It was Saturday. The artist had only gone to bed around 4:30am. So, no one was expecting to see him before 2:00pm or so. His roommate was surprised, then, to see him heading out the door a little past noon.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
“Hey.”
“Where you off to so ‘early’” (His roommate made air quotes as he said early).
“The library. See ya later.” (As he closed the door behind himself).
Entering the library, he saw an easel holding a sign that read:
Gudrun Zauberlige presents Kierkegaard
In the Imyndaoa Lecture Hall, 2nd Floor
The artist ascended the stairs which formed the centerpiece of the main entry hall, to the second floor. He looked left, then right - and discovered another sign pointing to the lecture hall. As he approached, he could hear that the session had already begun. He had read Gudrun Zauberlige’s book, “The Misgiving’s of an Existentialist” - which was something of a biography of Soren Kierkegaard while simultaneously being an academic critique of his philosophies. Today’s talk was to be a 45 minute presentation about Kierkegaard’s perspective on commitment, followed by a 30 minute question and answer session.
Walking in, he heard Ms. Gundrun:
“... when he described commitment as core to one’s identity. He sensed that without commitment, we are nothing, no one.”
The artist found a seat near the door, and towards the back of the hall. There were seats for at least 100 people, though it was clear that only about 30 people were in attendance - scattered throughout the seating grid.
There was a projector showing a photograph of Ms. Gudrun, alongside a drawing of Kierkegaard, both above a bold font reading “The Misgiving’s of Kierkegaard” - an obvious evolution of her book title. Though a microphone and speaker were available, she spoke without them in her aggressive, but understandable German accent. She dressed smart and conservative in a mostly black ensemble that included a pearl necklace and a red brooch that the artist couldn’t quite make out from this distance.
The artist had been interested in the ideas of Kierkegaard for a few years. Someone at a bar had mentioned the philosopher, and it piqued his interest. A short time later, he read “Either / Or”. He was immediately drawn to the duplicity of thought that Kierkegaard presented. His themes of ethics, aesthetics, and seduction all felt familiar to the artist.
He could hear Ms. Gudrun now discussing Kierkegaard’s perspective on Mozart’s ‘Don Giovanni’ - a fantastic piece of classical opera, considered one of Mozart’s best.
“And while listeners across the world can experience the joy of the music on its own, it is Kierkegaard who finds an erotic nature to the work. Here, erotic means not necessarily sexual, as it is commonly understood today, but rather a heightened emotional state, and one which is committed and fully engaged in the experience, and in the moment. One which is subjectively interwoven with the performance.”
It is these ideas which helped broaden the artist’s perspective, and open a door to deeper understanding of the world and our collective experience within it. Though his naïveté still owns him, he has been growing and expanding. He cannot see the world and life for all that it is, but he is no longer locked into his youthful blinders.
As the presentation comes to a close, he waits to see what questions are asked. A few attendants leave through the door near him. He stands up to leave, but is drawn in by a question from an older woman midway in the seating grid:
“To what do you attribute Kierkegaard’s rejection of objectivity?”
This seemed a curious question to the artist, so before exiting the door, he found a place to lean against the wall nearby.
Ms. Gudrun began:
“Well, you have to understand the time in which Kierkegaard lived and the state of so-called ‘science’ at the time. Certainly, objective science was still in its nascent years, and the abundance of snake oil was overtaking many communities in the western world. Kierkegaard’s perspective was actually less about rejecting ‘objectivism’, and more about recognizing that personal experience was something that could never be supplanted. And this kind of idea motivated his philosophy toward a personal understanding of the world, a personal understanding of existence. That’s not to say he recognized no objective reality; only that subjective experience for an individual is the most important, because it informs ethics, relationships, commitments, and aesthetic experience, all of which he found much more fulfilling than objective truths.”
The artist recorded this moment in his memory. He didn’t know what it meant to him personally just yet, but he felt that it was important, and something that resonated deep in his self.
***
He left the library feeling pensive. This moment felt important, but he still couldn’t identify why. As he walked, he considered Ms. Gudrun’s presentation. It had reignited his interest in Kierkegaard.
The pub next to the library was open, so he wandered in. There were a few apparent regulars toward the back of the bar. He took a seat at a table in a dark corner near the front. The Irish waitress came around a few minutes later and took his order. He thought he wanted bourbon, but wanted to keep his head a bit clearer, so he ordered a Fuller’s ESB. The waitress was quick to bring him a pint. As she returned to the bar, and disappeared in the back, the door opened and a wiry young guy entered. He grabbed a stool at the bar, and watched the television a bit, anxiously. There was a news story about JFK on, but the artist was disinterested and had his own thoughts to consider.
He sipped his ESB in silence and ignored whatever banter was happening at the bar. The wiry guy left, and not 30 seconds later, Ms. Gudrun entered the door. The artist was nervous, and a bit stunned. He watched her approach the bar and order, or at least attempt to order a Hefeweissen. When she was told they didn’t carry any, she looked over the bar, and settled on a tipperary cocktail. She took a seat just behind the artist, pulled out her notebook, and took a big sip of her drink.
The artist was aware. Very aware. He wanted to say something, but he was frozen. In his head, he was thinking how to open the conversation. But he could come up with nothing. A few seconds later, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and was staring at Ms. Gudrun.
He could now see that the brooch she was wearing was a devil holding a cross.
“Excuse me young fellow, could I borrow your salt? Mine seems to be exhausted.”
The artist looked at her, stunned by the shock of the interaction, and equally by the request. He quickly regained his cool, and smiled.
“Sure thing.” He turned to his table and collected the salt shaker, which he communicated to Ms. Gudrun.
“Thank you so much.” She turned, salt shaker in hand, and poured several dashes into her hand, and from there into her tipperary. The artist found this action a bit odd.
He then found the courage to ask:
“Excuse me, miss. Why do you add salt?”
“Oh, it’s just something my father used to do. He said it helped abate hangovers and also scare away any demons!” Then she laughed heartily, mostly to herself.
“We all have demons”, the artist offered.
At this point, the artist realized that Ms. Gudrun did not recognize him from the earlier presentation. He decided to play dumb, at least for the time being.
The artist tapped her on the should.
“Excuse me, young miss. Could I borrow your salt? Mine has gone ... missing? And I have an urgent need to eradicate my demons!”, he said with a sly smile.
She laughed, grabbed the salt shaker, and handed it to him. He grasped the salt from her, dash a small amount into his hand, and then sprinkled a few crystals into his pint glass, stirring it with his middle finger. After removing his finger from the glass, he slurped the droplets of beer from it with his lips.
“Where are you from?”, he asked.
Ms. Gudrun rotated her chair to meet him.
“Well, I live in Amsterdam now. But my family is from Sonderburg. My father was German, and my mother, Dutch.”
The artist smiled. He already knew this.
“So what brings you ‘round here?” He asked, taking a sip of his beer.
“Well, I just finished a presentation at the library next door. And just needed to wind down.”
“Ah.” He took another sip of his beer.
“What was your presentation about?”, he asked.
“Oh, you wouldn’t be interested. Archaic philosophy stuff.” She waved her hand to dismiss the idea that it was anything worth discussing.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Really? What kind of philosophy?”, he questioned.
“Well, primarily about the existential philosophies of Kierkegaard.” She raised her eyebrows, as if to ask “Have you ever heard of that?”
“Mmmh. Kierkegaard, eh?”
“Yes”.
“Wasn’t he the guy who was all about god is dead and the superman and all that?”
She laughed.
“Oh no. You’re thinking of Nietzsche”.
“Ah, right. Also Sprach Zarathustra, right?”
“Yes!” She exclaimed.
“Then, which one is Kierkegaard?”
She began to tell him about the basic ideas and intellectual frameworks espoused by Kierkegaard. All the while, he simply nodded in agreement and understanding. In his mind he was thinking that it was exhilarating to listen to her describe concepts that have been floating around in his head for years. He was thinking about whether he should show his hand; let her know that he, too, was a fanatic. But then his paranoia kicked in also. What if she would judge him for withholding this information, that she would think he was just fucking with her. He wondered if maybe she was an expert, but not necessarily a fanatic. What if she spent her time not just learning and synthesizing the ideas in order to lecture on them, but rather to ultimately critique and disprove him.
As her discourse migrated from metaphysics to Christianity and faith, she paused. Looking at him, directly at him, into his eyes:
“Do you believe in God?”
The artist appeared to shrink back into himself. Wanting to provide an authentic answer, given his disposition as an anti-fanatic imposter:
“Well, that is an interesting question. I don’t believe in any God in the way that most religions define it.”
She grimaced at this.
“Hmmm. Ok. Tell me about this God you do believe in?”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to venture very far down this road. After all - what did he believe in?
“To start with, I don’t believe in worship. The whole ceremony of it seems fruitless and superstitious, and - frankly - a bit silly.”
She continued to look at him intently, as he continued.
“And gospels and testaments seem like something for a forgotten culture when people lived closer to their animal instincts than they do now.”
“Animal instincts?”, she inquired.
“Yeah - well, without education and culture and sophisticated social rules, there must have been a lot more incidents when baser instincts won the moment. Eye for an eye, and all that.”
“I see. But what about God?”
“To me, God isn’t really a thing or a being that exists. I think of God as a permeating existence that kind of binds the universe together. It doesn’t judge or demand worship. It doesn’t speak to people in English ...” - with this he paused for a moment, as if derailed by his own thoughts.
“What are you thinking?” - she could see the meandering in his eyes.
“It’s weird. I don’t believe in a God that talks to people...”
“But?”
“... but, sometimes. *sigh* I don’t know...”
He was now thinking that she would judge him crazy if he continued. What was he going to say? That he doesn’t really believe in God, but sometimes he hears God talk to him?
Ms. Gudrun waited as he worked through this line of thinking.
“I’m not sure how to put this...”
She waited...
“... sometimes ...”
... and waited ...
“God talks to me.”
She blinked. She almost laughed, but caught herself before it made its way to her throat, mouth, and nose. Instead, she let a small smile form on her lips.
The artist’s face was bright red from embarrassment. He lowered his head a bit, but kept his eyes on her smile. There was something reassuring and comforting about it. Something that appeared to please or amuse her about his statement.
“In English?”
“Uhm... yeah...”
“What does God say to you?”
“That’s the thing. He doesn’t exactly ‘say’ anything. It’s not like a big booming voice from heaven that gives me instructions or anything. Well, I mean... it’s like a booming whisper voice. It comes from nowhere, and it does ‘say’ things, but it’s not like a conversation.”
He paused again, considering how to put it.
“It’s more like he puts ideas into my head. I hear them sometimes in my own voice, but mostly in the booming whisper. They don’t come from me - from my own mind. They are disconnected from my normal train of thought.“
“Interesting. What kind of ideas?”
“Ideas about people, about myself. Ideas about ... “
At this, she leaned toward him...
“What do you do? I mean, for a living?”
“I’m an artist.”
This was an easier and more familiar line of questioning.
“An artist?”, she said, a bit sardonically.
He grimaced at this. An artist. One of “those”, right? Idealist. Head in the clouds. Chronically depressed and bored with existence. Not that he wasn’t exactly these things. But fuck her for judging him, even if he does match some facile stereotype.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of artist? Painter? Sculptor?”
“I work in a variety of mediums. I started as a painter - but found that painting didn’t always capture what I wanted to express. I branched out to multi-media painting, then sculpture. I also compose poetry and songs. Occasionally photography. Really, I experiment with different methods of expression. Even conversation can be art.”
“Conversation? Really? Enlighten me.”
“Conversation is the art of sharing ideas. Like any art, there can be expression, tension, resolution. There can be drama, or humor, or both. It can be heavy, or light, or something in between.”
“Is our conversation some kind of art?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“At some point you will know?”
“Maybe...”
“Do you feel tension in our conversation?”
The artist chuckled a little to himself. Tension. In this conversation. He considered whether this was the point when he should come clean. Let her know about his real reason for being here. His real knowledge of Kierkegaard.
“A bit.”
“Really?”, she inquired.
“What is making you tense?’, she continued
He chuckled to himself again, thinking, “if you only knew”.
Waiting, she looked at him - with intent, with anticipation. She could feel a tension starting.
“Well, you see, Ms. Gudrun...“
Ms. Gudrun blinked in response to hearing her name. Her eyes dilated a bit.
“... I was at your lecture earlier.”
He paused for effect. Ms. Gudrun continued to stare, completely engaged and waiting for what would come next.
“I am a bit of a Kierkegaard fanatic. I’ve read your book, ‘The Misgivings of an Existentialist’. I have found some similarities between my own thought paths, and Kierkegaard’s.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to show up here, but was excited when you did. And to be having a conversation with you... has made me a bit ... nervous?”
“I see”, she responded in her German accent.
“Why are you so nervous? Do you think I am judging you? Do you think I cannot have a conversation with a regular artist or a Kierkegaard fanatic?”
She laughed to herself at this last phrase. “A Kierkegaard fanatic”. What was that, anyway?
“A Kierkegaard fanatic? I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those...”
The artist blushed again. Was he really a fanatic?
“Well, I read ‘Either/Or’ several years ago, and was intrigued with his approach to existence and being. I didn’t resonate with his specifics about Christianity, exactly - but the idea of existing in the concept, rather than existing because of the concept, or existing to follow the concept. My daily life is an either / or. But I don’t subscribe to a particular idea of what I am supposed to do. Rather, I follow what I feel I am meant to do. And it’s surprising how much that works out for me.”
“Do you feel like you were meant to meet me?”
“I don’t know. I know I was meant to experience your lecture earlier. Meeting you feels like serendipity. But ‘meant’ to meet you... I don’t know. I think that depends on what happens next?”
To this, Ms. Gudrun leaned back. Was she being propositioned? She blushed at the idea.
The artist, feeling confident now, continued...
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I am heading back to my hotel. I have to call my husband.”
She paused to gauge his reaction. He looked at her, dispassionately. He didn’t blink.
“And after that?”
“After that?”
“Yes. After that?”
“After that, I had intended to go to bed. I have to fly out in the morning.”
“Go to bed?”, he asked with his own sly grin.
She blushed again. She must have been at least twenty years his elder. She hadn’t felt the rush of passion and lust in quite some time. She was embarrassed by it. It impacted her confidence for such a young man to express such things towards her.
“Yes, bed.”, she confirmed.
With this, she grasped the hem of her skirt tightly, and tugged it from her knee toward her thigh. The artist could see her panty hose, and the slightest hint of a garter. This made him feel a bit hot in his place. She was looking at him with a more intense smile, and quite direct eye contact.
“Where are you staying?”
She relayed her hotel information, quickly.
“Would you like ...” he paused, mostly for impact.
“... company?”.
Ms. Gudrun was quite flush now.
“Are you offering to keep me company for the evening?”, she asked.
***
Growing up - the artist was frequently amused by religion. The idea of a God, the idea of rules for living from a God, the idea of prophets. All seemed like a social expression of art.
But the one he always came back to was Jesus. The jewish man who, as the literal and corporeal sun of God, gave his life so that humanity could live, and to abolish their sins. A man who was a perpetual servant. He helped the lepers and the whores. He brought wisdom to the ignorant. He led the lost.
How far would such a man go? What was the extent of his love - both romantic and so-called agape?
He is said to have loved, and maybe even married, Mary Magdalene.
The artist was, at times, enthralled by the idea of Jesus. And if Jesus was human, and existed, then - like all humans - he must have existed on the sexuality scale. And, the artist reasoned, it’s possible that Jesus was completely heterosexual. But it’s almost more probable that Jesus was some part homosexual, like most humans. Somewhere on the spectrum between hetero- and homo- sexual. That Jesus - in a time and age of beautiful young men - could have loved others.
And what would that be like? What would it mean for Jesus to love another man? And this thought is what led the artist to his next piece - his first real “masterpiece”.
A laughter erupted in his head. It was the voice again. Whispering and booming, but clearer this time. He wondered if he could have a conversation with it, or if it was just a slice of his consciousness carving out its own space. This time it said: ”Jesus juice Zeus zealous cross lost marry Mary”. This was just nonsense to the artist. The voice quickly dissipated.
——
At the start, he didn’t want to make it too explicit. But he did want to ensure the main idea came across. He had thought he had left painting behind, but this seemed like the perfect concept to render as oil on canvas. He wanted it to have the feel, texture, experience of viewing an older work. Like something from Botticelli.
And the material, the canvas itself, the frame, the colors, the brushes - all needed to be made in the old-style. Contemporary mass-produced tools wouldn’t suffice for this effort.
And location was also important. He couldn’t just work on this in his bedroom. He needed a place with more earth, more ground, more water - more fire. He needed a more natural environment.
And he wanted to get the right emotion, the right ... excitement, the right energy. He needed EB to be there, to be here, to be present. He needed that anticipation. He needed that tension. And EB was exactly the right person to elevate the artist.
—
The painting itself, could have easily been passed over in a museum if you weren’t paying too much attention. The image of an apple tree in a garden, sometime near to dusk. Jesus, standing next to the tree - his arms outstretched and using the trunk for support. A beautiful slightly younger man behind him. Both naked. The young man’s had extending around Jesus’ torso, and grasping his erect penis. The younger man’s pelvis equal to Jesus’ buttocks, slightly impressed. A sincere look of pleasure on both men’s faces. And a snake slithering off in the distance, into the underbrush - just his tail visible.
His Jesus was as authentic as he could imagine. He wasn’t the white, long haired, bearded guy. Instead, he was a dark skinned Jew, his penis unaltered at birth - foreskin completely intact.
***
Can you see me?
I sit here. In the midst of the crowd.
Maybe I appear sharp and dangerous.
Maybe I appear aloof and boring.
Does it matter what I appear?
Is my appearance who I am?
My earbuds, firmly planted. They shout this music at me.
I hear it, it isn’t invisible.
But I am. Am I? Am I invisible?
These fantastic rhythms and melodies. These complex syncopations. A rich tapestry and layers in my ears. And my vision is just mundane people. I see them.
Would they see me in these sounds? Would they see me in the streets?
The math seems so simple. But one can’t arrive at an answer without trying to solve it.
Yet, here I am. Existing. In a space. The same space as everyone else. But my fog, my mist is not for them. My ethereal presence is hardly to be noticed; hardly to be noted.
This self importance. This flattery. This endearing aesthetic. This ownership of this space. This lost and creepy look in my eyes. To decipher their meaning, their intentions? Alas...
These looks, like I am a devil. Maybe I am a devil. Maybe I am evil. Am I evil? Yes I am. I am human, after all.