pocket of peace in a busy world.

Simberg’s King Hobgoblin Sleeping captures this truth beautifully. The painting suggests that rest is not a luxury reserved for the idle but a necessity for all beings—even a mythical king. It reminds us that rest connects us, grounding us in the natural rhythm of life. In a culture that often prioritizes constant motion, Simberg’s work is a quiet call to embrace the stillness that sustains us.

As I reflect on my relationship with rest, I see it as a journey from youthful inexperience to a deeper appreciation for life’s pauses. Rest is not just about recovering energy—it’s about preparing ourselves to be present for the moments that matter. Whether it’s a mythical hobgoblin or a father finding time for his family, rest is a universal act of care, a reminder that strength and renewal go hand in hand.

Man Carrying Bag of Coffee (1957)

 

This morning, as I brewed coffee with my French Press, I found myself reflecting on Candido Portinari’s Man Carrying Bag of Coffee. The simplicity of the lines, the focus on the laborer’s form, and the overwhelming presence of the coffee sack make it an unforgettable image. Portinari captures more than just physical labor; he conveys the human cost behind the comfort I enjoy with every cup.

The sketch is striking in its rawness. The contour lines and parallel shading pull my attention to the weight the man carries, both literally and symbolically. His legs, slightly apart, and his bent arm suggest movement—a step forward despite the burden. It’s an image of quiet resilience. The sack dominates the frame, overshadowing the man’s body, as if to emphasize the imbalance between labor and reward. The facelessness of the figure is haunting; it represents not just one person but the countless workers whose efforts remain invisible to coffee drinkers like me.

Coffee begins in fields far from my French Press and favorite cafés. It starts with a seedling, which takes years to mature into a coffee plant. Once the cherries ripen, they’re harvested—often by hand, with workers selecting the fruit one by one to ensure quality. The process is slow and arduous, especially on steep terrain where machinery can’t operate. Portinari’s image is a reminder of this labor, an homage to the unseen hands that make my mornings possible.

After the coffee is harvested, its transformation begins. The cherries are processed, the beans dried and milled, and then comes the magic of roasting. Roasting unlocks coffee’s potential, creating a range of flavors from the floral brightness of light roasts to the smoky depth of dark roasts. Each choice in the process shapes the final cup, making coffee as much a product of craftsmanship as of labor. I once read, “Every cup holds the story of its journey” (World Atlas of Coffee), and I feel that truth every time I pour coffee into my cup. 

The French Press is my method of choice, not just because of the full-bodied flavor it produces but because of the ritual itself. There’s something grounding about the process—measuring the coarsely ground beans, pouring the hot water, waiting as the coffee steeps, then pressing the plunger slowly. It’s a quiet, mindful moment that starts my day. The first sip always feels like a small celebration.

Beyond my kitchen, coffee has become a way to connect with others and explore the world. Some of my favorite memories are tied to coffee shops I’ve discovered while traveling. At The Lighthouse Bakery on Dauphin Island, the salty air mixes with the aroma of coffee and pastries, creating a perfect start to a day by the sea. Cafe du Monde in New Orleans offers a different kind of magic, with its chicory coffee and powdered-sugar-coated beignets in the vibrant French Quarter. Then there’s Messenger Coffee in Kansas City, where the third-floor patio offers views as bold as the coffee. Closer to home, I love Joplin Ave Coffee Co where the familiarity of the environment, the memories I've made there with friends, and the comforting atmosphere make every visit feel special.

As I sip my coffee today, I feel gratitude for the labor that goes into each cup. Coffee connects me to the world, not just through the flavor in my mug but through the journey it represents—from the hands that planted and harvested the beans to the baristas who served them in some of my favorite places. Each cup is a bridge, linking me to a history, to the global community. And in these moments of connection—whether sharing coffee with a friend at a local haunt or discovering a café while on vacation—I find something special, something worth savoring.

Zodiac Calendar (1897)

Art is more than a reflection of its time—it is a conversation that transcends generations, bridging the gap between past and present. Through art, we see how aesthetics, ideas, and cultural values evolve while remaining connected to the legacies that shaped them. This continuity is especially evident in the work of Alphonse Mucha, a master of the Art Nouveau movement, and Megan Lara, a contemporary artist who reinterprets his style for a modern audience. Though separated by over a century, Mucha and Lara engage in a silent dialogue through their art, revealing how artistic traditions adapt and thrive. Mucha’s Zodiac Calendar (1897) and Lara’s depictions of pop culture heroines, like Ellen Ripley from Alien, exemplify the enduring relevance of Art Nouveau. Together, they demonstrate how commercial art—whether in calendars or fan merchandise—can transcend its functional purpose to create meaningful connections across time.

In the late 19th century, Alphonse Mucha revolutionized the perception of commercial art by blending functionality with fine art sensibilities. His Zodiac Calendar, created for the Parisian magazine La Plume, exemplifies this transformation. Mucha’s idealized female figure is surrounded by astrological symbols and intricate ornamentation, combining mysticism with decorative beauty. The calendar served both a practical purpose and an aesthetic one, designed to adorn walls while inspiring admiration. Its circular composition, flowing lines, and harmonious details reflect Mucha’s belief that beauty should permeate all aspects of life. Mucha’s use of symbolism—interweaving astrological imagery with organic forms—adds layers of meaning, inviting viewers to engage with the work on multiple levels. This commitment to creating accessible, yet elevated, art solidified Mucha’s legacy as one of Art Nouveau’s most iconic figures.

Fast forward to the 21st century, where Megan Lara draws upon Mucha’s legacy to reinterpret Art Nouveau for a digital and fandom-driven age. Her artwork, often sold on platforms like Etsy or showcased at Comic-Con conventions, applies Mucha’s stylistic elements—ornate borders, flowing lines, and symbolic details—to modern pop culture icons. In her depiction of Ellen Ripley from Alien, Lara employs a circular composition reminiscent of Mucha’s Zodiac Calendar. Instead of astrological symbols, however, she integrates elements specific to Ripley’s world: xenomorph-inspired patterns in the background and the inclusion of Jonesy, Ripley’s loyal cat. These details ground the work in the mythology of Alien while maintaining the elegance and harmony characteristic of Art Nouveau. Through her use of intricate, organic shapes and narrative symbolism, Lara transforms Ripley from a sci-fi heroine into a figure of mythic significance, echoing Mucha’s elevation of his subjects to iconic status.

The parallels between Mucha and Lara extend beyond their visual styles to the cultural values they reflect. Mucha’s work emerged during a time of industrialization and societal change, when there was a growing fascination with mysticism, nature, and harmony. His calendars, posters, and advertisements made art accessible to a broader audience, democratizing beauty in an era of mass production. Similarly, Lara’s work caters to modern audiences by celebrating the heroines of pop culture—characters like Ripley, Rose Tyler from Doctor Who, and Lara Croft from Tomb Raider. Her art resonates with today’s values, such as the celebration of strong, complex women and the narratives that shape our collective imagination. Like Mucha, Lara uses commercial art to bridge the gap between high art and everyday life, showing that beauty and meaning can coexist in functional, accessible forms.

Yet, Lara’s work does more than mimic Mucha’s aesthetic—it engages in a conversation with it. Where Mucha’s Zodiac Calendar celebrated timeless themes like nature and astrology, Lara’s art reimagines these ideals in a contemporary context. Her subjects are not anonymous muses but beloved characters with rich stories and cultural significance. By placing figures like Ripley in an Art Nouveau framework, Lara invites us to view them through a different lens, one that emphasizes their resilience and heroism. This reinterpretation demonstrates the adaptability of Art Nouveau, showing how its core principles of beauty, harmony, and symbolism remain relevant across time.

Both Mucha and Lara exemplify how commercial art can transcend its immediate purpose to become cultural artifacts. Mucha’s calendars and posters brought fine art into homes and public spaces, enriching daily life with elegance and inspiration. Similarly, Lara’s work connects fans with their favorite stories through visually stunning prints and merchandise. The commercial aspect of their art does not diminish its value; instead, it enhances its reach, ensuring that their work resonates with diverse audiences. By blending the functional with the beautiful, Mucha and Lara demonstrate that art need not be confined to galleries to be meaningful.

Ultimately, the connection between Mucha and Lara highlights the power of art to foster ongoing conversations across time. Mucha’s Zodiac Calendar reminds us of art’s capacity to inspire and transcend its era, while Lara’s reinterpretations ensure that Mucha’s legacy continues to thrive in new and unexpected ways. Through her work, Lara bridges the past and present, reimagining the ideals of Art Nouveau for a digital age while celebrating the stories that shape our modern mythology. This dialogue between two artists, separated by a century but united by a shared aesthetic, reminds us that art is not static—it is a continuum, a living language that evolves with each generation.

In the hands of artists like Mucha and Lara, art becomes more than a visual experience; it becomes a bridge between eras, cultures, and ideas. Through their work, we see how beauty, narrative, and symbolism endure, creating connections that transcend time. Mucha and Lara may belong to different centuries, but their art speaks the same language, proving that the conversation of art is one that never truly ends.

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Plate 10 (1876)

As a teacher, I often work with students who are behind in their studies. For them, time is the water that surrounds them. Youth is their great advantage, yet the time they waste often acts as a poison, leading to lost opportunities and regret. This idea, of abundance turning toxic, is what draws me so deeply to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and its haunting line: “Water, water, everywhere, / Nor any drop to drink.” Coleridge captures a profound truth about life—the illusion of abundance and the slow unraveling it can bring. This theme is echoed in Gustave Doré’s masterful engraving, where the silent desolation of the scene emphasizes the stark reality of the Mariner’s plight and resonates with my experiences as an educator.

Doré’s illustration of the Mariner’s ship adrift in a vast, still ocean visually embodies the irony of Coleridge’s words. The scene is calm yet suffocating, the water glistening mockingly in the sunlight. The lifeless bodies of the crew sprawl across the deck, their contorted forms emphasizing their suffering. The abundance of water offers no solace, only a cruel reminder of their thirst. The Mariner, isolated among the wreckage of his crew, is both a witness and a cause of their despair.

What strikes me most about this engraving is the tension between abundance and deprivation. The still waters and the blinding light of the sun contrast with the lifelessness of the men, visually reinforcing the idea that what seems plentiful can, in fact, destroy. As a teacher, this imagery reminds me of the students I encounter who see their youth as infinite, their time as abundant. Yet this abundance, when left unchecked, can lead to stagnation or despair. Time, like water, can slip through their fingers, becoming something they cannot use, even as it surrounds them.

In The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, the line “Water, water, everywhere” marks a pivotal moment in the Mariner’s journey, symbolizing not just physical thirst but the illusion of abundance. It captures the transition from ignorance to awareness—a central theme of the poem. The Mariner’s reckless killing of the albatross sets the stage for the suffering that follows. As he reflects:

“And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work ’em woe:

For all averred, I had killed the bird

That made the breeze to blow.”

The crew’s suffering is both a punishment and a revelation. The surrounding water becomes a symbol of the false plenitude that arises when we fail to respect balance and harmony. The Mariner’s ultimate redemption comes when he recognizes the beauty of the natural world and his interconnectedness with it:

“O happy living things! no tongue

Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart,

And I blessed them unaware.”

This transition—from despair to grace, from destruction to understanding—mirrors the journey I often see in my students. Many begin their educational journeys unaware of how much time they waste, blind to the harm caused by their inaction. Yet, like the Mariner, those who recognize the value of time and their own potential can transform. They begin to drink from the waters of opportunity, finding sustenance where once there was poison.

On a broader level, the line “Water, water, everywhere” resonates with anyone who has experienced the tension between abundance and scarcity. In my own life, I’ve encountered moments when what seemed plentiful—whether in relationships, career opportunities, or even time—proved illusory. The promise of abundance often masks the reality that not all resources sustain us. This realization is sobering but necessary, a moment of transition like the one Coleridge describes.

Both Doré’s engraving and Coleridge’s poem illuminate the tension between abundance and scarcity, transition and transformation. The line “Water, water, everywhere” captures the cruel irony of human existence—that what surrounds us is not always what sustains us. As a teacher, I see this irony play out daily in the lives of my students, for whom time is both their greatest asset and their greatest danger.

Through the Mariner’s journey, Coleridge offers a path forward: recognition, repentance, and redemption. It is a journey I strive to guide my students through, helping them see the value of what they have before it slips away. In this way, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner remains not just a poem, but a profound meditation on life’s illusions and the power of transformation. For me, it is a reminder to seek sustenance, not abundance, and to help others do the same.

Flowers in a Ceramic Vase (1606)

The still life, as an art form, captures the delicate balance between beauty and fragility. Artists like Jan Brueghel the Elder turned flowers, fruit, and objects into profound reflections on life’s transience. His Flowers in a Ceramic Vase is a striking example—a bouquet of blooms from different seasons, brought together in vibrant harmony. Yet, beneath its beauty lies the quiet acknowledgment of time’s passage, with some flowers thriving and others wilting. Each element tells a story of growth, flourishing, and inevitable decay.

In much the same way, my classroom’s picture walls acts as a living still life. Each photograph of a former student is a snapshot of a fleeting moment, capturing life at its most vibrant. These faces form a collective narrative, not unlike Brueghel’s bouquet—each unique, yet all contributing to the greater whole. But my wall holds something more: the weight of both joy and sorrow. It is a collection of peaks and valleys, a testament to life’s richness and complexity. Over the years, I’ve lost students. Their photos remain, silent reminders of lives cut short, yet forever part of our shared story. It is a wall of joy and loss, growth and remembrance—a mosaic of life preserved in its fullness.

Today, that living still life grew by one more piece. A former student visited, bringing with him a heartfelt thank-you card and a gift: a LEGO vase with a single flower. The simplicity of the gesture belied its profound meaning. As we stood together, we found his photograph on the wall. His eyes lit up, touched to see himself remembered, and I felt the quiet joy of reminding him that he is part of our story. It was a moment of connection that reaffirmed the purpose behind the work I do.

The LEGO flower, with its bright colors and careful construction, felt like more than a gift. It was a metaphor for teaching itself. Like assembling LEGO bricks, teaching is about bringing small pieces together to create something meaningful and enduring. The flower is not alive, but it will not wilt or fade. It stands as a symbol of the relationships I build with my students—relationships that, though shaped by fleeting moments, have the power to last a lifetime.

Still life as a genre has a long history of contemplating transience. In the Dutch Golden Age, still lifes often carried the theme of vanitas—a reminder of mortality and the impermanence of worldly things. Brueghel’s work acknowledged this with its wilting blooms and passing seasons. My picture wall echoes this acknowledgment, but with a different focus. Instead of mourning what is lost, it celebrates what remains. Each photograph is a testament to the lasting impact of connection. It reminds me that while the seasons change and the years pass, the relationships we form endure, transcending time.

And yet, the wall is not without its sorrow. There are times I stand before it and feel the absence of the students who are no longer here. Their faces remind me of laughter shared, struggles overcome, and the heartbreak of loss. Their stories are part of our collective narrative, their photos a quiet elegy within the larger tapestry. Teaching, like life, is a series of moments—some filled with joy, others with grief. The wall holds both with equal grace, reminding me of the privilege and responsibility of being a part of so many lives.

Jan Brueghel the Elder painted flowers that could never bloom together in nature—roses, tulips, and irises from different seasons, brought together in an eternal arrangement. My picture wall, in its own way, does the same. Students from different years, classes, and stories stand side by side, creating something timeless. Each photograph a fragment of a larger whole, and together, they form a story that is still unfolding.

As I prepare to place the LEGO flower in my room, I think about the power of small gestures. A thank-you card, a photograph, a flower—each is a reminder that teaching is not about outcomes or accolades. It is about relationships. It is about the seeds we plant, the flowers we nurture, and the stories we preserve, even if we do not always see them bloom.

Jan Brueghel’s Flowers in a Ceramic Vase invites us to marvel at the beauty of life while contemplating its fragility. My picture wall, too, invites reflection—not just on the stories of the students it depicts but on the shared story of teaching itself. It reminds me that every moment in the classroom, however brief, contributes to a larger narrative. And it reassures me that, even as the seasons change and time marches on, the shared story of our lives will endure, like a bouquet of flowers preserved forever in art.

Mosaic Fragment from Zeugma

Mosaics have always fascinated me as an art form. They are made from thousands of tiny fragments, each broken yet purposeful, carefully arranged to create an image greater than the sum of its parts. In their entirety, mosaics tell stories, evoke emotions, and capture beauty with remarkable complexity. But when a mosaic is incomplete, as with this fragment from Zeugma, the viewer is left with only a partial picture—enough to suggest the whole, but never enough to fully reveal it.

This particular fragment strikes me because of its haunting incompleteness. The face, while broken and surrounded by gaps, still conveys something deeply human—curiosity, vulnerability, perhaps even wisdom. The artist’s intention remains visible, yet the work itself is fragmented, inviting us to imagine the rest. What was this figure’s full expression? What story surrounded them? We can only speculate. And in that speculation, we are reminded of how we perceive others: incompletely, through fragments of their actions, words, and the roles they play in our lives.

Much like this mosaic, our understanding of people is always partial. Each interaction we have with someone offers us only a sliver of who they are—a single tile in the broader image of their character. Sometimes, these fragments are vivid and striking: moments of kindness, strength, or even conflict. Other times, they are muted, subtle, or incomplete, leaving us to fill in the gaps with our own assumptions and biases. Rarely, if ever, do we see the whole mosaic of another person, with all their nuances and contradictions.

Reflecting on this incomplete mosaic reminds me of how easily we mistake the part for the whole. A single fragment of someone’s life—a moment of disagreement, a harsh word, or a decisive action—can dominate our perception of them. We forget that these moments are just pieces of a larger, more complex mosaic. The same is true of how others perceive us. Traits that may stand out—stubbornness, confidence, or assertiveness—can overshadow the quieter, softer tones of our character, leading others to see an image that feels sharp or unbalanced.

Yet there is beauty in this incompleteness. Just as this mosaic fragment from Zeugma invites us to imagine the whole, so too does our partial understanding of others challenge us to approach them with curiosity and humility. Rather than fixating on the sharp edges of a single fragment, we can strive to see the broader context, to appreciate the fragments for what they reveal and what they leave unsaid.

Ultimately, mosaics teach us a valuable lesson about human connection: no one is ever fully seen, just as no mosaic fragment tells the entire story. Our lives and relationships are built on incomplete perceptions, and it is our responsibility to approach these fragments with care, to honor the complexity of the whole, even when we cannot see it.

Death and the Gravedigger (1895)

Carlos Schwabe’s Death and the Gravedigger (1895) captures a haunting vision of mortality through Symbolist art, blending mystical elements with an eerie, dreamlike atmosphere. Schwabe, known for his ethereal and often somber subjects, presents Death as a solemn, shrouded figure visiting a weary gravedigger, standing as an imposing, spectral presence that commands both reverence and fear. This work draws the viewer into a reflective meditation on death’s inevitability, positioning it as both a universal truth and a quiet, almost compassionate force within the natural order.

In Death and the Gravedigger, Schwabe employs a limited, muted color palette dominated by cool grays and deep shadows, creating a melancholic tone that enhances the painting’s otherworldly quality. Death, draped in dark robes, stands upright with an ethereal glow, almost as if emitting a faint light from within. This soft luminosity contrasts with the muted, earthbound gravedigger, emphasizing the divide between the realms of the living and the dead. The figure of Death is presented with dignity rather than horror, with its peaceful stance suggesting a gentle inevitability rather than a violent or sinister force.

The composition itself guides the viewer’s eye from the gravedigger, hunched and weary in his labor, upward toward the towering figure of Death, creating a natural path that mirrors life’s journey toward its end. Schwabe’s meticulous attention to symbolic detail, such as the skeletal features subtly hinted at under Death’s hood, invites contemplation on the mystery and beauty intertwined with mortality. The background, shrouded in mist and shadows, offers no discernible landscape, which lends the scene an isolated, timeless quality. This lack of context or clear setting reinforces the work’s universality, positioning the encounter as a metaphor for humanity’s shared fate.

This painting reflects Schwabe’s interest in the mystical and the symbolic, typical of the Symbolist movement, which often explored the unseen forces influencing human experience. Death and the Gravedigger encourages viewers to view death not as an end, but as a transition, an encounter that is inevitable yet strangely compassionate. The solemn expression of the gravedigger, combined with the calm presence of Death, implies an acceptance of life’s cyclical nature, resonating with the Symbolist idea that death is not merely a cessation but a return to a greater, cosmic order.

In Death and the Gravedigger, Schwabe creates a poignant, introspective piece that prompts viewers to confront mortality in a way that feels both somber and comforting. This painting transforms the figure of Death into a symbol of peace and inevitability, challenging our fears and inviting us to consider the natural beauty in life’s final transition. As part of this exploration into darker themes, Death and the Gravedigger reminds us that the macabre can also carry a sense of serenity, reflecting on death not with terror, but with quiet reverence.

The Accuser

The Accuser

By Dave 

God speaks in storms,

His voice a thunderclap

that splits the mast,

His breath the gale

that tears the sails to ribbons.

“You are Jonah,”

He declares,

“the cursed one,

the drag upon this ship.”

But sailors know the sea,

its capricious moods,

its love for the cruel theater of blame.

When the wind howls and the hull groans,

it is not the stars we look to

but each other,

searching for the Jonah among us,

the one whose presence stirs the wrath of the deep.

We’ve cast lots before,

watched men thrown to the waves,

their screams lost to the crash of surf.

The superstition clings like salt on skin,

a bitter taste in every breath.

But who decides the Jonah?

Who names the anchor

dragging the ship to ruin?

It is not the sea—

it is fear.

And this God,

this storm-caller,

wears the guise of the wind.

His accusations lash like ropes,

binding wrists,

dragging me to the deck.

The crew looks at me with hollow eyes,

desperate for calm,

for the storm’s roar to cease.

And He, the great deceiver,

stirs their terror like the tides,

makes them see me as the curse.

But I am no Jonah.

I am no deadweight,

no shadow on the prow.

I am the sailor who knows the rigging,

the one who hauls the lines,

who stands firm at the helm

when others falter.

Let Him send His squalls,

His waves that break like leviathans

against my ship.

I will not go quietly

into the hungry maw of the sea.

I will not be thrown

to soothe their fears,

to please a God who thrives on chaos.

This God—

this storm—

is no captain,

no guiding light.

He is the mutiny in the night,

the whisper that pits sailor against sailor,

the unseen hand that frays the ropes.

He does not command the sea;

He poisons it.

The rigging moans,

the timbers creak,

but I hold the wheel.

I keep my eyes on the horizon,

where the stars still shine

beyond His wrath.

If He is the storm,

then I am the mariner,

a sailor who knows the tides,

the roll of the deck beneath my feet,

the way a ship can groan but still endure.

I will not bow to His thunder,

nor sink beneath His waves.

I will chart my course

through this tempest,

past His accusations,

beyond His grasp.

I will not be His Jonah,

not the scapegoat of this vessel,

nor the offering to His rage.

Let Him howl,

let the waves rise like mountains.

I will sail on,

a lone ship defying the storm,

carving a path

through waters even He cannot command.

Silk Roses

Silk Roses

By Dave 

These roses bloom but never grow,

their velvet petals soft, unbroken,

a perfect stillness—

crafted to last forever,

but never to change.

No rain has kissed them.

No sun has warmed their stems.

They hold no fragrance, no bees hum their secrets.

And yet, I cannot look away.

Their beauty whispers: stay,

but never asks for more.

I placed them in a crystal vase,

their colors frozen in time.

They drink no water, yet they endure.

I wonder—

what is the cost of living this way?

Roots buried in air,

thorns that cannot pierce,

love that cannot ache.

What truth hides in this unyielding bloom,

in leaves that do not bend to the wind

or shatter with the weight of chill?

They do not fade.

But neither do they grow.

They do not ask to be touched,

to feel the soft edge of a trembling hand.

They stand immaculate,

while something real waits elsewhere,

fragile and unadorned,

aching to be held.

I ache, too—

for roses that bleed into the earth,

for blooms that fold under the weight of time,

for the wildness of petals undone by wind.

But here, in the allure of silk,

there is only the illusion of life.