Sometimes I talk back to the dead artist when looking at their works. Just to keep them engaged, (and the museum folks guessing) in their own quest-ions. Life’s a dialogue, and art is still a conversation among old friends!

Looking at Edvarrd Munch’s works today, I had this to say:

Munch

Norway

Oslo

Kristiana

He went mad outloud

Given death’s ungovernability.

Given so much loss

And a life lived among ghost

But on his way out

Held up a broken mirror

So we could see at least

Through a glass dimly

What all artist already know.

Death is un-convertible.

But life’s response is another matter.

You gave up

On love

Which was to be

His final oxygen tank.

As love is for all lovers.

Artists included.

Choosing death above life

While abiding in life

Is bad poker

Which presumes to know too much

Of suffering.

Suicide is cowardly and lacks vision

Or hope in sight again….

All our lives suck

But life is still beautiful.

Why not just suffer well instead.

Make death’s bed less drippy for us all.

Or just quit painting, and write your autobiography finally

Make a smoother path for other’s exits.

Or help us die better. That is, in Love.

Or chronicle the slanted tale of life well

Offer clues for those to follow.

Something to go on….

For those of us, still here

Screaming!

But listen if you now can

I really loved your lines friend.

And am sorry for your pain.