——“I have never felt so deeply, so detached from myself, yet dependent on the world.”
Art is the interpretation of eternal sadness, lines and colors are the escape from the inescapable depression. Get rid of depression or depression, depression must also get rid of. For an absolute artist, pathos is a kind of deepness that penetrates into the bone marrow and blood, and it is also a kind of beauty that is deep below the earth. What is beauty? Beauty is a ray of light that illuminates the sufferings of life. Sadness is beauty, and beauty is light. Beauty comes from sorrow, just as light comes from night. Grief is fulfilled, beauty is made, beauty screams hysterically and vents, comforting sorrow from time to time. Sadness and beauty coexist, sadness and beauty collide, and sadness and beauty complement each other. I have reason to believe that Vermeer is an absolute artist. The ultimate layout, the ultimate line, the ultimate light and shade, the ultimate color. Extremely disturbed, extremely helpless, extremely distorted, extremely extreme. The surging tide of the Renaissance has gradually become quiet, and seemingly wealthy families live a seemingly decent life, but everything is just the appearance of a bustling and gorgeous bubble. Everyone wants to live, and wants to live with dignity, so the painter no longer has a high status, or in other words, in the face of all the cold reality, the so-called noble and humble that human beings try to define subjectively have long ceased to exist. The family yearns for a high-quality life, and the children need a perfect prospect. All the burdens of life are mercilessly placed on this amorous man who wants to spend nine days and embrace the moon. There is nothing wrong with being passionate, and an artist should be the most affectionate kind, because being passionate can make people indulge in the brightest imagination. However, the dazzling imagination is always choked by the most vulnerable throats of reality, so the artist begins to split himself and becomes more and more distant from the true purity of his heart. Jealous wife, arrogant mother, vexatious child, in an environment full of women and children, he was imprisoned as if surrounded by a group of heavily armed men, each with sharp spears, and The tip of the spear is outward. Whenever Vermeer tried to get close, he would hit the tip of the spear and bleed and have to retreat. Slowly, he began to become an outsider, and slowly, he was no longer himself, instead, the things he had became himself. He cannot create himself, he cannot be his own master, he is no longer his own master. About to paint like a tree, deceiving yourself to sell things you create for a living is also your true inner pursuit, deceiving yourself to be able to freely control your own consciousness, but these are just temporary self-paralysis in the end. Chaos eats at his mind, darkness eats his passion, deformities and distortions eat into his body, and he becomes taciturn, moody, and insane. His world has become a dark night at three in the morning, it is pitch black, there is no smell, there is no Sound is nothing but nothingness, nothingness that does not exist but always exists. He began to distance himself from the people he knew, the buildings and streets he was familiar with, and his emotions and souls. The lines of love and understanding began to break one by one, the world became smaller and smaller, existence gradually became transparent, but all the leaps and changes were not noticed. This feeling is like being locked into a thick metal box that just fits into a person and then sinking into the seabed. It starts to tear from the middle, and it will split into two sections before long. After a while, the whole person will fall apart and be completely annihilated in the vast and endless seabed. Perhaps this is the final destination of every artist. He was terminally ill, but he could only walk alone to the end of his life. However, God may have cared for these desperate and tragic prodigals out of pity, and gave his end-of-life care: beauty to the artist. There is beauty in life, and there is eternal art that cannot be easily found and made. So the weak also feel proud, and the weak embrace the strong. At least, they have even a short-lived comfort, a momentary but real pleasure. Just as he was about to suffocate, the tin box was opened a crack, and a beam of light that was so weak that it was almost invisible penetrated the nothingness and gently hugged the abandoned Vermeer. Eyes that are as bright as fire but cloudy at the moment. He saw that what was in front of him was light, it was extremely beautiful, it was a lullaby in the sleepless night, it was the bonfire that never went out on the beach of the troubadour, and it was the last branch brought by the migratory birds when they built their nests. He has found, he has finally found, the one who can see the infinite, profound and real in his paintings, the one who can accept his enthusiasm, indifference, rage, gentleness, no reason to believe in sensibility, who can A person who understands the deepest suffering he is going through all the time, as if his whole body has been infused with power by a god, he stretches out his hand and tries his best to hold this erratic light. For the first and last time, he made the greatest struggle against this world that disgusts him - he wants to keep this light that dispels the gloom of people forever, even if the canvas can only keep one thousandth or ten thousandth of her One of the brilliance; he will match her with the most beautiful earrings, even if they have been contaminated with the poisonous poison that the disgusting wife spreads all over the body, he will not turn back. However, in the confrontation between art and power, the artist is doomed to fail. The roar of the wife, the silence of the mother, the cry of the child, the heavy mud swallowed the light until it disappeared. Perhaps this is not only the family's fault, but also Vermeer's own fault. The artist's crazy paranoia towards the light, accumulation and cohesion has turned into the origin of a new round of suffering and tragedy. In other words, in fact, no one is wrong, but in the face of eternal suffering, the fleeting light is just a pillow and a mirror. The heavy door of the tin box closed again, and silence returned. The past is false, memories are a road without a return, and all the past springs cannot be restored. Even the most ardent and steadfast love is, in the final analysis, a fleeting reality. Only loneliness is eternal. But he is no longer alone, because he has incarnated eternity. What an eternal artist looks for is beauty, a beauty that excludes moral judgment. The artist's mission is not to vent, not to accuse or expose, but to show people nobility. Nobility is not pure beauty, but detachment after understanding everything, treating good and evil equally, and looking at the world with sympathy. When we look back at that soul-sucking canvas for the last time, the shocking black background can swallow the viewer's eyes like a black hole. The cleanest, purest, and most chaste girl is like a shooting star that crosses your face unintentionally. It is the unswerving danqing, the supreme bright and bright, and the clear and beautiful April in the world where the clouds cover the moon. She takes you out of the cage, across the abyss, and into the vast wasteland. She took your hand lightly and sang an ethereal and ethereal song in your ear, the song was like an old ship engraved with the imprint of time, with all the notes, flying to a very distant place in that light voice the distance. I just listened quietly, quietly became one of them, with them. On stormy nights, over the mountains and across the sea together. Carnival together, dance together, bleed together, love together.
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