by Jacek Gulla

8 of 8.

—–O what a tangle to handle – myself!

—–By the right of name, Jacek, I am the boy Hyacinth, the first human gods fell in love with. By sad succession, Apollo. And owing to dreams in sleep, Zephyrus the envious murderer. By succession, I mean the divine proportions of my body, inherited dear from the sorry Cracow cast. By envy, the trauma of seeing paintings I wished I could have had painted. They are always works, in that recurrent dream of mine, by a relative or friend, to torment me to the marrow for having missed on them so closely. It takes me long while, after I open up from sleep, to realize they, the works amazing in ease and novelty, inevitable and surprising, need not be envied – I seethe with fury, at their authors, furious with myself – quite the opposite, I should be happy, to have night dreams for such a generous teacher, and bring them out on the canvas next thing.

—–The day must have been green the shade of grapes that day. His lyre left hanging on an olive branch, Apollo reached for discus, inviting boy Hyacinth along. The famous Discobole of Fidias! I firmly believe it to be Apollo at the fatal throw. Little did he know. The god of winds, Zephyrus, just waited for his chance, in shades nearby the field. Mad for boy’s favors, he emptied his lungs out to the bottom, focused on the discus, and the boy was struck his scull open, his blood mixing with Apollo’s tears giving seed to the flower.

—–And that’s how my brush will have it. I will pile their heads one upon the other, the bleeding skull in black at the bottom, tear-streaming profile in laurels above it in mournful gold, and on top, in airy opalescent blue, the breath that killed, crescent turbulence vicious with its horn. My brush will strive for its lightest, to render the design in hyacinth’s mists of fragrance, with the flower itself, life size, blossoming into view in rich, ardent reds. Not that I am plotting my painting like murder, no. Simply, an hour or so ago, I sketched this whole in pencil, that’s why this detailed description, it’s a work in progress.

—–As I promised at the outset, the painting, when given life, goes to any person, who helps find my Mythology exhibition timespace.