and the farmer continued to plough...* By Christopher Cruz
I am walking my dog on a Monday night in late September. It is around one in the morning and my tired, shuffling steps are appropriately mimicked by my companion. We turn the corner onto Queen Street where we come across a body lying on the sidewalk. Its appendages are haphazardly placed around its torso, contorted in all manner of unholy directions. The abdomen is barely moving, undulating like the autumn leaves that shake just above. It's not the breathing that particularly garners my attention though, or the disjointed placement of the body. It is instead the wings. Protruding from the back of the figure are vague masses of wax and bone, daintily sprinkled with what I assume to be feathers. The wings are strapped onto the body via an elaborate leather harness. In the darkness I can not make out if it is a man or woman.
As my companion sniffs the right foot of the broken mass in front of us, the body springs into action with little warning. It leaps into the air, four, maybe five feet, before landing square on its feet in a battle-readied stance. It has long blonde hair and a chiseled chin, complete with dimple. A long grey robe of unmistakably poor quality lays bewildered across the persons shoulders. I still can not make out if it is a man or woman.
It looks around for a moment, as if lost, before its eyes lock onto mine. It stares at me with a vague expression, like a dog watching television, before wrapping its arms around me and shouting assumedly joyous noises I can not quite make out. It presses the side of its face against mine and whispers into my ear.
there is no spring left for us. a riot is coming.
Before I can begin to formulate a response it pushes me away and begins running down the sidewalk at full sprint. It takes mere moments for the hand-formed wings to garner enough lift to carry it back into the night where it quickly fades into the darkness.
I continue walking my companion, who soon requires the assistance of a plastic bag. Upon the realization that I have forgotten them at home, I sigh and lift my sights unto the black night above me.
It was right. A riot is coming.
Copyright Christopher Cruz 2012
* Painting 'The Fall of Icarus' By Hans Bol
In Greek mythology, Icarus succeeded in flying, with wings made by his father Daedalus, using feathers secured with wax. Ignoring his father's warnings, Icarus chose to fly too close to the sun, melting the wax, and fell into the sea and drowned. His legs can be seen in the water just below the ship. The sun, already half-set on the horizon, is a long way away; the flight did not reach anywhere near it.
The ploughman, shepherd and angler are mentioned in Ovid's account of the legend; they are: "astonished and think to see gods approaching them through the aether",which is not entirely the impression given in the painting. There is a Flemish proverb (of the sort imaged in other works by Bruegel): "And the farmer continued to plough..." (En de boer ... hij ploegde voort") pointing out the ignorance of people to fellow men's suffering.The painting may, as Auden's poem suggests, depict humankind's indifference to suffering by highlighting the ordinary events which continue to occur, despite the unobserved death of Icarus.
As my companion sniffs the right foot of the broken mass in front of us, the body springs into action with little warning. It leaps into the air, four, maybe five feet, before landing square on its feet in a battle-readied stance. It has long blonde hair and a chiseled chin, complete with dimple. A long grey robe of unmistakably poor quality lays bewildered across the persons shoulders. I still can not make out if it is a man or woman.
It looks around for a moment, as if lost, before its eyes lock onto mine. It stares at me with a vague expression, like a dog watching television, before wrapping its arms around me and shouting assumedly joyous noises I can not quite make out. It presses the side of its face against mine and whispers into my ear.
there is no spring left for us. a riot is coming.
Before I can begin to formulate a response it pushes me away and begins running down the sidewalk at full sprint. It takes mere moments for the hand-formed wings to garner enough lift to carry it back into the night where it quickly fades into the darkness.
I continue walking my companion, who soon requires the assistance of a plastic bag. Upon the realization that I have forgotten them at home, I sigh and lift my sights unto the black night above me.
It was right. A riot is coming.
Copyright Christopher Cruz 2012
* Painting 'The Fall of Icarus' By Hans Bol
In Greek mythology, Icarus succeeded in flying, with wings made by his father Daedalus, using feathers secured with wax. Ignoring his father's warnings, Icarus chose to fly too close to the sun, melting the wax, and fell into the sea and drowned. His legs can be seen in the water just below the ship. The sun, already half-set on the horizon, is a long way away; the flight did not reach anywhere near it.
The ploughman, shepherd and angler are mentioned in Ovid's account of the legend; they are: "astonished and think to see gods approaching them through the aether",which is not entirely the impression given in the painting. There is a Flemish proverb (of the sort imaged in other works by Bruegel): "And the farmer continued to plough..." (En de boer ... hij ploegde voort") pointing out the ignorance of people to fellow men's suffering.The painting may, as Auden's poem suggests, depict humankind's indifference to suffering by highlighting the ordinary events which continue to occur, despite the unobserved death of Icarus.