A Painting I did for my parents at Christmas 2016. I hadn’t painted in a while but was not too disappointed with the outcome.
While partly inspired by the teachings of Dionysius on the Via Negativa (something I learnt in philosophy this year), it was really just an experiment of colour.
The epigraph from the novel The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. As an all time favourite of mine, the work interrogates the importance of needing compassion for everyone, even for what the worst of humanity has to offer. The plot revolves around the mischief the Devil and his entourage wreck in an audaciously accurate picture of Soviet Russia. However, Bulgakov redefines what the Devil is, not necessarily the fallen angel whose ‘evil is thou good’, but instead one who teaches by provocation.
Please go read it! (i recommend the Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O’Connor translation)
White arc riding
a splatter on our shores.
A froth finding
the centre of earth’s moors.
Purpose is its direction
purposeless, let it be
the white twinkles like diamonds;
let it be.
Be the glass, my mirror
shatters, cuts the light
bars cage me.
Their edges the Bell Jar
we yearn for.
The world is a collection,
a mourning of what should have been.
Watch;
there are things skulking in the sea.
Aesthetic Empire is looking for writers! Preferably students with interests in the arts who would like to share their artwork, literature or would like to review or discuss topics. Pretty much as long as it comes under the arts,media or even music. I would greatly appreciate it so that this blog uploads content more regularly.
If anyone is interested email me at aestheticempire@hotmail.com or message me on social media. Your work would get credited (obviously) and after a while you’d probably get admin privileges as well (if you want).
The clouds come loiter together again,
a sapphire blue veiled so discreet,
now drained to sustain the coming rain.
Shelter not in front,
only dusk plains ahead.
Behind, shimmering,
waves open yawning
with inescapable safety
but numb.
The horizon then;
tumbling in lachrymose,
or rumbling timidly.
Peaking or falling;
I can’t tell yet.
Jogging against the sunset appears to thrill,
Until you reach the ocean and cant swim
Fast enough. To escape the hollow black hue
Endure the tormenting shivers of sombre Siberian nights
and wallow giddily with the creatures of light.
I often doodle where I write, or write where I doodle. They seem to work off of each other, help me to find direction. Never do I draw too ambitiously when searching for ideas, the things above took little more than ten minutes. However I implore anyone who writes to draw and vice versa, I’m certain you’ll do better for it. If nothing else it focuses your mind and starts to fill the daunting white page.
A thousand revolts stuck in history
know and unknown alike.
Blood spilt to avoid our own injury,
To keep our minds childlike.
I could be a sweet sparrow
traverse the endless blue,
never have I felt the cloud’s arrows,
seen an owl or thanked a horseshoe.
Instead I’ll wander through an endless wood,
in search of past Gods, beasts and men,
feel guilt in not accepting my freedom
only to realise I’m stuck in a corporate den.
