Paper Caskets We Carry in Our Pockets

So much of my favourite art stems from a time in which grief was prevalent. There is, within such pieces, conversations—revealed through colour and prose. Conversations that speak of the tonality and finality of death, conversations that do not just seep through the page, or  soak the words carried upon it until they drown; but conversations which become the page, the song. Through their presence alone these conversations become the very essence of being.

The most meaningful of art is, in its essence, the black scrap of fabric, the veil; a mirror where there is only the aftermath of the wreckage. Art is both the casket and page, it is the void, and we convince ourselves that what surrounds it must be a halo. We do this to spare ourselves the despondency. We observe the oak, pry it open, view the carcass of something once beautiful, and feel righteous in our position as the observer. Convince ourselves our hands hold not a mirror, but a looking glass, we are simply curious, we are the light which prevails. 

So much of my favourite art stems so intrinsically from pain. 

It is a funny thought, that we, I, enjoy the misery of others. Upon reflection, all whom I have ever admired, I have done so as a consequence of their suffering. I enjoy looking at the paper caskets they carried, the birds they held on their shoulders, found pleasure in the observation of their mothers’ passing. I enjoy these cruel existences of theirs, because it makes me feel less alone. And this is funny to me, desperately so, because I never thought myself sadistic. Never thought that the loneliness of my being could, or would, be eased by such cruel joys. But I suppose this is what it means to be human. To see a halo where there is only stone. 

To swim in the blood river of my master’s ear, wear the wreath as a symbol of pride, let myself be made a portrait. To ask for flowers, more flowers. To expect them. 

To dare expect them.

The pleasure of cruel and violent companionship, allows us to gratify the necessity of our existence; were I not here, who could comfort your hurt? We can identify ourselves as the sentient beings, angelic figures, as opposed to the page, as opposed to the body in the casket. Or worse, the driver of the hearse.

The art I produce stems from the time in which I perceive time itself. The time in which I take the time to peel the time of grief from the hands of my forefathers. The time where I let myself carry the ear on my wrist wherever I go, the dutiful and bejewelled student. It is with flesh that I become great, a mirror image of the halo and not the page. It solidifies the life we live outside the hearse. Such is the sadism of existence. 

Jacqui Claire is an independent writer and creative from Sydney, Australia, and her works can be found her website: https://jacquiclaire.wordpress.com/