Pond in Winter, 300.4

E.D. No, not that one. Here we are talking about Existential Depression. That more-intellectual-than-emotional feeling that there is no meaning to your life.  Call it “The pond in winter syndrome.” You are walking along in a field of snow and you notice slipperiness. Your footing becomes tenuous. You sweep some of the white stuff away and see that you are above darkness. An invisible hardness is all that is keeping you from falling in.

However, it’s not a pond, you can’t retrace your step or two back to solid ground. No, it’s life, not a pleasant winter’s walk turned suddenly scary. You can’t turn back. you don’t even remember when you were last on solid ground, you’ve been thinking about other things as you’ve walked. You have to keep move forward over perhaps a deeper abyss. Will that invisible hardness keep you from falling in? You don’t know, you can’t know, and that’s not a good feeling.

On to the actual drawing. Not an ice-on-pond drawing but another Art, Arbeit and Amour drawing. Sorry about that. Our hero has played those several roles in his life, not at all successfully either. And the drawing is less than successful, more therapy than art. It’s a blog not a gallery so who cares.

As a lover, he never has gotten the girl. See her leaving with her new lover stage right. As a worker, the little art that made his job a career is almost all gone now. See the easel/canvas, i.e. art, disappearing from the real-life bridge, stage left. Then there are the other easels/canvases, stage center. they are a paintings of a shadow of the artist and an imaginary woman he’d be willing to meet halfway, if she would, too. They are just tentative attempts at art, floating unsupported, only tenuously connected to real life.

Love was never real (worthy, good, etc.) and work’s reality is almost gone. So his art is all that can possibly be all that at this point in his life. And art’s not really enough, never was, never will be. So sad he is, and has always been so. He’ll make do with art. Rarely desperate, rarely happy. Dythymic they say, they can diagnose, but can’t cure.

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