1000 Words: de Chirico's "The Disquieting Muses"

Prose to the Painting

One can consider Old Ferrera. A landlocked province where, in the middle of all city activity, there is the Canale Di Burana. Much like the boardwalks of California, New York and Greece–those places which are in service to their seas, those places which have come to serve water as their master, who have learned to graciously congregate at its flowing tides–yes, much like those places, the wharf in the city of Ferrera is at its fullest during the day. Children frolic on the planks with balloons tied around their tiny wrists. They make up their own games and, therefore, make up the rules as they go along. There are swarms of them. Vendors selling candy, sweet breads, flavored ice, and toys roll their carts, ring their bells, count their money in public. The cafes swarm with tourists and locals. Like every town square in Italy, it fills with pigeons, espresso, newspapers.

The flowing canal brings in gusts of fish guts, the occasional rotting odor. From the Valle Fattibello’s belly, drank straight from the Adriatic, the sea salt air coats everything with a briny odor. One does not simply smell the pungent air that wafts through the parade–it is also tasted, swallowed, consumed. It coats the bones, dries the eyes, perfumes the hair, collects in the pockets, the bottoms of shoes. Buskers, too, are in full performance. One plays a violin, a cheery native tone that onlookers can be sure to dance to. One juggles three, four bowling pins at a time, while balancing a ball on his nose. When the evening hits, and the sun goes down just a little, he will light the pins on fire. In this way, everything has its place. Everything is a circus of well-coordinated events. The crowds are cheery, jovial. When the sun finally disappears, the air strikes chilly. Almost immediately, the crowds disperse as if summoned by a demonic spirit. The wharf, the boardwalk are abandoned at once. Still there is a source of light. Through the sea-formed air, through ancient architecture, through the majestic, miasmic clouds, it is a toxic hue of illumination–a chemical green blankets every object with a heavy neon tone.

I think–it is clear you ought not be here. It is, in fact, illegal. Not since the drowning. Not since the canal swallowed up a youth in the dark. Not since the lights fell. Not since those damn floods. But what is illegal, what is unpermitted, is attractive. And so, consider yourself summoned by the need to witness that which has been denied to you. You are alone in your grief. You have slept. You have slept almost all of the night. It has gotten dark, turned chilly, reset itself in the pitch black. Now, you have made your exit inside the slumber. You have walked the cobblestone roads barefoot. You have wrapped yourself in your long, heavy night coat. You have fixed a scarf around your neck. You have braved the wind of the night for miles. You have passed the town square with its dangling banners, passed the faceless clocktower ringing out no time, as well as Niccolo III, forever riding his copper-patina horse, galloping into the center city. And now, the slightest bit of that green light glows in the distance. And although you can sense you are in a vision, sense the tension of your surroundings, you cannot fight the temptation of the canal. Finally, you say to yourself, I have arrived! You passed the Castello Este, with its rusty-red bricks and long abandoned turret towers. You study and consider the grooves of its structure as you look upward at its yellow flags snapping, curling, stretching out into the wind. You take notice of the moat beneath you. You think, poor Tomasso! What they must have done to him after the floods, done to him in anger over taxes! Faintly, you here the squawking of foreign birds.

You have passed the sugar factory, with its two towers closed off and resting.  Yes, you are in control of your movements, so you trudge along willingly. You are in control, but magnetized.
Along the wide wooden planks, smooth and sturdy, you come across the entities of your attraction. Your magnetic guide has not let you down–you meet these entities, this cluster of figures, objects. You are bustling with gusto, fire sparks, the chorographical movements of your ancestors. You have met the Muses. Met them where they stand. One is draped in the short cloak of solitude. With her head eyeless, mouthless, lightbulb shape.  

The Muse declares your solitude metaphysically. Another muse, resting on a blue box, her shadow limitless, her arms connected permanently, summons stillness. That the soul does not strengthen from empty flailing! And so there is the comedic and the tragic that is sensed in their presence. There is the tragic mask of Thalia! There is the staff balancing perfectly still with its ribboned cuts! Apollo, please! Why stand there in the dark!? Come to us, offer up your poetry, your truth and prophecy! The Great providence of Ferrera has not abandoned you! Please, somebody say something! In this moment, you are caught in the enigma. You cry out in a flash to the image maker–what sense is there to be made of the image before me? How these muses stand idle, bursting out in a discordant melody, a bomb of noise, a caterwauling of deafening silence. Everything is now still. The flags of the Castello Este cease their flailing, the birds have all flown east to the Adriatic Sea. They have followed the Canal Burana to the Po of Volano. Everything has turned to an eerie, motionless state of existence. Suddenly, now, you are there no more. The image fades. Fades into black. You hear the clacking of railroad tracks. Your body sways as the vessel faintly rocks from side to side. You open your eyes and, suddenly, you remember: you had fallen asleep on the train.

JSV
2024

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