04/22/16
Why was it awe-inspiring? Why was I awe-stiken? It’s the steadiness and coldness of memory, history, nature, altered by power while staying unalterable. It’s Napoléon claiming he went for war for art. It’s the ironic effect generated by the lady beside him repeating “Liberté, égalité, fraternité” combined with him adding “c’est moi!” It’s the saddening combination (ha, hodgepodge) of art, music, beauty, love, war, famine, cold, death… It’s Jaujard trying to “beg” for life and salvation for his friends from his Nazi “colleague” Metternich, while he’s a civil servant of France who actually works for art, or himself (the art he interprets? Who doesn’t? Who can avoid that?). It’s them two sitting in the chairs, told by us, now, about their future and destiny, when they see the impossibility for them, for all humans, to avoid mundane life and death. And the audience? Audience like me. We felt relieved when we see them fall into worldly cycles, whereas one minute ago, we were struck by the eternity and the holiest statue of art. It’s when you step out, you realize the day is still changing, as is art developing, as is human race charging forward, as are all the stars and planets keeping on spinning. The dusk - the dusk is beautiful - we see couples lingering in the streets, unaware of the changes, the steps.
But it’s relieving. I am relieved. I see that I am not the only one - I am but one, if not the slightest one, of the fighters and thinkers of art and life and balance. What’s the meaning? What comes first? What occupies the priority, aka the eternity? There is no answer, even if you are doing it. It’s a trap that no one escapes. There is no chance for anyone to be a great man, who stays in glory in history and eternity. Humans are but humble contributors to art, to beauty, to history; but we ought to feel relived—rather than ashamed or dwelling into escapism—that we are humans, that we make human mistakes, that we are the dumbest of all, in life, in the eternal eye from a place that is no one’s perspective.
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