The Artist of Eros, Part One

His drawings are bold and the lines drawn are a bundle of indicative shapes and clusters of body parts that symbolize the ending of an assembly at a rock concert, a photograph of masses of nude people of all ages, genders, with stunning beautiful people and the neglected, the bodybuilders and the flabby-shaped, the fat and the thin, the sports-women and-men. You could sit there in front of his paintings and find an enormous labyrinth of gardens filled with people in all positions Eros has ever installed into their togetherness. He won’t explain his work, but if you are lucky and befriend the artist, he will talk to you about life and living with art and love. “Everything we do for others, we’ll do out of love.” His motto for his art, he had adopted from the statement of his Muse, he had a tempestuous affair with. Something that enormous, he could hardly paint as one masterwork; perhaps he will be blessed to do a canvas one day that expresses his deep love to the onlookers.

In the beginning of his art, back in a self-chosen isolation, he worked on his style. It evolved over a year of hard working at the way he wished to express himself, but the process had been slow. The artist, returning from his work of designing and building domiciles, had installed a desktop and a printer. All his artistic endeveours should be documented, step by step. At times he threw the pencil and destroyed his drawings, started to drink and as with all the developments of creating a new style in art, it is hard work that is destroyed and burned. Then, and only then something new will slowly emerge and rise, like a Phoenix from the ashes. Into his restless life, the artist had never abandoned his friends, but suddenly his friends had abandoned him. Perhaps they never were friends, but just hangers-on, people who found some satisfaction in experiencing his curious mind and his sparkling eroticism.

Later, when he had dark thoughts and the lack of human nearness and interaction caused him depression and he queried the sense of his existence, he found some artists and poets online, he would interact with. In San Francisco he joined a group of equally-minded artists in search of expressing themselves, shaping their own artistic styles and experimenting with poetry. He loved the fast and instant expression of feelings with words and while he had been living in the cultural maelstrom of a language-Babylon in the South of Africa, he had listened to all kind of languages of local people and tribes and the various dialects of immigrants from Europe and the East, especially those specific countries with the English language as their base. Well, as English was understood and read worldwide, he decided to write in English, as he had studied the language that was used in his architectural design work at the office.

Work ran dry. The lack of water was synonymous and criminal activities increased. Highway robbery and carjacking were daily events. Society started to change, people crawled back into their shells, like crabs, placing electric wire fences around their perimeters of their properties. Isolation ruled like a dark giant watching with the metallic sound of its artificial breathing for anything to catch that moved outside the self-inflicted ghettos of once pleasant townships. In time the living with its stark corridors of communication, where safe journeys had been experienced in a once thriving city, the shadows of violence and death had pulled a black cloth over the hotspot areas, like over dead bodies.

The artist’s longing for a human being drove him to search relentless for a matching mate. Was it possible to find a needle in a haystack of the Internet? Indeed, but only when the Gods of art had decided so. Finding love had started to change from the tactile to the virtual life. The artist was one of the first to embrace it and he began to evolve in his art. He discovered an outlet for his libido, he noticed to grow with finding a woman who was interested to chat to him about poetry and art, love and sex, philosophy and the way forward for the artist. Lessons followed about the world in modern poetry, the search for self-evaluation of one’s artistic being and the way forward to self-realization. Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma’am, was’ perhaps known as a famous Charles Mingus Jazz-piece, but that it could happen on the virtual communicative medium, in a private room, or in a private world, was a giant step forward and mind-boggling. Love and Sex on a virtual level evolved in such a speed, compared to driving a racing car, and it enriched all its partners in relationships with happiness and the promise to fulfil one’s physical dreams of this trial-love in reality of meeting in flesh and blood.

The middle artist in his fifties evolved once again. Had he not always been an artist? Was he becoming an artist of love? What about this intensity of online exchange of feelings? They became intensified with instant chat and boldness of exposing one’s bodies through the use of instant cameras. Virtual role playing melted down the physical distances. Sounds and the spoken word enhanced the mutual musturbation, the need to unify in love through the fusion of libidos. It was a time of great exhilaration and the artist evolved fast and furious like the lovemaking with his partner. Unique and supercharged at times, sad and hopeless n thought of perhaps never meeting the partner in such heat expressed through the medium of the Internet video-chat and the sexually gratifying actions.

There you are, a man of love and sexual intensity. He is hot and his heat is transferred to his mate, his girlfriend, his Muse, his interlocutor, his model, his world, where his fancy will turn his mate into anything they both will interact in. You can become what you want, who you want to be and with whatever way you desire it. The artist had evolved and sold off his home and closed his life in a country of his original choice. He packed up and travelled to another country of his choice, to start a new life and find a new mate, a model for his art, a woman who would accept his heated libido and she would absorb it to heat up her own libido. Together they shared the stolen moments in a whirlwind romance, in a rented domicile, where they were entice by the huge wall-size mirror that could have been used as a hide away for a camera, somebody mentioned. It added such intensity of feelings that the artist would engage in anal love at the point of climax. And that was indeed wholesome, if done with a mate who had washed and cleaned herself properly.

His art continued to become superb, thriving with fantasy that he could find of refreshing and enhancing through the sexual love with a Muse, who did not have intercourse for 17 years with her ailing husband. She said that she felt like a virgin and that he, the artist of Eros had reawakened in her. Reawakened to such an extent, she became mad for sexual union. Having started to feel each other in her car, she would seek a quiet spot at night, where she felt free to touch him and the would continue with oral sex, finally, bent over on her bonnet, he could satisfy her with her urge that he should take her hard and pounding, bent over the warm bonnet of her car. He is mad, the woman at the private gallery said to her niece. Mad? She would reply. Yes, pussy-mad. OH! The niece replied and made her way to meet the horny artist. She had lit a joint and started seducing him, handing him the happiness and love-enhancing smoke. The artist was in a pool of continual love and desire. It’ll kill you if you continue like that, his Muse said. She told him of a Chinese Emperor, who surrounded himself with young, pretty women, who supposed to make love to him continuously, as he couldn’t get enough, hooked on pussy like on a potent drug, perhaps the most potent drug man would experience if administered in continuity. Finally love is death, the Muse said or is it? She had a point.

The artist would religiously visit each late morning, after a wholesome breakfast, the workshop of an artist from Belgrade, who was befriended with the gallery owner. This way he could express his erotic adventures to the fullest, not listening to any talk about art, but just painting in the atmosphere of artists, women and men, art-teachers and critics. His work was unique. The gallery owner would offer to exhibit his work and the artist worked and created fourty paintings. It was his great event, he thought, but then some idiot of a frame shop ruined his watercolours, by pressing them down and gluing them to hardboard. Too late to cry over spilled milk. His Muse made love to him with fervour and soon the artist started a new series of paintings. It supposed to be his swan song in creating 14 large canvases that were to be exhibited in the Fine Art School’s gallery below the Acropolis. The highlight of his art? Was there another series of paintings evolving from this experience? Did his Muse, who passed away under a painful terminating illness, send him a new Muse in his endeavour of love at mature age? Was Eros still on good terms with him, selecting him as a representative of depicting Eros in art and poetry? What had life still to offer?