Artistically Wild(e)!

Lately, I have had some absolutely beautiful coincidences. And, amongst them one of my favorite is coming across the Book ’The Picture of Dorian Gray’ - By Oscar Wilde. I had read a few of Wilde’s ballads several years back but I stumbled upon this book after a conversation with a friend (who claims to have a part of Lord Henry Wotton in him, which I think otherwise!).
While reading this novel, I could not help but notice the sly sincere words that turned scandalous in context. With the book portraying the conflict between Aestheticism and Morality, intense and with immoral sensual depth at the same time, overwhelmingly I was left sometimes blushing, sometimes chuckling like an imbecile but constantly spellbound.

Prefacing the novel with ‘The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.’ and concluding with ‘All art is quite useless’, Wilde’s reflection on art, the artist and the utility of both is extraordinarily incredible.
The protagonist of the story, Dorian Gray, is on the brink of adulthood and is blessed with paranormal beauty. The story of the rise and fall of Dorian Gray might instead represent an allegory about morality meant to critique, rather than endorse the obeying of one’s impulses as thoughtlessly and dutifully as the aestheticism at the Victorian time period dictates. The phenomenal ability to incorporate aspects of both fantasy and realism into a work of impeccable portraiture can be done only by a genius and which not only makes this book extremely enjoyable but a ‘piece of work’. Through thoughtful imagery and realistic dialect, two contradicting genres are merged into a fascinatingly morbid tale. From the picturesque beauty of Dorian Gray, to the deceptive and manipulative philosophical life theories of the witty Lord Henry, to painting a terrifying picture with the haunting detail of the gruesome murder of the painter ‘Basil Holland’ the book makes you go Wild(e) in the most unimaginative ways.

It would not be wrong to say that if the novel is an essay on "decorative art”, it is also a piece of classic art composed of carefully selected phrases which undoubtedly makes it one of the best works in literature. 

Soft.White.Snow.

It has been a while since the winter has been gripping Chicago with snow. There’s something otherworldly about these soft white flakes that make them strikingly picturesque. Perhaps it’s their transience. Thus, I stop to watch these miniscule crystals swirl in the air, as they quietly descend upon treetops and roofs, and I can’t help but marvel. Watching and absorbing all the snowfall, snow-covered scenery that surrounds my building makes the weekend more than perfect. Hightailing back into the warmth of the blanket, I grab myself a nice mug of hot chocolate, and take a seat by the window, waiting for the right thoughts to strike.

No wonder that snowfall has inspired boundless stanzas of poetry, and all I could think was Ralph Waldo Emerson’s ‘The Snow-Storm’.

     Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
     Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
     Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
     Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
     And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
     The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
     Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
     Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
     In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

     Come see the north wind's masonry.
     Out of an unseen quarry evermore
     Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
     Curves his white bastions with projected roof
     Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
     Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
     So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
     For number or proportion. Mockingly,
     On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
     A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
     Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
     Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
     A tapering turret overtops the work.
     And when his hours are numbered, and the world
     Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
     Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
     To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
     Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
     The frolic architecture of the snow.