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The Shunga painting “Autumn Moon”.


The moon has always held me ransom to melancholy or sadness. Most of the time it’s simply a breath of the past. A memory of some emotion felt before, recorded in the distant past of my historic heart. I ache. Long. I don’t know really for what. Maybe I yearn for time to stop its constant dying and rebirth. Whatever it is that sends me down that path of bittersweetness it always spawns creativity. Nothing makes me want to create beautiful things like the autumn moon.

Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely hate being sad. Especially when in the middle of it. I guess nobody really wants to be sad but it is the one thing we use to define happiness and joy. Without sadness, happiness would slip by like a slick spy in a dark alleyway. We would never know and never look for it.

When painting “Early Spring Moon” I was filled with a humming sound. A choir softly floating on a single note, building harmonies never to be written down on paper for preservation through the ages. This was most private. A gentle conversation through emotions. The young woman in the painting is has obviously passed from this world into another, perhaps quieter and less painful  one. It was hard to tell for me since she would not let any sound pass from her lips. Her eyes avoided mine. Yet she felt close. As if right there in my room this very night of painting and drawing in solitary silence.

I desired her. Needed her. I wanted to spend my remaining days on that small hill, beneath this large moon. Sit very close to her and listen to the wind making the autumn grasses slowly dance. She would say nothing and I would need nothing. It was perfection. And she was me. That was the whole thing. I realized that I had painted my own inner portrait and that I was in love with this person I felt the presence of for such a long time now. Sometimes mirrors shows shapes most surprising.



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