A Symphony of the Inevitable[]
The neophytes, the philistines, fools incapable of deciphering my art. Eager was I to unveil my creations to the world, but the philistines dread from what eludes their understanding. Their feeble minds falter in grasping the beauty concealed within my masterpieces. They brand me a madman, an aberration, blind to the depths of my creativity, and were determined to stop me.
This photograph, perilous to my life, bestowed upon me a vision to seize the moment of death – akin to a fly captured in amber. A breath dissipates, and a petal of carnage and agony is born.
Beauty resides in destruction. Beauty dwells in death. A realm of creation. Ah! A realm of beauty. We unearth beauty in the spaces that separate the salient features of an image, revealing the living geometry of a being; in the pauses and intervals between music, the variances of tone and sonority; the screams saturated with anguish… the barbarians deserve their fate.
You see, beauty is ubiquitous, but not all possess the eye to comprehend it. Those who do, appreciate; but those who don't, detest, protest, and demand the silencing of the artist. Due to these philistines, beauty languishes. Returning to that photograph, this was approximately eight years ago. I endeavoured to capture an image of a battle zone when an unexpected bomb startled us. I endured severe injuries, but my mind was captivated by the spectacle before me. One of the combatants had his crown blown off, and the crimson tide surged, bathing the field and flowers in its hue. And so, I embarked on a quest to immortalize more acts of the like. The people – I hesitate to call them so – despised this because they couldn't comprehend art! They hurled words like 'sordid,' 'mad,' etc., etc. Deep pockets and empty hearts rule the world! But I no longer concern myself – why? Because this realm is superior to the sordid real world where the anti-intellectuals, the philistines, hold sway. Yet, it's disheartening to see how those, the fools, who created this place squandered its potential due to a lack of imagination. But, there's no need for undue worry. I am here to infuse this space with cultured individuals. The barbarians, those uncouth dogs, will soon be done away with.
Yonder lies my piano. It's quite ancient, you see. First owned by my grandfather, it has passed down to me. I am, besides my usual mastery, an accomplished pianist.
Allow me to play something for you.
Did you appreciate it? It's titled 'Pezzo in forma di sonatina: Andante non troppo – Allegro moderato,' part of 'Serenade for Strings in C major, Op.48' by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Don't you dare disrespect him. This piece holds a special place in my heart.
Nel tenero bagliore del crepuscolo, dove una melodia, sia dimenticata che amata, incanta l'aria, anime perspicaci scoprono una bellezza trascurata dai buffoni. Nella delicata armonia, emozioni si dispiegano, e lacrime emergono, poiché tra le note celestiali si cela una fuga dall'ordinario, librando come spiriti liberati in un regno intoccato dalude.
Now, allow me to unveil my masterpieces. Come with me.
Behold the first one – before you stands the beautiful and bold portrait of Mr. Huntington. Mr. Huntington, a determined Police Officer, sought to halt my endeavours, fuelled by the discontent of the ignorant masses towards me and my creations. This fool soon discovered my residence and brazenly entered my haven. Recognizing the need for action, I allowed him to approach, like a predator patiently waiting for its prey.
Ta-da! Suddenly, the room was bathed in a blinding flash, accompanied by a frantic screeching. My camera clicked, revealing a perfect slit. Sometimes, I contemplate the notion of being a surgeon—ha-ha! My once pallid and anaemic floor transformed into a vivid crimson chaos of flowing life. Tears welled in my eyes... such beauty!
From blood and flesh blossoms a delicate and tender flower, delivering the finest thrills.
Oh, I perceive your apparent disgust. I implore you, don't be. Many more are to come, each a masterpiece; not the mundane, mainstream trash they label as 'art.' They are oblivious to true art.
As I slashed, the air grew misty and metallic, akin to a fountain spraying, seemingly nourishing the petals strewn across my floor. A hopeful attempt at rejuvenation.
Behold this bouquet! Born from the flesh and blood of the 'lionheart,' the flowers mirror his essence. Like begets like!
My second masterpiece — behold Anna! A sweet woman she was, or so it seemed.
As they say, 'every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way,' and so I pitied her. Once wealthy, a maestro of affairs, yet the familial tempest proved too much for her delicate constitution. I, intrigued by her tragic allure, proposed to capture her essence through the lens and paintbrush. We became acquaintances, our visits filled with laughter, giggles, and clandestine confidences. Her visage, a symphony of beauty, with golden locks cascading sensuously down a delicate neck.
Ever considered the sublime resonance of a 'pop'? No? Allow me to enlighten you, not to plunge you into barbarity, but to reveal the peculiar beauty it holds. Delicate was she, and so was her head. Pop goes the weasel! 'POP'! Flesh extending like a morbid ballet, she lay there, an astral projection of beauty. Soft as a rose, she transitioned into a guardian of roses, her delicate head serving as my camera prop. But that tale is for another day.
Ah, how delicate and mesmerizing she remains, now adorning and embellishing my abode.
Here, take this rose – TAKE IT!
Ah! *coughs* This painting before you, not exactly a masterpiece, but undeniably alluring. It used to be my philistine servant, forever staring at me with horror and disgust. Once, he dared to hinder my creative pursuits. The lad had an appealing physique. My artistic fervour, akin to sunshine through a window, permeated his skin. His screams, a symphony to my ears, seemed to plead for more exquisite carving.
The left and right sides now house some of the rarest plants I own.
Now, do you love guns? No? Come on! What do you like? You're starting to annoy me.
Ahem! One of my best! Ever envisioned the sensation when a swift thing like a bullet passes through you? That minuscule metal projectile, swift as a thief, eludes capture like no bird can. It grants a unique pleasure—not of pain, but an inability to relive the moment.
William Baker, the politician. Fool! Like all, he was a lying scoundrel! Once, he came to my house, begging for a portrait. Despite his detest for me, as an artist, compliance was inevitable. This is when the Remington speaks.
(Now, 'Air on the G String' by Bach plays in the background.)
Follow me. The metal swiftly passed through the hardened cranium and exited through the back door. The bullet, quite the unruly one, pushed, almost kicked, through upon exiting. Hmm… Hmm… Hmm… but there was a beauty in it that seemed to surpass the knife in many ways. Yet, I cannot part with her now.
Look at the tableau the bullet created. It's like a whole park where we can take a chilling stroll.
This is my creation – a sculpture, carefully fashioned by my hands akin to Michelangelo’s masterpiece ‘David’.
Do you grasp its essence, or do the shadows of comprehension elude you?
Let me unravel the mysteries, for in an unsolved curiosity lies the descent into barbarism – the merging of two mistresses. The elegance in their once-independent limbs! I chose to unite them, ensuring a daily revelry in their haunting beauty.
Marie and Lois, embodiments of supporting artistry. Why, you may wonder, would such souls be consigned to this fate, likely not philistines themselves? Disobedience and critique, my dear. Braindead Neanderthals fail to fathom the potency of beauty; they are akin to lifeless peacocks. The discordant cacophony silenced, but beauty endures, a spectacle reserved for the discerning.
Observe the transformation. Those legs, now aglow with a radiance amplified tenfold.
Doesn't the sight strike you with awe and wonder?
And when the servants' visage surfaces, a subtle undercurrent of annoyance reverberates. Their fate, a mere echo of consequences, a reminder of the repercussions that befall those who dare to question the sublime!
The All-Seeing Eye—do you realize that the camera can capture you exactly as you are? It watches us all. It hovers above, an omniscient observer.
Here, in this canvas, the eye bears witness to the dusty, meaningless town. The destitute, the dirtiest philistines ever known to the world! The All-Seeing readies itself to mete out punishment. Fools!
This artwork encapsulates the essence of our struggle against the barbarians who menace our civilization. Barbarians who scorn beauty, creativity, and intelligence. Those who seek to obliterate all that we hold dear. Anti-intellectuals, philistines, and savages.
We exist, my friend, in a dark age—a time when ignorance, violence, and superstition reign supreme. The masses are manipulated by media, politicians, and corporations. True artists face persecution, censorship, and silence. Barbarians threaten our gates, poised to invade our sacred space and defile our sacred art.
But fear not. We are not cowards. We are the guardians of the light, champions of truth, defenders of beauty. We possess the vision, talent, and courage to create something new, original, and sublime. We hold the power to change the world, inspire the people, and awaken the spirit.
Thus, we must fight. For our art, freedom, and dignity. Against barbarians’ intent on erasing our history, identity, and legacy. Against those imposing mediocrity, conformity, and tyranny. We must combat those who wish to kill, enslave, and annihilate us.
The eye watches over us, protecting, guiding.
In veritate capimus essentiam et existentiam omniscientem.
Do not worry, my friend. You are safe here. This is not the real world, where those with the most sordid fashion rule, thinking they do something goodly.
I see you are very scared. Don’t be.
Let's pause for now. Our exploration of the exhibition will resume tomorrow. Meanwhile, permit me to unveil the splendour of death and the art of capturing the precise moment of one's demise. Ah! Witness the beauty unfolding before you!
My friend, ahem!
Death, like a patchwork of shadows and soft whispers, forms a silent symphony that draws us into its gentle embrace. It's not an end but a change, a shift from the ordinary to the extraordinary. Envision it as a secret dance, where life and death entwine in a waltz, their steps locked in an eternal embrace.
In the stillness of nothingness, there's a garden. Each petal represents fragments of forgotten dreams, and the aroma of decay is a fragrance only the departed truly savour. Death, my companion, tends to this garden as a skilled gardener, trimming the overgrown branches of existence with a touch that hides its true potency.
Picture death as an artist, delicately outlining the realms beyond with strokes that rival the finest painters. The unknown canvas awaits, a clean slate for the departed to inscribe their tales upon.
Visualize death as a seductress, her lips tinged with the hues of the abyss, murmuring sweet nothings understood only by the departed. With fingers as cold as marble, she beckons, a mistress of the night cradling weary souls in her arms, offering solace in the shadows.
The allure of death lies not in its finality but in the graceful decay that ensues. It's the unwinding of life's thread, a descent into a sublime grotesque beauty. Here, corpses transform into art, a sculpture of entropy shaped by the hands of inevitability.
Death unfolds like a blossoming flower, a solitary drop merging into water, and the gentle ripple born from a pebble's kiss on a tranquil surface. It demands the utmost patience to seize the precise moment of their encounter, for the beauty lies in that fleeting touch. In its warm and tranquil grace, Death adorns everything it claims, making even the most enchanting and beautiful aspects of the universe part of its silent elegance.
My gallery graces these moments with a captivating touch. (sighs) However, each piece carries a tale rooted in history. I hail from an art-loving family, though their appreciation pales compared to mine.
My creations always mirrored the beauty that surrounds us—an often-unnoticed enchantment. Alas, my father, a destitute philistine, sought to thwart my passion. This struggle persisted, even as I gained acclaim as a celebrated photographer. I frequented gatherings adorned with the affluent and influential, yet an unsettling feeling lingered.
Then came the epiphany that moulded me into my current self. My works, once confined to the familiar, transformed. It was as if the divine orchestrated this shift to enlighten the uncultured on the essence of beauty. To guide the barbarians toward refinement through exposure to cultured pursuits.
Eager to share my newfound perspective, I faced rejection. They expelled me from their circle, fearing what they couldn't comprehend. These narrow-minded beings presume omniscience, blindly adhering to the mainstream. They lack the imagination to unveil the world's darkness, and in their ignorance, contribute to its decay. Ah!
Forgive me, my friend, for my anger sometimes overshadows me. But in this world, I shall not lose myself again. I am determined to overthrow the fools who shaped this world, to reign supreme and adorn it with truly enchanting moments.
I see that you are sleepy. We shall continue with our discourse tomorrow. Buona notte!
New day, new beginnings!
Wordsworth in one of his poems wrote, “A primrose by a river’s brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more.”
You see my friend; our world is something like this. These so-called admirers of beauty often fail to realise the nature and physique of true beauty. They just want to follow a strict, orthodox like rules because they think these rules are straight from the Heavens above and should not be broken. Darn them devils! Because of their lack of imagination, they will suppress anyone who thinks out of the box and tries to be creative. Their egos are so inflated that they will often plan to erase you if you ever decide to cross them. But I must not go on for their mere mention make me breath fire. A civilized being never gets angry, you see. Fathom the beauty around you and you will see what all things come alive. You will soon find yourself ascending to a plane where no ordinary scoundrels can achieve… You are so delectable. You have been wonderful.
Ah, you are a wonderful companion. A delectable course of mine, conversing with you has been delightful. You have intrigued me with your curiosity, your fear, your defiance. You have revealed to me fragments of your soul, your dreams, your secrets. You have stirred in me a sense of life, excitement, inspiration. Now let me gently take you to my best - the best of my works. The best of my creations, my expressions, my visions. The best of my art, my passion, my obsession. You will behold what I have wrought, what I have shaped, what I have accomplished. You will behold how I have transformed, how I have elevated, how I have immortalized. You will behold how I have mingled, how I have fused, how I have intertwined. You will witness them all, you will experience them all, you will embody them all. Come, accompany me, don’t be afraid. Don’t resist, don’t struggle, don’t scream. Let me show you the path, let me escort you, let me lead you. To the ultimate beauty, the ultimate death, the ultimate blood. To the ultimate art, the ultimate passion, the ultimate obsession. To the ultimate me, the ultimate you, the ultimate us.
You are about to witness the most sublime, the most exquisite, the most divine! You are the chosen one, my friend, the only one worthy of beholding this masterpiece. You should feel honoured, privileged, blessed. For you are going to see the true essence of beauty, the purest form of love, the ultimate expression of my genius.
See how the shadows dance in the dimly lit chamber. Allow me a moment to sculpt the atmosphere with my narrative. Imagine it like an ethereal, alluring ballet of Clair de lune sensually caressing the aura that adorns this part of the gallery. You can feel the air pregnant with my opulence. My best! Witness where life once bloomed, witness the metamorphosis into art! (turned to a corner and recites this)
You are the only one who can see, my love
You are the only one who can understand,
You are the only one who can appreciate,
You are the only one who can love,
You are the only one who can see the beauty,
The beauty that lies beyond the surface,
The beauty that transcends the flesh,
The beauty that dwells in the soul,
You are the only one who can understand the art,
The art that flows from my mind,
The art that speaks from my heart,
The art that lives in my hands, my love.
Behold, what a marvellous sight. Behold her, so calm, so peaceful. She is the most beautiful subject I have ever captured. Her eyes, her lips, her skin, they all shine with a rare beauty that defies the ordinary. She is a work of art, a creation of the gods, a delight to my lens.
But do you know what makes her even more perfect? Her blood. Yes, her blood, that ruby fluid that drips from her wounds, that gives her life and warmth. Her blood is the core of her existence, the fountain of her vitality. And when I draw it, when I make her bleed, I expose her true magnificence.
You see, blood is the manifestation of passion, of love, of pain. Blood is the feeling that flows in her heart, that animates her soul. Blood is the contrast that highlights her beauty, that makes her features sparkle. Blood is the art that I create with her, that I splash on her canvas of flesh. Blood is the bond that unites us, that makes us one.
Don't you marvel, my friend? Don't you admire, don't you covet, this moment of perfection?
Do you see the picture there? I bet you recognise her. Everybody knows her. Torres was the delight, the feast for everyone’s eyes. Her locks, her dress, her jewellery, ah! Were so carefully chosen and decked it made her look fabulous. It’s sad that the savages cannot grace her anymore, for she was never meant for THEM! She was meant for me! Her body was the perfect thing I have ever bestowed my eyes upon – of course after Anna! Her eyes were perfect like a hawk. She was ferocious like a vixen, she was everything I had wished for! Ah!
I hope the lens fitted her. Wait here!
Yes, everything is okay!
As whispers from life echo through the corridors of my mind, my lens catches the fleeting beauty that once touched this world. See the delicate dance, envision the ethereal grace of a soul frozen in the amber glow of days gone by.
In this still moment, she inhales the fragile balance of existence—a brief dance with the mysterious. But my artistry doesn't stop at the boundaries of the living canvas. Life transforms into my masterpiece, devoid of vitality yet reborn in the gallery.
The dance of life goes beyond mere moments; it sprawls across the twisted fabric of existence.
In the quiet corners of the human experience, there exists a peculiar dance between flesh and blood, and the unassuming eye of the obscura. It's a subtle waltz, a play of light and shadows that transcends the ordinary and taps into the worldly artistry of existence.
Consider the human form, a vessel of stories etched on the canvas of skin. The obscura, akin to a silent voyeur, becomes the witness to this unfolding narrative. Flesh, warm and pulsating, holds the secrets of a thousand moments—a living testament to the transient nature of time. It is the vessel of life's mysteries, a repository of joy, pain, and the unsettling unknown.
As the lens peers into the depths of this fleshy realm, it captures more than meets the eye. Shadows play upon the contours of skin, transforming the mundane into the surreal. The simple act of existence becomes a haunting ballet, a choreography of light and darkness that leaves an indelible imprint on the observer.
In the quiet stillness, the obscura becomes a portal, a gateway into the otherworldly. The dance between flesh and lens takes on an upsetting quality, as if the very essence of life is distilled into a play of monochromatic tones. The eye, like a silent conductor, orchestrates this symphony of existence, revealing the beauty that lurks in the shadows.
The flesh, vulnerable and transient, contrasts with the obscura's unyielding gaze. It is a paradoxical relationship—a dance between mortality and immortality. The camera captures moments, freezing them in time, while the flesh continues its inexorable journey toward decay.
As the obscura unveils the hidden nuances of the flesh, it delves into the chiaroscuro of human emotions. Joy casts a radiant glow, pain manifests as haunting shadows, and the unknown lurks in the ambiguous interplay of light. The simplicity of the human form takes on a complex, almost mystical quality, as if each wrinkle and scar conceals a story waiting to be told.
The camera, with its unblinking eye, becomes a confidant to the secrets of the flesh. It captures the wrinkles etched by time, the scars borne from battles fought, and the subtle tremors that betray the vulnerability within. In this symbiotic relationship, the camera becomes both mirror and storyteller, reflecting the essence of humanity in all its raw and unfiltered glory.
Yet, as the camera immortalizes the flesh in its silent frames, it also introduces an element of disquiet. The stillness of the captured moments evokes a sense of foreboding, as if the essence of life is trapped within the confines of the photograph. The once-living, breathing subject becomes a spectral presence, frozen in a perpetual dance with the shadows.
In the gallery of the camera, the juxtaposition of flesh and captured image creates an uncanny tableau. The living and the frozen coexist in a surreal harmony, blurring the boundaries between reality and artifice. It is a testament to the haunting beauty that emerges when the mundane is viewed through the lens of the extraordinary.
Ah, I sense your confusion and trepidation. Fear not, my friend. And pay no mind to that peculiar sound—perhaps a mere trifle.
Now, let me inquire, dear companion – Have you ever cradled a knife and ventured into the realm of flesh? No? Allow me to enlighten you.
As you grip it, as you let it dance upon the canvas of existence, you sense the pulse of life coursing through its cold steel. It's an overwhelming sensation, the delicate touch at the heart of a crude act. You descend to the ground to conclude your intimate affair with that animate object. It's akin to slicing through warm butter, yielding effortlessly. The whispers that perpetually echo in your ears are not of harm but of imploration, urging you to proceed with precision.
Ah! But I am afraid. Afraid about one thing. In the twilight of our companionship, my friend, I sense the hour has arrived. You have indeed been a splendid companion, a fleeting star in the vast expanse of my existence. Yet, as the adage goes, all splendid things must meet their inevitable demise. Our odyssey concludes, my friend. The era of our dialogue, the tendrils of our bond, the clandestine affair – all unfurl to their closure. Forgive my transgressions, woven into the fabric of our discourse - Amidst these parting words, I neglected to unveil the name that lingers on my lips. Alexander Valentino, that is my moniker.
The sun’s rays pierce the flesh like needles,
A twisted dance of pain and pleasure.
Blood flows from the wounds, red and bright,
A painting where the sun plays with the life.
The light casts shadows on the ground,
Telling stories of horror and despair.
But the darkness creeps closer, hungry and smart,
As the sun gives up its game with the heart.
The blood, a feast, for the unseen beasts,
The sun’s gift, a curse, for the dying ones.
A paradox, where beauty hides the dark,
A melody of screams from the broken hearts.
As the poetic interlude gently fades, there's a subtle shift, a transition from tranquil verse to a chilling reality. With a simple declaration, "I am Alexander Valentino," a harbinger of an ending emerges. In that moment, a shiver ripples through the corridors of our shared journey. The air thickens with the weight of an impending conclusion.
"Now you are my art," he calmly asserts, the words hanging in the silence like an ultimate finale. It’s a declaration that cuts through the human simplicity of our connection, leaving an unsettling promise of horrors yet untold. In the simplicity of his words, a whispered darkness creeps in, casting a shadow on the familiarity we once shared.
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