The Treachery of Being A Writer.

I’d be some kind of a liar if I ignored talking of how am feeling so little, so devastated in front of painting and painters, but certainly I’d be a real liar if I told you I don’t know why.

As a beginning, am not talking out of that repentant and fable bourgeoisie phobia according painting (never use with this the word drawing, huh!), or writing, or sculpturing, or civilized activities in short, as you should make small shrines for the little Buddhas then worship it with every single cell you have to prove how civilized you are. Nope, I do not having that phobia, but I admit being a small bourgeois myself.

Anyway, away of my own bourgeois roots, I feel so helpless when I recognize this miraculous simplicity of relaying feelings and concepts through paintings. The viewer eyes would be caught by the lines, the colors, and the shadows, the structure and how it appears through the perspective the artist chose in general. Those miraculous revelations hammer me every now and then with the truth of how our words, we writers, could be that empty, how our littered could be that monotonic coldness.

Some would argue, some would simply take out a book for Camus or Kafka or Marquez or Prost or Joyce. Yes, I do believe in what you’d say or read, but I’d ask you, how we can really be touched by only one glance. How we can just been astonished in one second and that’s it.

I can recall the masterpiece The Scream—or The Cry according to some people—where Edvard munch knew how to make this outstanding thing: to make us hear a painting.

How you can bring sound through lines and colors. Our eyes can hear a scream. Yes, no doubt.

I can admit that if I made you eyes hear pigeons’ wings battering the air then I am officially a god and you can offer sacrifices of naked hot women on my own alter. For my bad, I can’t.

Maybe the only single thing would forerun painting is music. That’s how we can be happy, sad, anxious, panicked, etc. by only hearing melodies going one after another in its unique harmony. That’s why music would be the language of God; it makes us like what it wants without verbalize a single word, nor drawing a line. It’s like making love with a partner have no corporal structure. (ugh! Please! Not jerking off you bastard!)

I was into painting years ago, back when I was too young and less foolish. Writing was there as well, but in certain moment I really can’t recall how or when now, writing has quit heading its really sweet manners and insists on being the only lawful wife.

I still glanced to paintings, hearing music, and feel so miserable and so betrayed. And as a mocking greek doom; nothing would send those arrogant nightmares away but to review more paintings, hearing more music, then drink or smoke whatever and try helplessly to float those beauties into such depressed cold letters and words. Yes, it's a sin to be pretendrous, yet it's a real treachery, real real treachery, to be a writer.