Flaming June

Flaming June by Sir Frederic Leighton; oil on canvas 47inx47in 

I'm probably going to butcher the way I truly depict this painting, please tolerate so. I am not the best at critiques; I don't consider this a critique, simply, my thoughts put into a string of phrases about one of the many lovely things I've stumbled upon. I found this painting to be quite a medial perspective of many opposites (of which I will further explain in depth). The first time my eyes ever fell upon this piece I was in complete awe and I was unsure what I was in awe about. Nonetheless, it became one of my favourites. Thank you Sir Frederic Leighton.

The longer I observe this painting, I can say that it is a progression of quietness to loudness. The stillness and chaos mingle with each other smoothly. The crumples in the clothing, the linens (I believe), the hair, are all wholly part of something simple: sleep and rest in a mercurial form. Leighton's vibrant choice of a clementine orange as the predominant colour works well in this piece. It leaves an impression of balance. Something different, something cheeky. Although most of the painting consists of warm colours, the hints of blues and greens make a tremendous contrast.

Innocence and provocativeness. The intention here is that the woman is not suggesting seduction, but her entire being is seductive. Her innocence, coy and peace induces a tenacious type of seduction. With the help of her blush and her transparent clothing exposing the breast in such an innocent manner brings a sense of sweet eroticism. You are in between two temptations: to explore her or to leave her in slumber and enjoy the endeared composition. The glow and the countless ripples that flow and tide around her natural curves in such a unique, curled position, like a child's, is one of the several reasons I could not look away at this. She is tempting, dreamy, and irresistible. The way she's radiantly "flaming" in this droopy manner can be somewhat comparable to Salvador Dali's, The Persistence of Memory. She is both.

Realistic and ethereal. The position is realistic as well as the situation. However, the way that it is presented reflects an ethereal perspective. Although there is depth, we cannot tell exactly the textures of the painting's contents: the linen, the plant, the frames, etc. This such smoothness suggests the cross between real life and the afterlife; heaven and earth, lust and love. I think that's what is genuinely unique: it is both.

She elegantly imposes "you're all that's safe, you're all that's warm," therefore, she oozes with comfort. I adore the outline of her body and the use of energetic colours to create a tranquil atmosphere. Incorporating opposites to constitute a collection of unusual and contemporary affections. Isn't art wonderful?

Now, if only I could look as sumptuous as Flaming June when I'm asleep... *soupir*

Yours,
Mer. XO

Oh Sweet Melancholy

I started the year the same as I ended the last: alone.

I woke up to a shiver. At least this time, it wasn't due to a nightmare. The air was icier than usual in my room and for a second I thought I was breathing in my own cold blood. I smelled loneliness. The small of my back was exposed so I let my blanket absorb me whole. But like I said, the air was icier than usual, so I decided to pull back my shield and exposed my face and body to the light and endure Mount Everest. I stared at my window for a bit wondering what everyone else was doing. Probably getting kisses and hugs and warm greets about how much they mattered to people. Not me. I guess I deserve it, though. I swiftly brushed that thought aside, pulled my hair back, and thought... "What song should I play?" I resulted with You and Me by Matthew Barber, of course. So I wallowed in my knitted goodness for half an hour with the song on repeat looking around my room. My photos on the wall, the messiness of my bookshelf and hidden things that have fallen to the back of it. I decided I'd clean it up later and get rid of all the filth I didn't need that was slowly piling up. I also wanted to take a hiatus from social media... delete everything. But somehow, I don't think it'd be possible for me as it is a personal storage. I rarely use it for its true purpose of socializing, so I thought, maybe one day I'll forget it's fraud meaning and just do it. Can you tell it's always a battle between my two opposite minds? I have yet to tame them.

I swung my legs so they were dangling off the bed. Dizzy. I closed my eyes and exchanged air with the snow of my room. I felt like a slob wearing oversized men's clothing for the past week. Still exhausted, my weak fingertips had no control as I made tons of clatter in the kitchen downstairs. My hands shook as the plates did on our onyx marble counter. There were plenty of leftovers from last night that I could have eaten but I decided on samosas for breakfast. I brewed some coffee and saw the evidence of evaporation thicker than ever. I told you it was cold. I watched it and craved for warmth. Baths usually suffice when I'm looking for something to fulfill the need and longing of someone's arms around me. It's funny, because I'm not a "huggy" person. I don't like hugs, but it's a biological need that I cannot deny. I slowly ate to silence and the slight scraping of ceramic against ceramic, downing my coffee.

Honey and lavender baths with a bit of passionfruit. Some people say that baths are unhygienic, that we're bathing in our own filth. I enjoy it. I mean, when else can you enjoy bathing in your own filth? There's something about seeing your naked flesh submerged underwater that's relaxing. You bathe in your own dirt, and filth, and sins, and vices, and it's okay. Because it's yours. It's unfolded before you as you cleanse the deadness off. You know how it's harder to walk or move under water? I feel that's how my life is like. Like I'm living under water. Submerged, and ultimately, gasping for a breath. It's that feeling when you're slowly being pulled by the water as you try to pull yourself out. Like tug of war. And so I was bathing in metaphors. Water. The very element that can swallow me towards an endless bottom or lift me back to shore. Something that can kill me, but also necessary for vitality. How strange it was to me.

I got out and kind of analyzed my naked body. For once. I would always pass my the mirror afraid of the monster I would see. Myself. Something pulled me to look today, though. I just looked at each part of me through the foggy reflection... breathed... dried off... breathed again. There will come a time where someone will see me naked. They will see all the angles of me that is impossible for me to see myself. That terrifies me to shreds because I am already not okay with the parts that I am able to see. Maybe they'll like something about me I never knew existed... or maybe that's something they'll despise. I shivered not knowing how that would end, if the time came. I slipped on a bralette and a chunky sweater and yoga pants, classic.

I turned my speakers on and played one of my playlists... "I'm sorry if I smothered you" played in the back as I dusted my shelves. Organized my books. Made the bed. Threw out older parts of me. You can tell a lot about me by my room and even my bookshelf alone, I thought. But I don't think that it's obvious enough for people. A lot of people that have ever entered my room take a glance and say... "nice room". But this is me. Is that all I am? Is that all I deserve? I wish people asked more about the things in my room and what they mean to me. But I guess that's my hopeless romantic speaking. I also unwrapped my hidden canvas because today, I will paint. I will get lost and bring myself back. Then I'll do it all over again.

I decided to check my phone. I haven't charged it in three days. I don't find a use for a phone to be honest, except for emergencies. Nobody really talks to me anyways. But for the first day of 2015, I didn't want to talk to anybody. This sweet melancholy is mine.

Happy New Year.

Yours, Mer. XO