Galos Muses

The artist between heaven and hell
1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-7568-0504-4
Verlag: BoD - Books on Demand
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 4, 344 Seiten

Reihe: Memoirs

Inspired by Andre Brink's book: "Before I forget," I have thought about my own Muses, who I met during my life, and who inspired me to write poetry - love poetry - short stories, and novels. I have been blessed by so many wonderful women, who have been great friends, besides partaking with me in various sessions at 'Writers Write' workshops, assisting me with forging my enthusiasm for writing into an emerging personal style under Amanda's caring guidance. Much later, I realized the quality of those writing workshops that brought out the best in us in search of self-expression in our literary efforts. I wish to honor them all, writing about their importance to me, their dedication and time, during our relationships. Experiencing friendship and love will be the motor for inspired writing and the greatest gift for the poet. Muses appear in person and their number might be three, six, and nine, depending on their tasks, as known from Classical Greek mythology. Picasso stated that an artist has his personal Muse, extending their numbers to ten. In this sense, I have a peek at my artistic endeavors by experiencing my own tenth Muse. who guided me along to my self-realization in the arts.

Born in Eastern Austria, close to the Hungarian border, he witnessed as a young man the horrors of a nation's suppression, erupting in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. He finished his education in art and architecture in Vienna, married, and sailed for the Cape of Africa, an adventure that followed his childhood dreams. He had drawn African animals for his art classes, but the time had come to see them in their natural habitat. Meeting a varied facet of people and cultures, working as a draughtsman in an Engineering office, as an architect for a cultural center, and as a coordinator of craftsmen and professionals, he made good use of his language skills traveling throughout Southern Africa. During a trip to Lesotho, a native artist showed him rock paintings with their stark palimpsest outlines and with typified movements of animals and humans. It made a lasting impression on him and influenced his artistic work. His vast collection of drawings and slides had been lost during a change of domiciles, but further studies of the art of the San-people reawakened his dormant artistic longing for expression of his art, filling sketchbooks with drawings and notepads with poetry and prose. While visiting the capitals of Europe, he sensed the bond of art being borderless and free, reaching out across continents into the world. During a visit to Greece, he was accepted into a circle of artists and poets, who encouraged him to continue his art and a friend introduced him to the works of famous Greek poets. In South Africa, he joined writing and poetry workshops of Writers Write. It was to open the floodgates of his creativity. He decided to travel through Greece and visit its sites of antiquity, read up on Classical mythology, and enjoy translations of Greek poetry and prose. He settled 2013/14 in Klosterneuburg-Weidling. Poet Nikolaus Lenau is buried here. Franz Kafka had stayed here, and there's a memorial room in Kierling, where he stayed at a Sanatorium. Their writings will always be an inspiration.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Galos, Z J

Leseproben

Eroticism in Beauty and Art
Am I passionate about my work? I am as passionate about it as I am about my writings and my poetry. I am passionate about love, but to find the right partner with comparable attitudes is something I am still dreaming about. One day it will come true again, when the ravages of time have altered my viewpoint’s course. But by then I might see all from an unexpected angle, I never thought I would. Life after all is a journey, changing speed with direction; the landscape of space and time flying past the window of the mind’s express train. Am I passionate about eroticism? Yes, indeed. I was told as a student of art that beauty is embodied in the eye of the beholder. So is eroticism, I read. I wish to discuss this with Sola, but I am restricted to write letters to her, she never answers. I have mused that she is the choice of woman for me, suited to AyAy’s promise, who asked me before she left this planet, whom she might send me as a Muse. I answered: somebody intelligent. She chuckled with a sarcastic remark and I felt offended. I asked AyAy to find her for me and I thought she is serious in believing in the powers of the universe, where she intended to melt into. This is silly talk, I said, let’s rather make love. AyAy looked at me with her dark brown eyes that sparkled still with her alert mind, even if she felt the pain of separation hitting her and she took me to her bedroom. You are always aroused, she said, as if she felt sorry to leave good sex behind. She told me about her Persian girlfriend, an artist, she might have in mind for me. Then she cried-out in her climax, always coming first, before she encouraged me to reach my height. It was not the greatest sex we had that day, but at that time compassion had replaced the pure lustful emotions and combined them to a sounding out of a relationship, like the fading sounds of a Mahler symphony. I had to meet Simone, who seemed to be a cultured woman, despite her taciturn behaviour. I did not know what AyAy meant with her girlfriend from Persia. However as I listened to Simone, falling in love with her and finding her sympathetic, I asked her to sleep with me. She did not refuse, but explained to me her involvement with another girlfriend. I had no qualms about gender love, being an open minded artist myself, but then AyAy’s words reverberated in my mind and I understood her. Shit! I said and Simone looked up at me. I would get involved with you, she said, but you are married. I had to leave matters open, fled to the famous galleries to drown in art and long for my mate, I had lost to the ugly sisters of fate, I saw life like a video played before me. The taciturn Simone has a mystical depth in her personality I wished to explore and experience, but I am afraid I cannot have that luxury of staying in London for such a long time tlo reach my goal. Besides I invited her to South Africa, but she never took me up on it. When I met Sola, I thought that AyAy had changed her mind and sent me someone intelligent, who would communicate with me at eye level. My eyes had taken her in, clasped her in my soul, absorbed her like scented food and I wanted her immediately. No, I had entered a forbidden garden; I was caught and judged a lewd perpetrator. I will not fall onto my knees, I said aloud, just to beg her forgiveness that I desired her. Shit! First Simone and now Sola turning taciturn. I called them ‘The taciturn Muses’. Well now, beauty and eroticism rests in our minds. It is the way we perceive the woman, the man, the young adult and how we react to photographs, paintings and drawings and the act of lovemaking. The way we turn voyeuristic, or somebody who craves for sex, but is not aware of doing it. I crave for certain faces, colours, ways of stimulation from the tight clad beauties in hip jeans; the way their pants slip down at their backs, when seated, or when they stretch, revealing the top of a throng that invades their pussies, as they are stimulated by someone looking at them: A wordless game of body language, showing butts and figures void of brassieres and underwear; soft and hardened nipples showing through soft tight tops. Half-clad and half denuded, it makes me ache in my chest, burn sensations into my nipples and my cock hardens. I am in love with the fetish of a body wrapped into voile or silk, being the sensual extension of a woman’s skin. I seek a favourite café, close by the fashion stores, trendy hair salons and beauty parlours, where nubile bodies parade for an exhibitionist show, stimulating their gender and the aesthetically trained eye of the artist, the poet or the budding writer. Others are left cold by the eroticist display of beauty and tuck into their generous portions of spaghetti, linguine and pesto; their stimulant for living. Mine remains beauty. Have we suffered at present an overstimulation of our senses, through the colourful palette of an emerging Rainbow Nation? Being suppressed since the middle Ages, at least four hundred years, the history of the Southern African continent unfolds, creating their own feasts of an erotic world within a clash of cultures. Where does it all lead? Have we arrived at the excitement of transgressing taboos? Do we as a result of denial create a new race of colourful people of all shades of the racial palette? The hidden drawings of an ichthiophallic Min from Egyptian temples to the San artist’s depiction of excited men on cave paintings, two and a half-thousand years later, the human mind has always been fascinated with the sexual act. But before that with the magic power of the penis and vagina. One friend pointed out to me their symbolic designs, cut into stone at the western façade of St. Stephen’s cathedral in Vienna. Positioned left and right of the truncated Romanic entrance portal, are they depicting the root of all evil, or the beginning of mankind, the reason we are here and celebrate life? Indeed fascinating for any student of art history. The early days of desire respond with sketches of sexual positions, the tradition with Indian, Chinese and Japanese drawings had been handed to the Western world. The literature of the Greek civilization and the ceramic art, with their depictions of group sex at a symposium, shows joyful faces and skilled hetaerae. I am reading about eroticism and the cultures during the rebirth of Classical Art in the Renaissance. Giulio Romano, Madonna painter and Rafael’s chief assistant, drew sexual positions. Another artist transferred the sketches on to copperplate for reproduction. Poems of wit and free verse celebrating the new world, accompanied these rare treasures of erotic art. I Modi comes to mind, written by Pietro Aretino, who lived in the early 1500’s. In the middle Ages, the Catholic Church through the Pope, rang bells of alarm and war erupted against the ‘satanic work’. The artists had to flee to avoid being placed on top of a stake and burned to death in a public show that stated the extermination of the evil. The engraver Raimondi had been caught and thrown into the papal prison by Clement VII. Aretino conducted a flourishing business from Venice, called: Literary Blackmail. Edward Lucie-Smith tells me these fascinating stories in his Ars Erotica. Can you hear Venice laughing and roaming with pleasure at a red-faced Pope? I can imagine his sated face, a harvest moon, incapable to suppress the free-thinking capital of the early Renaissance world. Aretino promises to suppress his own satires for the return of suitable amounts of cash. The night interrupted by an alp of having to leave with the worst part: Stripped of all human rights, having to hand over all my books to the Barbarians, like a flock of sheep to the wolves. No! I protect my books with my life. At the last moment I am visited by my Muse. I am excited and aroused. I have not come for two years. I have climaxed in autoerotic love, but never ejaculated. I read about Flaubert’s trip to Egypt, hundred years ago. He talks about Turkish baths and massage in the context of sexual pleasures, ejaculating into the back of young boy’s anuses, as they come to the point of satisfying their elder male customers for baksheesh. I dream of Sola, calling upon her in my dream-like come. I wake to my first ejaculation. I place my arms back to enjoy the moment. It is now 30 months since AyAy’s death that I finally did not suppress the Million Dollar point any longer and let the juices of life spurt out freely onto my chest. I have no craving any longer, as I had for a long time, swallowing my own semen, tasting AyAy in the process. Her juices tasted complimentary. A bit of vanilla with asparagus overtones, as I recall it and from the obsession to taste her, kiss and devour her, being one. Now I wake in the middle of the night, thinking about my favourite Muse: SOLA. Sola, who is taciturn and clammed-up, never had a free sexual life. I suppose, judging from the way she moves and studying her body talk. In her mannerism she expresses sensuality, innate to her. She has not agreed to meet me once a month on a Saturday, but she has not rejected my offer either. Cerebral Sola, the Muse I cannot fuse with physically, but the one I want; the one I could treat well, giving her lots of love. I could free her from all inhibitions, but she knows that. She is afraid of such a journey and I do not blame her. I have been once afraid too, as I recited an old song, extending it to both genders: Only fools rush in, where wise men or women never go. But wise men or women never fall in love… I am infatuated with her erotic beams and...