To all those who feel as though all the sleep in their lifetime wouldn’t negate the profound weariness and bizarre lucidity of sensation, of existing, I recommend the Book of Disquietude by Fernando Pessoa. It isn’t something to be medicated I see now, by any means, but to be explored and dredged. I think contemplative art-making is the sole option for this bunch; it seems circumventing conventional rational reasoning is the lot… and though this be a source of shame and sputtering shrugs in philosophy class it should be the wellspring of each one’s art- that viscous pool into which one runs his fingers and comes up with incomprehensible, but reflective, forms and motions and convulsions. It contains both horrors and instances of true beauty and goodness.
I think if Pessoa’s vignettes were drawings or paintings that they would resemble Bacon’s stuff… albeit Pessoa’s might be a mark less vehement. Or perhaps not, but regardless they would certainly be similar. If Bacon’s images were writings, they would be Pessoa’s; the places and names would be switched according to time and setting of course.
