chronicle I • francisco goya
mix one part deafness-inducing illness, one part disillusionment with painting, and two parts disappointment with human beings, bake at 666º from 1746-1829 and… voila, goya!
entry i • a palace of pests
a grey old Devil painting at a cross-roads caught my eye and said, “hey bud, you look bored… like you’ve got your head on straight, or something. why not take a walk on the weird side… spend some time in a palace of paint, and see if we can slosh that sea you’re sailing on? I know a guy named goya who’s woven a tale that’ll whip your own. just prance on down this way to the prado and he’ll get you hooked.” Him pointing his left-hand down that path and me not knowing any better, i pranced that way and ended up here.
entry ii • the madness settles in
after two visits to the prado in madrid, spain, and too much time sitting in front of goya’s black paintings (pinturas negras), it was time to exorcise my rites and graphically regurgitate some sinful signs.
entry iii • the vision sickens
archetypes plagued goya. it seemed sane to attempt the same and plague my paper with archetypes - goats, witches, and symbols. so, with mouth agape and eyes rolled back in my head, the Devil had His way with my hand.
entry iv • the sickness vision
the Devil’s always got more to say. He’s never satisfied to leave things black-and-white. so, eyes remaining rolled up in my head, like looking for the ceiling of my skull, He extended His reign over my hands… to finish the work of His hands.
post-mortem • details…
a horny old Devil once told this’d be the best place to find Him…