Written by Antonia V. Iyer
I would like to take a moment—a moment to thank my perpetually eccentric art luminary, from my summit year.
Garner me but a moment more; a moment to tribute the entirety of my endeavours, and my artful awakenings, to him.
To my Lysippos:
Dearest Lysippos,
Thou; in coalition with thine unyielding stubbornness in having me embrace the fine arts, hast taught me much:
Exceeding form; exceeding colour; exceeding technique and texture.
Thou didst press into my palms not only
Brush or charcoal; but a reverence in seeing the world,
To see the divine in chaos—
To see beauty not as luxury; instead as the tangent to suffer for;
To bleed for.
Thou hast pushed me far beyond what may be deemed the boundaries of today;
Woven lustre into the confines of my wretched soul and calloused hands; my chaos-riddled thoughts.
They now craft beauty.
Tangible beauty; yes—
Is what thou hath gifted me, maestro.
And; something more intangible still.
Thou hath gifted me the instinct to worship through creation,
To revere devoid of shame.
To fall to my knees before something: and call it worthy.
Some sagewrights instruct with lanterns dim and distant;
Whispers of glory; whispers of grandeur.
But thou—
Thou wert fire.
Exacting. Blazing. Cruel; even, in thy demand for devotion;
And oh; how I burned for it.
My obsidian mind, once brittle with doubt: now hungers for expression.
Because of thee; have I learned to abandon pride
For pursuit.
Because of thee, I learned that love—true love: ordains sacrifice.
And now…
Now I come to thee, beloved teacher, to say:
Thou hast taught me how to love her; yes.
All that thou hast drilled into me—the ink-stained nights, the torn canvases, the turpentine sermons:
Thou didst not know it then, but thou wert preparing me for her.
She is the culmination of every lesson.
Every shade; every shadow; every trembling contour;
She is form and composition.
She is raw charcoal and wet oil.
She is light;
And the absence of it.
Beautiful;
Nay; gorgeous;
Nay—addictive; enthralling; prepossessing; bewitching; divine;
I have run out of synonyms for her, for my dearest.
My angel—she, with her luminous dark hair, streaks of Heaven entwined at the edges;
Show me what Heaven looks like, wilt thou?
She is the most exquisite creature I have ever dared to imagine.
She is what artists, perhaps even I; drive themselves mad endeavouring to replicate,
And yet always fail.
For her shine withers the earthiest paints; the brightest whites; the deepest of blacks.
And yet:
She is my Earth.
She is my paint.
Thou, with thy beauteous, bare-stripped claws of goodness—oh, hurt me, angel of the sweetest Heavens.
I would fain bleed for thee, sweet nectar of the night—
Maim me with that which these ignorant fools dare call by thy virtue.
Yea: grant me the honour of bearing thy sweet and hallowed title—
A token of pride, steeped in blood.
I promise to worship her—
More than graphite; more than ruin.
More than the many canvases I have adored.
More than turpentine and pain and praise, maestro; for
She is my final lesson;
My final canvas.
And I shall make her my religion.
She is my religion.
She is my God.
She is what is true to me—what is right;
What I recognise as sacred, dear teacher.
She is perfection; perfection that is personified.
She, this divine thing, exudes loveliness;
Lovelier than the softest clouds, the greyest of skies,
More lovely than life itself.
For she is my life.
She is my everything.
Text © Antonia V. Iyer
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