I dedicate this short essay On Cave-Paintings to a great human being, today, a marvelous cave-dweller, a wonderful, indefatigable artist, a great cook, a tenacious survivalist! He lived thirty thousand years ago, but his artwork continues to fill us with hope and inspiration!
Since I have been confined to my solitude for more than thirty days, and knowing that so many others have perhaps escaped the scourge of our times, my existence has rather been marked by short intervals of peace, I shall say interludes of music, preludes to my soul, scarcely disturbed by the noisy winds of the world. Most importantly, of much concern has been the well-being of my friends and family, because I am not oblivious to the real dangers haunting us all.
Days and nights! I have paced my room, back and forth, with pensive steps, going around the same narrow circumference of my thoughts, but the prodding ticks of time has not, as yet, harrowed my placid assurance in the comprehension of my heartbeats' anticipation, for they seem to keep a "moderate tempo" in the unrolling scroll of my life. In other words, I am still optimistic. Books and food are still coming-in to replenish my inward shelves, and I am still activated by a sound health, a blessed frame of mind, which is enlivened by its own supply of warmhearted thoughts as yet waiting for better days to come.
While living in solitude, I can say that I have not been wanting of faithful friends, indispensable companions of existence, whose love for me has been the most attentive, caring and helpful in times of trials and tribulation. The haunting ghosts of foreboding and vexation I have been able to ward-off, but I have often fixed my doubts-stricken eyes upon the lingering hours of the calendar's slowly turning pages, and as I mark the passing days, a multitude of huddling feelings, a sense of prophetic urgencies, have pressed on within me with an incomprehensible mixture of uncertainties and thrills: an unfolding new I am, occasioned by fleeting shivers of enthusiasm! Eastern is soon approaching, and would Mother Nature deny herself a colorful skirt of blooming flowers and roses?
Meanwhile, the continuation of time, human history as conveyed to me by the Cave-Artworks of the ancient people, so rubbed by the long-wailing winds of the elements and millennia, has caused me to pause in meditation and reflections ---my heart contracts, as though pierced and shriveled- off by the cave-solitude of one thousand years. Fixed in cogitation deep, the meaning of those errant winds, messengers of woes and trepidation, could still test the mettle of any mortal.
Days and nights! I have paced my room, back and forth, with pensive steps, going around the same narrow circumference of my thoughts, but the prodding ticks of time has not, as yet, harrowed my placid assurance in the comprehension of my heartbeats' anticipation, for they seem to keep a "moderate tempo" in the unrolling scroll of my life. In other words, I am still optimistic. Books and food are still coming-in to replenish my inward shelves, and I am still activated by a sound health, a blessed frame of mind, which is enlivened by its own supply of warmhearted thoughts as yet waiting for better days to come.
While living in solitude, I can say that I have not been wanting of faithful friends, indispensable companions of existence, whose love for me has been the most attentive, caring and helpful in times of trials and tribulation. The haunting ghosts of foreboding and vexation I have been able to ward-off, but I have often fixed my doubts-stricken eyes upon the lingering hours of the calendar's slowly turning pages, and as I mark the passing days, a multitude of huddling feelings, a sense of prophetic urgencies, have pressed on within me with an incomprehensible mixture of uncertainties and thrills: an unfolding new I am, occasioned by fleeting shivers of enthusiasm! Eastern is soon approaching, and would Mother Nature deny herself a colorful skirt of blooming flowers and roses?
Meanwhile, the continuation of time, human history as conveyed to me by the Cave-Artworks of the ancient people, so rubbed by the long-wailing winds of the elements and millennia, has caused me to pause in meditation and reflections ---my heart contracts, as though pierced and shriveled- off by the cave-solitude of one thousand years. Fixed in cogitation deep, the meaning of those errant winds, messengers of woes and trepidation, could still test the mettle of any mortal.
Cold winds are still buffeting the sore gullets of my inner fortification, but they have not chilled me into a melancholy frame of mind, nor have they frozen my heart into a pessimistic worldview on the general condition of human existence.
I am still activated by a "deep-seated stir," a spirit of curiosity has taken grasp of me, and I am willing to come to grips with a caveman, and let us the two compare the ages, and if he is found to be happier than me, then let him instruct me on the source of his happiness. But if he is to be found wretched, lonely and barking all daylong like a dog, then let us come together and perhaps find solace in this mutual conversation across the wordless language of millennia.
The caveman is within me, but I am not constrained by duress or by any such instinctive irrationalities, or protocols of modern society, to either stifle the civil man within me, or to chase away a barbarian with strong leanings for the arts. My main aim is to find a reconciliation, a mutual understanding, between the two: the noble and the barbarian.
Today I wish to strike kindred with such a caveman, and let us the two descry the other scenes of human existence, and may we relish a warmhearted soup of conviviality, for history, like art and philosophy, is like a balm to my soul. My partner turns out to be an excellent cook, a hunter-gatherer, but also an artist, and he knows how to make good use of the gazelle, the bull and the cow, the deer, and all such creatures for the most utilitarian of purposes.
I am still activated by a "deep-seated stir," a spirit of curiosity has taken grasp of me, and I am willing to come to grips with a caveman, and let us the two compare the ages, and if he is found to be happier than me, then let him instruct me on the source of his happiness. But if he is to be found wretched, lonely and barking all daylong like a dog, then let us come together and perhaps find solace in this mutual conversation across the wordless language of millennia.
The caveman is within me, but I am not constrained by duress or by any such instinctive irrationalities, or protocols of modern society, to either stifle the civil man within me, or to chase away a barbarian with strong leanings for the arts. My main aim is to find a reconciliation, a mutual understanding, between the two: the noble and the barbarian.
Today I wish to strike kindred with such a caveman, and let us the two descry the other scenes of human existence, and may we relish a warmhearted soup of conviviality, for history, like art and philosophy, is like a balm to my soul. My partner turns out to be an excellent cook, a hunter-gatherer, but also an artist, and he knows how to make good use of the gazelle, the bull and the cow, the deer, and all such creatures for the most utilitarian of purposes.
Such animal paintings could be said to be spotless, flawless, accurate. Their well-seasoned meats, when put to roast with the sputtering flames of the all-consuming fire, could fill this cave with a smoky exhilaration of tastiest smells from the ashen ovens of the past. I love it!
Indeed! The hearth of this ancient cave exudes an enchanting sense of liveliest homeliness, and I feel somewhat overwhelmed, as though possessed with a savagery instinct, to give free outlet to an animalistic cacophony of grunting phrases, yes, and nay, intoned in wildest diphthongs of howling glissandos, which, in the candid speech of Mother Nature, may convey an inexplicable hankering homeward return to primitivism.
A boisterous celebration of life could turn this caving-hole into a noisy kitchen, no doubt a mad place from the luxury of modern society, but it also impresses me as a studio for some crazy artist. The cave-canvases are besmirched with strangest hues, some resembling bloody splotches; other substances, assuming the most abstract of conceptions and blotches, are somewhat mottled with yellowish hues, orangish, reddish pigmentation, as drained down from the tissues, sinews of animals' carcasses, or from the vegetative decomposition of organic material.
I fancy to comprehend the prophetic meanings of such meandering hieroglyphs, living entrails from the womb of time, whose formless shapes and dribbling characters could perhaps adumbrate the history of humanity as an endless cycle of recurrent events. The Book of Ages is understood by the caveman. Should I ask him to instruct me on the moral lessons of the past?
Like the ancient tools of an ogre, I also made out sharp knives, but also fine-cutting tapering stones, whose tips and edges could peel the skin smooth and clean. Further in view, lo and behold! the rusty utensils of millennia, pans, kettles, bones, skulls and teeth, still intact, clattered, rang and gnashed with such felicitous vibration of propelling whirrs, verve and joy, that I soon took pleasure to finding myself in the agreeable company of such rustic stuff of primitiveness.
Hoorah! On a cloudy day, I had the rare privilege to be seconded as a scullion under the tutelage of this admirable chef of tastier, roasted vitals and guts, a savage, but a man with a penchant for the culinary art. On one such occasions, I was heartily treated with some daintiest bites of venisons, whose clean delicious mutton, soon cheered my heart for the trophies of a barbarian life.
With tickets in hand, let us now have a riveting jaunt into the Caves of France, and, if possible, let us finally salute our distant comrades with the handshakes of millennia and solidarity.
Indeed! The hearth of this ancient cave exudes an enchanting sense of liveliest homeliness, and I feel somewhat overwhelmed, as though possessed with a savagery instinct, to give free outlet to an animalistic cacophony of grunting phrases, yes, and nay, intoned in wildest diphthongs of howling glissandos, which, in the candid speech of Mother Nature, may convey an inexplicable hankering homeward return to primitivism.
A boisterous celebration of life could turn this caving-hole into a noisy kitchen, no doubt a mad place from the luxury of modern society, but it also impresses me as a studio for some crazy artist. The cave-canvases are besmirched with strangest hues, some resembling bloody splotches; other substances, assuming the most abstract of conceptions and blotches, are somewhat mottled with yellowish hues, orangish, reddish pigmentation, as drained down from the tissues, sinews of animals' carcasses, or from the vegetative decomposition of organic material.
I fancy to comprehend the prophetic meanings of such meandering hieroglyphs, living entrails from the womb of time, whose formless shapes and dribbling characters could perhaps adumbrate the history of humanity as an endless cycle of recurrent events. The Book of Ages is understood by the caveman. Should I ask him to instruct me on the moral lessons of the past?
Like the ancient tools of an ogre, I also made out sharp knives, but also fine-cutting tapering stones, whose tips and edges could peel the skin smooth and clean. Further in view, lo and behold! the rusty utensils of millennia, pans, kettles, bones, skulls and teeth, still intact, clattered, rang and gnashed with such felicitous vibration of propelling whirrs, verve and joy, that I soon took pleasure to finding myself in the agreeable company of such rustic stuff of primitiveness.
Hoorah! On a cloudy day, I had the rare privilege to be seconded as a scullion under the tutelage of this admirable chef of tastier, roasted vitals and guts, a savage, but a man with a penchant for the culinary art. On one such occasions, I was heartily treated with some daintiest bites of venisons, whose clean delicious mutton, soon cheered my heart for the trophies of a barbarian life.
With tickets in hand, let us now have a riveting jaunt into the Caves of France, and, if possible, let us finally salute our distant comrades with the handshakes of millennia and solidarity.
At the basic level of survival, such old mysterious paintings, often engraved in the time-stricken walls of the distant past, may speak volumes on mankind's earliest attempts to laying down the cornerstones of civilization. Or, and in all likelihood, such primitive artworks could be indicative of early human hardships in the caves of isolation, primitivity, and ignorance. They could also warn us of stranded stragglers in the serious battlefield of existence, whose only hope was perhaps to record their awful chronicles in the hard canvas of stonewalls.
What major event could have thus ended their existence?
As bleak as the moral lessons of the past in the unrolling scroll of fate, I may infer the meaning of such ancient paintings as extant remainders that human evolution is not always linear. There are countless pitfalls along the precarious paths of existence. The cave-artists of ancient times, whose sentinels could speak more eloquently than the best book on history, today never cease to amaze me. They are as relevant as the latest news or inventions of modern society, for such extremely ancient paintings, as those found in France, could reconstruct the earliest assembly of humans and their challenges in the logistics of survival.
What major event could have thus ended their existence?
As bleak as the moral lessons of the past in the unrolling scroll of fate, I may infer the meaning of such ancient paintings as extant remainders that human evolution is not always linear. There are countless pitfalls along the precarious paths of existence. The cave-artists of ancient times, whose sentinels could speak more eloquently than the best book on history, today never cease to amaze me. They are as relevant as the latest news or inventions of modern society, for such extremely ancient paintings, as those found in France, could reconstruct the earliest assembly of humans and their challenges in the logistics of survival.
However subjective, when I set my eyes at the creepy aspect of such ancient works of art, I cannot evade an element of apprehension and dread when trying to comprehend the persistent enigma of the ages: what is the true story of the human race. These outreaching hands, as though emerging out of the wall, may continue to defy our understanding.
True! The caves of this world are replete with masterpieces, bearing witness to the mysterious artists of the past, their names lost forever, could claim a preeminent place alongside artists the likes of Phidias, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, but the formers are doomed to remain in the obligated nights of the past.
Theirs was not an academia based on unerring accuracy of proportion, as those of the Rennaissance Artist, but the caveman of the past possessed a most subjective, I would say, a profounder approach to the universal figments and mysteries that haunt us all: the uncharted territory in the long wanderings of the human race on the surface of the earth. Therefore, lying deep in the unconscious reaches of our collective psyche, there is to be found a veritable treasured-trove of human experiences, memories and knowledge, whose moral lessons, perhaps could help us overcome some of the most frightening threats to human existence: plagues and pestilences.
It is noteworthy that some artworks, as those creepy figurines and goddesses, could be said to encapsulate the psychological tapestry of a world overrun with the haunting figments of fear, isolation and dread.
True! The caves of this world are replete with masterpieces, bearing witness to the mysterious artists of the past, their names lost forever, could claim a preeminent place alongside artists the likes of Phidias, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, but the formers are doomed to remain in the obligated nights of the past.
Theirs was not an academia based on unerring accuracy of proportion, as those of the Rennaissance Artist, but the caveman of the past possessed a most subjective, I would say, a profounder approach to the universal figments and mysteries that haunt us all: the uncharted territory in the long wanderings of the human race on the surface of the earth. Therefore, lying deep in the unconscious reaches of our collective psyche, there is to be found a veritable treasured-trove of human experiences, memories and knowledge, whose moral lessons, perhaps could help us overcome some of the most frightening threats to human existence: plagues and pestilences.
It is noteworthy that some artworks, as those creepy figurines and goddesses, could be said to encapsulate the psychological tapestry of a world overrun with the haunting figments of fear, isolation and dread.
Art, nonetheless, might have had some transformative powers in the worldview and prospect of the lonely ancient artist. Nay, for the cave-artist, so disconnected from the outside world, and long tried in the sequestered quarters of isolation --often punctuated with hypochondriac bouts of mental vacancy, despair and nihilism--- perhaps the cave-dweller (s) were a bevy of survivors at bay, and so they left us these plethora of artworks, whose meanings could perhaps point to a tragic end. An unknown mysterious people still trapped in the caves of the world. This may explain the seeming devilish grotesquery of the caveman's oeuvre, but would you say they don't deserve a place next to Picasso or Van Gough?
In spite of all these pejorative comments on the ancient people's artistic simplicity, there is a more optimistic assessment to the question of existence through the power of art, and it is, nonetheless, the most justifiable of all human endeavors, nay, it is praised as a form self-expression, even when this human activity does not always obey the principles of objective reality, a polisher culture as conceived by the noblest of the ancient people, especially the Ancient Greeks. After all, there is always an audience for the marvels of the ancient past.
Hence, art is either a lie or an illusion, which, by some happy twist of moral necessity, perhaps an archeological discovery, or a preferred fashion in vogue, could ultimately enjoy a place of respectability and prestige in a world where truth seems to be but a matter of relative perspectives.
Regardless of the epoch, approbation, or snarky criticism, the creative artist could ultimately be compensated with due recognition. Most importantly, for the isolated artist, whom is the least concerned with worldly success, life's existential challenges could be transformed into blissful moments of aesthetic contemplation and delight. True, as much as we try to understand the ancient artists' motives, their ethos, all we can do is to grope and fumble into a distant world so separated by the missing lacunae of thirty thousand years into the mist of time. Therefore, any answer to such baffling questions could be elicited but on the high-flown wings of wishful conjectures.
A psychological evaluation of such ancient artists' frame of mind may be frowned-upon, laughed-at and forthwith dismissed as a joke, but some would not underestimate the surrounding influences, milieu and clime, when spinning speculations on what is scarcely plausible, or discernible, from the premises of our times. Such theories, " the mental state of the artist, " however useful when applying it to the other fields of human learning and disciplines, do not win my sympathy, but one ought to be open to such scathing criticism.
Thus, so we are told, enervated by the rough conditions of a tough existence, the cave-artist's aesthetics, according some critics, should be assessed but in conjunction with, or as an expression of "tremendous psychological tension," a mere representational conveyance of conflicts and wars in the struggle of existence.
This may not seem a too preposterous appraisal, but we all know that most artists are said to suffer some form of mental disturbances, mental illnesses, but to degrade the value of artistic merits, or output, based on current social parameters to defining the width and length of human creativeness as the sole patrimony and prerogatives of my contemporaries, is to underestimate the high-pitched intelligence and mental fortitude of the ancient people when coping with the equation of existence. Of course, the cave-people had to fight their shadows in the dark hours of human desperation, fear and dread in the unutterable pages of history.
According to some critics, such ancient artworks could be accessed but as the output of a people gone mad and wild, or as the dilettantism of an uncultivated people scarcely rising above the level of savages. Such was the blinkered worldview of the ancient Greeks when passing judgment upon those tribes living in the hinterlands of barbarism and bestiality. The caves of the world are filled with the junks of humanity.
Finally, if I were to draw any conclusive opinion on what is the true meaning behind the artworks of such mysterious a people, one would be bound to admit, notwithstanding my perplexity when fronting or deciphering the riddles and conundrums of the past, but as a political manifesto in the struggle of existence, yet written in the oldest language of humanity. However uncanny from the comfort of modern society, such artworks could warn us of the decline and collapse of urban society even in the dawn of history.
Hence, art is either a lie or an illusion, which, by some happy twist of moral necessity, perhaps an archeological discovery, or a preferred fashion in vogue, could ultimately enjoy a place of respectability and prestige in a world where truth seems to be but a matter of relative perspectives.
Regardless of the epoch, approbation, or snarky criticism, the creative artist could ultimately be compensated with due recognition. Most importantly, for the isolated artist, whom is the least concerned with worldly success, life's existential challenges could be transformed into blissful moments of aesthetic contemplation and delight. True, as much as we try to understand the ancient artists' motives, their ethos, all we can do is to grope and fumble into a distant world so separated by the missing lacunae of thirty thousand years into the mist of time. Therefore, any answer to such baffling questions could be elicited but on the high-flown wings of wishful conjectures.
A psychological evaluation of such ancient artists' frame of mind may be frowned-upon, laughed-at and forthwith dismissed as a joke, but some would not underestimate the surrounding influences, milieu and clime, when spinning speculations on what is scarcely plausible, or discernible, from the premises of our times. Such theories, " the mental state of the artist, " however useful when applying it to the other fields of human learning and disciplines, do not win my sympathy, but one ought to be open to such scathing criticism.
Thus, so we are told, enervated by the rough conditions of a tough existence, the cave-artist's aesthetics, according some critics, should be assessed but in conjunction with, or as an expression of "tremendous psychological tension," a mere representational conveyance of conflicts and wars in the struggle of existence.
This may not seem a too preposterous appraisal, but we all know that most artists are said to suffer some form of mental disturbances, mental illnesses, but to degrade the value of artistic merits, or output, based on current social parameters to defining the width and length of human creativeness as the sole patrimony and prerogatives of my contemporaries, is to underestimate the high-pitched intelligence and mental fortitude of the ancient people when coping with the equation of existence. Of course, the cave-people had to fight their shadows in the dark hours of human desperation, fear and dread in the unutterable pages of history.
According to some critics, such ancient artworks could be accessed but as the output of a people gone mad and wild, or as the dilettantism of an uncultivated people scarcely rising above the level of savages. Such was the blinkered worldview of the ancient Greeks when passing judgment upon those tribes living in the hinterlands of barbarism and bestiality. The caves of the world are filled with the junks of humanity.
Finally, if I were to draw any conclusive opinion on what is the true meaning behind the artworks of such mysterious a people, one would be bound to admit, notwithstanding my perplexity when fronting or deciphering the riddles and conundrums of the past, but as a political manifesto in the struggle of existence, yet written in the oldest language of humanity. However uncanny from the comfort of modern society, such artworks could warn us of the decline and collapse of urban society even in the dawn of history.