John Brown Mad
The moment I saw Ole Peter Hansen
Balling's portrait of John Brown, I walked out of the National
Portrait Gallery. It was his eyes, his hair. It is not often you
associate blue and white with fire, unless you are discussing stars.
But standing in front of his image, you run the risk of succumbing to
his madness. I don't know if that kind of subscribed insanity abates.
Is it easier to walk away from a voluntary descent? Is it a contract
or a contraction?
He was clean shaven and dark haired in
1856, and three years later he was marbled obelisk and glacial azure.
Three years. Because his was a morally defensible cause, you wonder
if the transformation was metamorphosis or demise. We sin in spite of
love and love in spite of sin. I don't know ultimately which vision
is right. I know there is enough crazy, cross-eyed blue to keep the
artists busy.
It probably would have been best to
skip the Holocaust museum. There were crowds of tired tourists in the
lobby, laughing and smiling. I thought it was a hopeful sign.
Jake and I had a beer or two. It has
been 7 years, I think, since the first? I am not quite transfigured
into my ultimate Moses like state, so does that mean I have been
unburdened by the ravages of jihad? Maybe I just cut back on gluten
and nicotine. At this rate, I may never be compelling enough to sit
for my portrait.
I dipped deep into my store of literary
quotes about fear this week, to good effect. For the most part, I saw
where I was walking. The Friday 1 am subway crowd is hands on affectionate. They ought to hold onto that.
Comments
(For some reason Coleridge usurped.)
When a resolute fellow steps up to a bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is surprised to find that it comes off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away the timid.
It's Ralph Waldo Emerson (I call him Waldo) at his most eloquent. I've kept that one with me for quite awhile now.
Speaking of beards, how long have you been Moses?