1000 Words: Edvard Munch's "The Scream"
1000 Words: Edvard Munch's "The Scream"
Prose to the Painting
Life is a never-ending education. Unless you go to absurd heights to cultivate ignorance you will invariably pick up new bits of knowledge, wisdom and insight along the way.
For example today I learned the word ekphrasis which according to Ol’ Wikipedia ‘comes from the Greek for the written description of a work of art produced as a rhetorical or literary exercise.’
And I learned of this genre (or at least I learned the official name for it) completely by chance as I was sent an extraordinary example of ekphrastic prose by
for publication in this very ‘Stack.Using Munch’s iconic ‘The Scream’ as his focus Judson offers us a truly arresting, vividly rendered and audaciously creative work in its own right. And I’m thinking that ‘Ekphratic’ could well make for an excellent Symposium theme in the near future…
Enjoy.
TJB.
The hazy stream sings its studded song
Its melody curves around the bend
Confusion is not short but long
And only noise does it lend
Friday 9th, 1893 7:00 am
I am exhausted in my ruminations, defeated in the parts of my existence that I hold dearest, that I have sworn to protect. I have tried to re-attach myself. I do very normal things. Like any man, I awake in morning. I tend to myself. I am my own caretaker. I must be. When pondering my face–my wiry whiskers that need shaven, my crooked tobacco-stained teeth, my brows which are overgrown and receive no kisses from angels or lovers, yes, when I perceive myself, I look back at merely a moving shadow. Briefly, in the long morning of preparation, the one that bleeds far into the day, I am mystified, diluted, dilapidated, delirious, derelict, defunct, decapitated! Who am I? What am I? Where am I going?
The morning rails with modern fists
Its rhythm shatters the light
Existence comes with modern twists
That weave echoes in the modern night
Friday 9th, 1893 11:00 am
Yes, I have lost my head this morning. The jam is tasteless, the bread is stale. I eat like a traumatized swallow. I have changed my shirt three times. There are moments where I inspect the objects in my room. My eyes dance and dart, flash across modern objects, the modern paraphernalia of our times. I try to forget their names, their placement. I have no reasoning, no use for them. To be of use! Foolish! Cannot be done! The state of man is to be used, consumed, to detach and re-attach oneself. You wear no overcoat; you wear no top hat! These items are wearing you!
The Fjord taunts its icy flow
Its frozen ways beckon relief
If to there one should dare go
Spared now, from modern grief
Saturday, 10th, 1893 9:30 pm
And while the modern man goes on puffing away at his pipe, filling his days with trivialities, trifles, daily complaints–he has no head to lose–there is still the lunatic asylum! For those who can’t stomach it! I have a wrench in my throat, don’t you see? I have been lost and found and lost and found again! I could dress in another man’s clothes, adopt a new name, change my lifestyle, my hair, and still, to drown as myself is my fate! I think often of reaching out to myself, shaking my own hand firmly as if to honor a deed, and making some sort of deal with me. One I could live up to. The one promise I could never break!
The clouds gift their volcanic blood
Their swirls swath the painted sky
Appearing as a heavenly flood
I look up but have yet to sigh
Saturday 10th, 1893 9:45 pm
I cannot philosophize my way out of existence. If the schizophrenic could rationalize, would he be less damned? I speak what I feel! I have no motives, whatever the case. Whatever is said is merely rambling. A type of verbiage, a guttural nonsense, a spew. And that is what we do. We spew. We gargle, we gag, we limp, we crawl. Crawling our way into the future at the speed of light. It is late now. I have supper. I should have remembered to buy tobacco. Of all the things I could forget! I have forgotten more than most remember. I cannot say, as of yet, whether this is a curse or a blessing!
The Nature of all things is dark
The city and town are too
Surely with a rapid arc
The end of all things is due
Saturday 10th, 1893 11:35 pm
And with little understanding as to the depths of my plight, and little understanding as to the nature of things, I write. I have written myself into being, the only way I know. It is my proof of things, see? Proof of myself. And I only hesitate to offer it to anyone. I offer it to me. As every piddling invention, every benefit, every technical advancement, every medical solution, every material comfort–they have all passed straight through me like a hot blade, carving out all meaning and putting me on my back. And I feel, at a stupid moment, where I am sitting on a bench, underneath an aged lamp, dithering away in my journal, I feel another knows exactly what I mean. I must go now!
If man could offer himself a tune
Should it be sung lowly, weak?
For if his mind were to ruin
he’d bequeath his primal shriek!
Sunday 11th, 1893 6:30 am
It was last night, on Ekeberg Hill, right on the Valhallveien overlook, in dead of night. Only one or two lunes out this late. Krakatoa is erupting. It paints the skies a crimson blood. The clouds drip with little mercy! Sitting with myself, puffing away at my new tobacco, a glimpse of a rather slender man, practically shimmying his way across the bridge, became my shadow. I felt the instant pang of empathy. His strange ambulatory nature, his delusional footsteps were the physical manifestation of how I often feel. Yes, I believe I have met my twin. If we were to combine, we may make a whole man!
Instantly, I closed my diary, stamped my tobacco, and in a friendly way, confronted the man. I meant no bother, no fright. I called to him, “Sir!”. And when he turned to face me, it was none other than myself that I saw. Clear as day, underneath the bloodied sky! I asked myself, “Who are you? What are you? Where are you going? Sir, what is your name?” And myself, I did answer. In a trembling, frigid motion, I watched myself, as if from above, dare to answer the frightening inquiry. As if every howl, cackle, roar, yawp, and groan of man and nature were given their deepest, fullest breath, I replied “Oh! Not YOU, ANYONE BUT YOU!”
Last night I was startled violent
With a familiar ghostly face
the shriek was mine and silent
absorbed only by Nature’s cruel embrace
JSV
2024