Write something inspired by this painting

Write something inspired by this painting.

There once was a chess person of color and behind him was a wall and behind the wall was the ship of Theseus, or was it? Hah, that's for you to figure out.

BRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPP

>ITT: Veeky Forumsanons make shitty one lines in an attempt to make a joke, too embarrassed to actually show their writing on an anonymous Mongolian horse - breeding fourum

>he says while he makes a shitty one line joke not showing his writing because he is too embarra- ...

The day was bright and still, and Jake stepped through the pointed contours of the gallery's entrance with a stirring, hopeful energy; the flat monochromatic air outside suddenly twisting technicolor with a fantastic jolt as he passed into the grand-dark reception. A large banner stood dead-centre, announcing the subject of the exhibition boldly: 'The Enigma of the Surreal - An Evening with Giorgio de Chirico.' Jake took a readying breath and turned towards the exhibition entrance - his strides purposeful, his mind open, his whole body tingling and poised in receiver-like engagement, attuning itself in order to better interpret the bricolage of abstract and alien transmissions present there. As he breached the liminal space, and walked into the luminous exhibition room, adorned as it was with canvases of otherworldly gloom, he felt a clarity of perception, the space imbuing him with a certainty: I will witness, and I will be changed. When he returned to the outside some fifteen minutes later, the day was still bright - and new certainty had embedded itself within the confines of his mind: Fucking hell, Chirico is a pile of wank.

>jake

The Masonic Grand Lodge was a real let down. These cucks were so poor we had come to the island by a fucking sailboat. I was beginning to wish I'd joined The Golden Dawn instead...

no

Friar Augusto looked at the ship off the coast of the town. Coming and going, coming and going. Never staying for too long. Below the high walls of the Monastery was the village port, and the comings and goings and the smells and the sounds always wafter up into their quiet little corner of the world. He'd not been down in the market for many years. There were other brothers who took care of that. He was important, for his life's work was in the copying of God's word. It was a tough job. He had to be stalwart. He had to look down on the world below with a sort of pity. He had to feel bad for them, didn't he? He thought that it was his duty to guide their lost flock. Their loudness and their absurdity.

Something inside his heart sang for more, though. Not to abandon God, no, and not to indulge in the brothels below. He wanted to go down to the port again, and look at the people up close, not from up above. But he couldn't. He was an important part of the monastery. Such thoughts of escapism were below him.

Still though, when the new ships came in, he couldn't help but gaze in amazement at the monoliths of wood and metal. He wondered where they'd been, and where they were going next. He didn't think he could have the stomach for the sea, but still....

Friar Augusto looked at the ship off the coast of town.

I’m afraid to look over the wall.

I just came, I was ashamed and falling back into bad habits. I did not deserve my blessings. An anonymous man on the internet prompted me to write about a Chirico painting. This one was new, but I'd recognize his desert style anywhere. His work has appealed to me since I read about him in a book on technology. His artistic reaction to advancements of the machine was confounding. Pictures captured reality better than any painter could hope, so they fled to the surreal for expression. The incongruity between figure and shadow was one of many mysteries. I am dumbfounded, I wish I could understand, but it remains an enigma, like the title says, what are we - or I supposed gleam from this? I checked my writing corrected some repetitive phrases and finished the captcha. After cleansing myself in the shower I will check if user is satisfied by my mediocre writing, or maybe I will masturbate again before washing off.

wafted*

anyways, judge me.

Meta. I like it.

Priscilla,

I feel compelled to write to you of something quite literally beyond this world and of anything I have seen:

On the Sabbath of the latter weeks in the later years I dreamed something so peculiar I felt compelled to immediately bolt from my sheets and record that which I could (or couldn't) recall.

I had sailed someplace. If I recall, I was only an unuseful bystander, and to the crew I was at most only a Boatswain. The bulkhead of the ship seemed only wooden if you were to touch it. Being a dream, I found the wood something that was rather cooler than what the natural instinct may say.
Whatever crew there was had docked at a harbor and I followed suit. We walked unto a Spanish scene, for if you had seen the strange lighthouse you may have mistaken like I had that it was a Moorish land. Into the clay walls we strayed and only but ten feet away was a large chessboard inlaid in the dirt. A man stood beside it, robed in red and taller than his companion to his side, who had appeared to be in interecence. They did not move immediatley. In fact, I do not believe I'd have noticed any signs of consciousness from the two men if they hadn't moved their eyes as we approached. The crew members seemed indifferent to these two men and we walked over the chessboard.
The rest has left my mind. If I am to sleep again I may wake. If I may wake then do so!

I shall keep you posted,

N.

Sterile, conceited, destructive, swinish, and monstrously megalomaniacal, the Jews are currently accomplishing, to full capacity, and under the same standard as their conquest of the world, the degradation, the monstrous crushing, and the systematic and total annihilation of our most natural emotions as conveyed in all of our essential, instinctive arts, in music, painting, poetry, theater… Replacing Aryan emotion with the Nigger’s tom-tom.

Surrealism, an extension of naturalism, is art for hateful robots, an instrument of Jewish despotism, swindle and imposture… As an extension of imbecilic naturalism, and as the rod and pruning shears of the Jewish eunuchs, surrealism is the registry of our emotional disenfranchisement…the ground for our hecatomb, our communal mass grave for idolatrous Aryan cretins, duped and cuckolded on a cosmic scale… And then it’s an entirely done deal! admirably done…for mugs like us!… At surrealism’s door, long quivering with impatience, with reductionism, and with objectivism, to all of its degrees, all or nearly all of our great writers ceaselessly hone themselves down to the infinitesimal, to the loss of that “jingling bell,” to the loss of the very last bit of substance. Were they to continue to handle themselves somewhat badly, were they to apply themselves to fantasy, were they to be drawn into idealism or romanticism, there are those who would immediately and fatally so smooth them out, after so many analyses, as to put them on their way towards surrealism… That is to say those who are promoted, well positioned, and delirious with impunity, in the most astounding imposture of the age, whose aim is the stupefaction of the people and the bourgeoisie…by way of the amassing of meaningless frenzies, parasymbolic simulacra, and frenetic fraudulent wanking… All of these are jingling bells as well! …jingling bells! …not even real bells! but vile little jingling bells! for rabid little beasts!

that's a lot to get from a painting. I like that you mentioned absurdity as if to transfer the feeling of the painting into writing, but you didn't take that idea further which was disappointing. instead going for the religious and making characters out of what you saw.

Pretty good, but the language seems to anachronistic. I do love the imagery.

I like writing to the characters that I imagine. It's something that I have to work on. I think instead I went for the idea that the picture is relatively simple, so I wrote it as a simple man.

I'm also religious, so I tend to interject that in my work. I tried to make it about a man caught between his duty to god and a wanderlust.I also tried to play with heights a lot (thoughts of being 'down there' are 'below him'

thanks for the commentary!

*De Chirico

i did notice the height thing too keep writing

*de Chirico

>A man stood beside it, robed in red and taller than his companion to his side, who had appeared to be in interecence
Oohh very nice

The waiting was over.
The moment of peace has ended.
Tranquility became anxiety, unease
From a feverish dream.

Who were we to judge the silence in which we resided?

Their horns cried, their voices rang with primal joy. Unrelenting, Unforgiving, Ruthless, they finally
sailed
into
our
sanctuary.

We couldn't see them. We did not want to.
We erected a wall between Them and Us, hoping
That the outside world would heed to the illusion of our peace. That the cries of victors would be silenced by the might of our silence. The our hopes would forever remain the same, unchanged by the rough seas that hit our blessed shores.

The voices stopped. The wind blew harder.
We parted ways in silence like we never knew each other.

My friend, go be a witness. I have no strength.

this isn't a good exercise

The flags whipping in the breeze broke the monotony of rattling chains and creaking oak as the shipyard teemed with men, scummy men, crusty as barnacles, festering in the sun. Everyone knew about the underside of Rhodes, the swarthy, unhappy many who bolstered up the bright and immaculate metropolis, but few dared think too long about it, lest they fall prey to their own guilt and make the mistake of sympathizing. To care for the hopeless would be to pour one's wine into the sea; all the world's bounty fruitless against their despair.
Solemnly, Kokkino counts his blessings, letting the teal of daytime and the hum of the sea wash over him, not daring fall for the mental trap of a single focus.

Someone give me a better Greek name, I just google translated "red" into Greek, lmao.

Erythrós

Very nice

I am anti-Semitic but disagree about art. I really think you should separate the two and learn more about both before lumping them together.

Meant to say feckless, not fruitless.

The apostle knew the day had come when he saw him walking through, to the center of the temple with great will and authority, with absolute knowledge that the answer to his question lay in the temple and the world was now powerless to prevent the consequences.

"Fire". And still, God wept in his seat. What was I to do? Tears rolled down his marble legs as the caretaker sighed. Just as always. I took my steps into the pool, leaving scars of deep maroon ink. Waste-deep now, I looked up. He was more stone than man, more man that diety. "I will return father." Silence- save for the babbling of his waters. It smelled of Plumerias. I turned and pushed my way out of the pool- the caretaker nodding as I took my leave. My time was running short. More shores ought to be met.

The smell of the sea was carried by the brisk wind. The monk watched the ship come in, and a salty aroma was caught in his nostrils. The chatter of sailors could be picked out from the wind's whistle, they all sounded agitated and exhausted. The monk wondered why they had docked here, yet he had no desire to be answered, he only wanted them to leave.

His brother came to him.

"What do you think they're here for?" the brother asked. The monk remained silent.

His brother kept a gaze at the monk, waiting for an answer.

The brother looked down, but as he did, the monk replied solemnly, "Tell them to leave."

He then turned away and returned to his quarters.

It was the day Shadows stopped working like normal...

>The
Fucking dropped

Breathing in a Sky
green as saltwater the
priest and the monk thought
contemptful about
what new kingdom foreign
to God would crawl without
from the drowned ashes
of their city

he made the old mistake of looking for inspiration in other people's art and thus disconnected himself from the dionysian source of creativity. perceiving his own inauthenticity he became even more desperate and travelled to museums with De Chirico paintings to receive their aura. after his suicide fellow neoplatonists fetishized his obituary, accusing the cold world of another murder.