#at least the french revolution was stated in the title of the pin

[alonelycandleflame]

Fashion Study (Reference photo from Pinterest) Probably the last original digital art piece I will post here before my new semester starts! Back to being busy and adapting to a new schedule! ☺️

[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer     Marxist Historian and Essayist Issac Deutscher     1956

“...Socialism, classless society, the withering away of the State - all seemed right around the corner.  Few...had any premonition of the blood and sweat and tears to come.  To himself, the intellectual convert to communism seemed a new Prometheus - except he would not be pinned to the rock by Zeus’s wrath.  ‘Nothing henceforth {so Koestler now recalls his own mood in those days} can disturb the converts inner peace and serenity - except the occasional fear of losing faith again...’

Our ex-communist now bitterly denounces the betrayal of his hopes.  This appears to him to have had almost no precedent.  Yet as he eloquently describes his early expectations and illusions, we can detect a strangely familiar tone.  Exactly so did the disillusioned Wordsworth and his contemporaries look back upon their first youthful enthusiasm for the French Revolution:

                                Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive

                                But to be young was very heaven!

The intellectual communist who breaks away emotionally from his party can claim some noble ancestry.  Beethoven tore to pieces the title page of his “Eroica,” on which he had dedicated the symphony to Napoleon, as soon as he learned the First Consul was about to ascend a throne.  Wordsworth called the crowning of Napoleon ‘a sad reversal for all mankind.’  All over Europe the enthusiasts of the French Revolution were stunned by their discovery that the Corsican liberator of the peoples and enemy of tyrants was himself a tyrant and an oppressor.  

In the same way the Wordsworths of our days were shocked at the sight of Stalin in fraternizing with Hitler and Ribbentrop.  If no new “Eroicas” have been created in our days, at least the dedicatory pages of unwritten symphonies have been torn with great flourishes.  

...There can be no greater tragedy than that of a great revolution succumbing to the mailed fist that was to defend it from its enemies.  There can be no spectacle as disgusting as that of a post-revolutionary tyranny dressed up in the banners of liberty.  The ex-communist is morally as justified as was the ex-Jacobin in revealing and revolting against this spectacle.  

But is it true, as Koestler claims, that ‘ex-communists are the only people who know what it’s all about’?  One may risk the assertion that the exact opposite is true: Of all people, the ex-communists know the least what it is all about.

At any rate, the pedagogical pretensions of ex-communist men of letters seems grossly exaggerated.  Most of them ({Italian writer, politician and anti-fascist activist Ignazio} SIlone is a notable exception) have never been inside the real communist movement, in the thick of its clandestine or open organization.  As a rule, they moved on the literary or journalistic fringe of the party.  Their notions of communist doctrine and ideology usually spring from their own literary intuition, which is sometimes acute but often misleading. 

...Having broken from the party bureaucracy in the name of communism, the heretic goes on to break with communism itself.  He claims to have made the discovery that the root of the evil goes far deeper than he at first imagined, even though his digging for that ‘root’ may have been very lazy and very shallow.  He no longer defends socialism from unscrupulous abuse; he now defends mankind from the fallacy of socialism.  He no longer throws out the dirty water of the Russian Revolution to protect the baby, he discovers that the baby is a monster which must be strangled.  The heretic becomes a renegade.

How far he departed from his starting-point, whether, as Silone says, he becomes a fascist or not, depends on his inclinations and tastes - and stupid Stalinist heresy-hunting often drives the ex-communist to extremes.  But, whatever the shades of individual attitudes, as a rule the intellectual ex-communist ceases to oppose capitalism.  Often he rallies to its defense, and he brings to this job the lack of scruple, the narrow-mindedness, the disregard for truth, and the intense hatred with which Stalinism has imbued him.  He remains a sectarian.  He is an inverted Stalinist.  He continues to see the world in white and black, but now the colours are differently distributed.  As a communist he saw no difference between fascists and social democrats.  As an anti-communist he sees no difference between nazism and communism.  Having once been caught by the ‘greatest illusion,’ he is now obsessed by the greatest disillusionment of our time.  

His former illusion at least implied a positive ideal.  His disillusionment is utterly negative.  His role is therefore intellectually and politically barren.  In this, too, he resembles the embittered ex-Jacobin of the Napoleonic era.  Wordsworth and Coleridge were fatally obsessed with the “Jacobin danger;’ their fear dimmed even their poetic genius.  It was Coleridge who denounced in the House of Commons a Bill for the prevention of cruelty to animals as the ‘strongest instance of legislative Jacobinism,’ The ex-Jacobin became the prompter of anti-Jacobin reaction in England.  Directly or indirectly, his influence was behind Bills Against Seditious Writings and Traitorous Correspondence, the Treasonable Practices Bill, and Seditious Meetings Bill (1792-94), the defeat of parliamentary reform, the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, and the postponement of the emancipation of England’s religious minorities for the lifetime of a generation.  Since the conflict with revolutionary France was ‘not a time to make hazardous experiments,’ the slave trade, too, obtained a lease on life - in the name of liberty.

An honest and critically minded man could reconcile himself to Napoleon as little as he can now to Stalin.  But despite Napoleon’s violence and frauds, the message of the French Revolution survived to echo powerfully throughout the nineteenth century.  The Holy Alliance freed Europe from Napoleon’s oppression; and for a moment its victory was hailed by most Europeans.  Yet what Castlereagh and Metternich and Alexander I had to offer ‘liberated’ Europe was merely the preservation of an old, decomposing order.  Thus the abuses and the aggressiveness of an empire bred by the revolution gave a new lease on life to European feudalism.  This was the ex-Jacobin’s most unexpected triumph.  But the price he paid for it was that presently he himself, and his anti-Jacobin cause, looked like vicious, ridiculous anachronisms.  In the year of Napoleon’s defeat, Shelley wrote to Wordsworth:

                         In honoured poverty thy voice did weave

                         Songs consecrate to truth and liberty

                         Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve

                         Thus having been, thou shouldst cease to be.

If our ex-communist had any historical sense, he would ponder this lesson.

...Finally, Shelley watched the clash of the two worlds with all the burning passion, anger and hope of which his great young soul was capable: he surely was no Olympian.  Yet not for a single moment did he accept the self-righteous claims and pretensions of any of the belligerents.  Unlike the ex-Jacobins, who were older than he, he was true to the Jacobin republican idea.  It was as a republican, and not as a patriot of the England of George III, that he greeted the fall of Napoleon, that ‘most unambitious slave’ who did ‘dance and revel on the grave of Liberty.’  But as a republican he knew also that ‘virtue owns a more eternal foe’ than Bonapartist force and fraud - ‘old Custom, legal Crime and bloody Faith’ embodied in the Holy Alliance.”

Isaac Deutscher, “The Ex-Communist’s Conscience”  1950

[odderancyart]

A Yellow Sky

Chapter 2

First

AO3

Ten foster homes in three years. Alexander Hamilton is chronically unable to just shut up and do what he’s supposed to, even when he’s trying, which has certainly had consequences for him in his short life. The Washingtons are his best shot, his caseworker keeps telling him, but Alexander is a realist. They’ll realize how annoying he is, hate how much smarter than them he is, and after a couple weeks they’ll send him away.

But it’s nice there, he finds. Far too nice. Almost like the calm before the storm.

Alexander was just in time when he stashed away the last of his belongings, placing the unimportant ones – clothes, old schoolbooks, etc – in obvious places and the ones he treasured inside the armchair. There was a flap beneath it, he’d found, and he could just fit everything there. The same moment as he straightened, he heard the thundering of footsteps in the staircase and he quickly made his way back to the bed, grabbing the book lying on top. It was from an elective in Political Science he’d taken at his last school. Just as he laid down on the bed, eager knocking came from the door.  

Expecting them to just step in, he waited for a few seconds. When they didn’t, he blinked, and hesitantly called out, “Come in.”

The door immediately flew open and a dark-skinned, black-haired boy stepped inside, grinning from ear to ear as he saw him. Alexander just stared at him. His dark-grey jeans were artfully ripped, he wore a black and white-striped shirt with a brown leatherjacket over and a pin with the French flag. There were two black rings in one of his ears and a small white stone in the other. With heavy Dr Martens’ like that, it wasn’t strange he’d been so loud in the stairs. And fuck he was tall.  

“Bonsoir!” the boy exclaimed, jumping up on the bed next to him. Alexander flinched, quickly sitting up and drawing back a bit, putting distance between them. The boy held out his hand. “Je m’appe- My name is Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier. But you can call me Lafayette.”

Cautiously, Alexander reached out and shook his hand. “Bonsoir. Je suis Alexander Hamilton,” he replied, continuing in French. Their accents were different, but it felt good to speak the language again with someone who wasn’t incompetent at it or a teacher. “Lafayette?”

With a thrilled gasp, Lafayette clapped his hands together. His eyes almost sparkled. “Tu parle français?”

He nodded, smiling hesitantly. “Oui. It’s my first language. English is my second. You didn’t answer my question.” As he added that, he braced himself. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to question the son of the house either.

“Pardon moi.” Lafayette threw an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close. Alexander stiffened. He spoke quickly, so fast most other would’ve tripping over their own words, but his were perfectly enunciated. “You’re my best friend now. None of my other friends have bothered to learn my language, so they can go fuck themselves.” He looked betrayed, but the sparkle in his eye told Alexander he wasn’t actually upset about it. Despite his better judgement, he liked the other immediately. “And Lafayette because these Américains couldn’t pronounce my name properly if I held a gun to their heads. Not even George and Martha, though they insist on calling me Gilbert. At least Lafayette doesn’t sound awful when they say it. It’s my title, you see, mon ami.  Je suis le Marquis de La Fayette. Though we call ourselves Lafayette instead in honour of our ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.”

A grin had begun to form at Alexander’s face as the other talked, but it fell, and he jerked back, staring at the other boy.  

“Que?”

“Marquis?” Alexander repeated, gaping. “You’re nobility?”

“Oh, yes.” Lafayette nodded, gesturing at his pin. “Not that it means much since the revolution, especially not here in America. The people seized the power then, as I’m sure you know. With all right! My family was lucky enough to keep our land and riches, though. Anyway!” His grin returned. “It’ll be so fun to have you here. My friends are excited to meet you. We’re going shopping tomorrow, getting you some new shit and stuff to decorate your room with. You’re from the Virgin Islands, non?”

Stunned into silence for once in his life, Alexander only nodded.

“Maybe you’d like the flag painted on your wall then! You must miss it. I know I miss my homeland, even if America has been very good to me.” He gestured toward the wall opposite of the bed. “I have Le Tricolore painted there myself.”

“Wait,” Alexander said without thinking. “Wait, wait, wait. Why are you talking like I’m staying? And that’d be much too expensive anyway. I can’t afford that.”

Blinking, Lafayette cocked his head. “Because you are staying, mon ami, are you not? George and Martha are your new foster parents.”

He let out a curt laugh. “Yeah. For now. No one wants me around for that long.” They were intimidated by his brains, or annoyed by his inability to shut up, or got too mad that he wouldn’t break beneath the pressure. He refused to break.

Lafayette raised an eyebrow, and Alexander leaned back. Shit. That big mouth of his acted again, indeed. There was something about his new foster brother that made him talk too freely, he started to realize already, and that was dangerous. He couldn’t trust anyone. Especially not a member of his foster family.  

“Sorry,” he forced out. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean-”

“Ah, Alexander.” Lafayette smiled, rolling the R on his tongue. There was something akin to concern in his eyes, which confused him. “Don’t underestimate us. The Washingtons are very kind people and I’m quite used to getting what I want.” His eyes glittered. “And I am thrilled to have you here.” Fishing up his phone, he looked at the time. “Merde. We are late for dinner already.”

He stood, grabbing Alexander’s wrist and pulling him toward the door. Alexander only just managed to hide his wince as he squeezed some old bruises that had almost healed, and followed. He pursed his lips, nervous. Would they be mad they were late to dinner? It wasn’t his fault, Lafayette had obviously been supposed to tell him. But they wouldn’t care about that, now would they?

As they came downstairs, a heavenly scent of cooked meat laid over the ground floor and his stomach grumbled loudly, causing Lafayette’s grin to widen. “Martha is an amazing cook. Not as good as the one home at my châteaux in Chavaniac-Lafayette, but really fucking good.”

Alexander smiled nervously back, filing that information for later. Chavaniac-Lafayette. Once he was allowed to go to school and could get on a computer, he’d google his new foster brother. If he really was a marquis there had to be some information available somewhere.

“Language, son,” an amused voice came from inside the kitchen.  

Lafayette chuckled. “Pardon, George! She’s really hecking good.” He rolled his eyes at Alexander as he spoke.

Clenching and unclenching his hand nervously, giving the other a small smile, Alexander followed the other into the kitchen. Just like the rest of the house it was huge, but it was a weird mix, which somehow worked, between old and new. A firewood stove covered a lot of one of the walls, while the one opposite of it, there was a modern one and marble-covered kitchen benches in front of which Mrs Washington stood. The floor was grey stone and in the middle of the room a huge wooden table that could easily fit ten people stood. Mr Washington was putting out white plates painted with flowers on it. Alexander frowned. Why was Mr Washington helping? Sure, many of his foster families had forced him to assist in the kitchen but that was because he was, well, unimportant in their eyes. A nobody. But in none of the homes he’d been in, including his own back when his father was still around, had he seen the husbands help, and his mother had never asked him or James for help.

This place was already weirder than he’d expected, and he hadn’t had many expectations for normalcy.  

“Ah, boys,” Mr Washington said, and Alexander stopped dead in the doorframe. The commanding tone almost made him want to stand in attention. “Take a seat, you’re just in time.” He grinned at Alexander. “We suspected that Gilbert would keep you busy so we sent him up early.”

That made Lafayette scowl as he slid down into one of the chairs, and he stuck out his tongue at Mr Washington. “Connard.”

Mrs Washington turned around, a wooden spoon in her hand. She stared at him strictly, though Alexander saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “We may not be fluent in French, Gilbert, but we still understand you when you insult us.”

Blushing slightly, Lafayette opened his mouth, likely to apologize, before he suddenly sat up straight. “Oh! But Alexander does! He speaks French. Fluently!” he exclaimed, bouncing in his seat.

Alexander swallowed as all attention was suddenly on him where he was still standing in the doorframe. Hesitantly, he made his way over to the table, nodding. “Oui.”

“Impressive,” Mr Washington said, looking at him up and down with a hint of a smile on his face. “Do you speak anything else?”

Once again, he nodded. “English, obviously,” he began hesitantly. They wouldn’t ask if they didn’t want to know, would they? Except that two years ago he lived with a family who’d constantly ask him things and then get furious every time he revealed he knew more than them. “Spanish, almost fluently, and I understand Hebrew and some Danish.”

“Danish?” Mrs Washington asked, sounding confused.

“St. Croix belonged to Denmark for a long time,” he explained softly. “Most of them left when they sold it to the United States, but when I lived with my first foster family before the hurricane, we had some neighbours descended from Danes who still spoke it between themselves. They taught me some.”

“Woah.” She stepped back, gesturing toward the food on the stove. “That’s incredible, Alexander.” Her voice was warm, and his heart skipped a beat from the unexpected praise.

“Re- really?”  

When was the last time someone had told him that in such a motherly tone? He swallowed. Not since he left St. Croix, he was sure. His foster family there had been wonderful, but he’d only stayed there for a few months before the hurricane tore the island into pieces. Eventually, most of the orphans had been shipped off to the mainland.  

Mrs Washington stepped up to him, reaching out to stroke his cheek. Alexander flinched away, his breath catching in his throat, before he realized what she’d actually done. Blood rose to his cheeks as he stared down at the floor, embarrassed. Now they’d think he was a coward. Scared of something that small. Or worse, that he was broken.

Her hand had stopped mid-air. Pulling it back to her side, she nodded instead, still smiling gently. “Really. We saw from your grades that you have to be smart, but that’s astonishing.”

“Indeed, mon ami,” Lafayette agreed, watching him closely. He grinned again when he saw that Alexander was looking at him, leaning back in his chair. It turned into a smirk, and he raised an eyebrow at Alexander, almost in a challenge. “Maybe I’ve finally, how you say, met my equal.”

Turning around, Mrs Washington slapped him gently over the head, and Lafayette turned to grin at her instead. “Very modest of you, Gilbert.”

“You know me,” he replied, grin widening. “L’homme le plus modeste sur la terre.”  

The most modest man on earth. Alexander snorted, causing Lafayette to wiggle his eyebrows. “Sit down, Alexander.”  

He pointed toward the chair next to his, and Alexander obeyed automatically, folding his hands in his lap. He eyed the food on the stove, wondering how much he would be allowed. His stomach ached, and he hoped it’d at least be enough to soothe it if not enough to really sate him. I’ve never been satisfied used to apply to his place in the world, but lately, the words had taken a much more literal meaning.

With a smile, Mrs Washington gestured toward it. “Bon appetite, boys.”

Immediately, Lafayette was on his feet, plate in his hands as he rushed up to the stove and started shovelling food from the pot. At Mrs Washington’s urging gaze, Alexander followed. His hands trembled as he slowly made his way to the food, looking it over. A stew in a pot and potatoes, and there was so much of it and he didn’t know how much he was allowed to take. His breaths grew shallow as he reached out for the potato spoon. Careful not to spill a single drop, he put two potatoes and a spoonful of stew on his plate. It wasn’t enough, but it was safe.

“Non, mon ami,” Lafayette said, grabbing the spoon from him and laying on more food. “You are a growing boy. Eat.”

As the tower of food on his plate grew, Alexander stared at it in pure shock. He didn’t think he’d had that much food at once since he left the island. His eyes were wide and confused as he looked up at Lafayette. “I don’t- I don’t need that much,” he got out, eyes flickering to Mr and Mrs Washington. He desperately hoped they wouldn’t mind it, wouldn’t get mad at him.

“Fadaises.” Nonsense. ”You are my age, non?”

He nodded. “I think so. Sixteen.”

“Oui. I know me and my friends are hungry all the time. You must eat, Alexander. You are much too thin.” With that, he went back to the table and Alexander followed, watching the other beginning to devour his food while Mr and Mrs Washington went to serve themselves. His stomach growled, but he laid his hands in his lap, squeezing them together as the delicious scent filled him. He hadn’t been given permission to eat yet and he really didn’t want them to take the food away because he rushed into it.

They sat down as well, opposite of him and Lafayette, and Mrs Washington nodded encouragingly at him as she grabbed her own cutlery. “Aren’t you hungry, Alexander?”

“I’m fine, ma’am,” he replied as neutrally as he could, but his stomach protested, growling again. He winced.

Mr Washington chuckled, though there was an odd undertone to it. “It doesn’t seem to agree. Eat, son, or Martha will think you don’t like her cooking.”

“Thank you, sir,” he mumbled before grabbing his fork and shovelling the first forkful of it into his mouth. He only just held in a moan as the thick flavour spread in his mouth, full of spices, and he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring it. When he opened them again, he found the others watching him in amusement. Going red, he ducked his head. “It’s delicious, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” When he dared look up again, Mrs Washington was watching him with warm brown eyes. It sent another rush of blood to his cheeks. It was so weird to have anyone look at him like that. And while it was nice, it also made him uncomfortable. Left him wondering when the penny would drop and there’d be no more sweetness. When they would realize how annoying he was.

“So, Gilbert, what did you, Hercules and John get up to this time?” she asked Lafayette, and Alexander sighed in relief as the attention was moved away from him. He ate quickly, determined to get as much into his stomach as physically possible before they decided he’d had enough. Still, he raised an eyebrow. Lafayette had a friend named Hercules?

Lafayette lit up. “We went to the mall! John needed to buy new art supplies and toys for Juggler – his dog,” he added, obviously for Alexander’s sake. “John’s family is from South Carolina where they have like, an enormé farm, and he brought with him this big hairy sheepdog they moved here. Then we tried out the new coffee shop. They’ve got the fanciest fucking drinks, it’s delightful!”

Unable to help himself, Alexander perked up at the mention of coffee. Maybe if he was good, they’d allow him to go out on his own and he could go there. He had a few dollars saved up.

Noticing this, Mr Washington turned to smile at him. “You like coffee then?”  

“Yessir,” he replied quickly, fiddling with his fork as he sat up straight. Dammit, if they were talking with him, he couldn’t eat.  

“Maybe you’d want to go with Gilbert and his friends there someday?” he suggested.

“They’ve been dying to meet you!” Lafayette exclaimed, gently punching Alexander’s arm, and he couldn’t help his flinch. The other boy’s hand froze mid-air and he dropped it again, but kept grinning.

The idea of going out with Lafayette and his friends was foreign in Alexander’s mind. Why would they want him to come with them? A stranger, a nobody, and an orphan. There was no good reason for it. At least not one he liked. His eyes flickered to Mrs Washington, who was the only one who hadn’t given her opinion yet.

“I think that sounds like a marvellous idea, if you’re feeling up to it,” she agreed. “Of course you don’t have to if you don’t think you’re ready yet, but it might be good to know some people other than Gilbert when you start going to school.”

School. Oh, right. With his last family, he’d been home-schooled so no one would notice the very suspicious bruising. He couldn’t help but grin at the thought. School. Fuck, he couldn’t wait until then. “If you think it’s a good idea, ma’am. When will I go to school?” He couldn’t hide his excitement.

“We’ll have to get you written in first,” Mr Washington said, a smile on his face. “But if you feel you’re ready, I’m sure we can have you start at Monday.”

He nodded eagerly. “Please sir.”

“I’m glad to see you’re that interested in going to school.” He hummed, amusement written over his face as he looked to Lafayette, who made a face. “You’ll find not everyone in this house is.”

“It’s so fucking early,” Lafayette moaned. “It should be illegal to make teenagers get up at that time.”

“I don’t mind,” Alexander said timidly. Not like he slept much anyway. That reminded him, he was going to need a new journal soon. Hopefully he could get to a bookshop or steal one from school. And maybe also some instant coffee powder. It was what kept him alive during those times when he wasn’t allowed to go downstairs and make coffee whenever he wanted.

Lafayette gaped, looking between Alexander and his adoptive father with wide eyes. “You can’t be a teenager, it is simply not possible.”

Mr and Mrs Washington laughed, and even Alexander couldn’t help but smile. He just couldn’t dislike Lafayette... yet.

“So, Alexander,” Mrs Washington eventually said, just in time for him to start to feel full. He looked up from his plate, where there still was food, debating how the hell he was going to manage to finish it all. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”

Dread filled him. “There’s- There’s not much to tell, ma’am.”

“Call me Martha, dear. And I’m sure there’s something. What do you like to do?”

‘Call me Martha’. Alexander almost laughed at the mere thought. Thanks, but no thanks, he’d like to keep his teeth. But then a cold feeling washed over him. “I- I like to write, Mrs Washington,” he replied quietly.  

If she didn’t want him to say ma’am he wouldn’t, though he couldn’t imagine why. He sent out a quiet prayer to the God he’d stopped believing in many years ago that they wouldn’t ask to read what he’d written. The last family had forced him to give him his journals, and then laughed in his face over the fact that he dared to dream he could become someone.  

She looked interested, and so did Mr Washington and Lafayette, leaning in over the table. He swallowed.

“What do you write?” Mr Washington looked at him in interest.

“...Mostly essays.” He didn’t want to be here. Leaning back in his chair, he stared down in his lap.

“Mon ami,” Lafayette interrupted. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. We understand.” When Alexander looked up at him, wide-eyed, he smiled gently. “Have you finished?”

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, glancing at Mrs Washington to check if she got mad he hadn’t eaten it all. To his relief, she didn’t stop smiling.  

“I’m sure you must be very tired, it has been a long day.”

When he said that, Alexander realized he was right. After all that food and all the excitement of today, his body felt heavy. He hid a yawn behind his hand.

“Oh of course,” Mrs Washington said. “Go to bed, Alexander.”

He nodded, standing up at the clear dismissal. “Thank you for the food, Mrs Washington. Goodnight.”  

Annoyance hit him, but he hid it well. He was sixteen, and had taken care of himself since his mother died. He hated when his foster parents told him to go to bed. Particularly after all the times he’d been sent to bed ridiculously early as a punishment. Better than being beaten, but still fucking awful. Especially if it was before dinner.

“You’re welcome, dear.” She smiled warmly.

“Sweet dreams,” Mr Washington said. “I’ll pull some threads and see if I can get you written in before the weekend ends.”

“Thank you, sir.” He was grateful, he really was, but resentment still simmered in him as he turned around and went upstairs, back to his bedroom. Go to bed, Alexander.  

How controlling would the Washingtons be, was the question. Alexander almost didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was scared to find out.

[sartle-blog]

Sneak Peek of “René Magritte: The Fifth Season”

  Put on your bowler hat and take a trip to Magritte’s world.

SFMoMA is celebrating the artwork of our favorite Belgian surrealist with their newest exhibit “René Magritte: The Fifth Season.” Featuring over 70 artworks spread across nine galleries, the exhibit is the first to look exclusively at Magritte’s later works completed from the 1940s to 1960s. Tickets to “The Fifth Season” are available now until October 28th, but fellow contributor Harley and I got a sneak peek of the exhibit before it opened to the public. Like Magritte himself, we don’t want to give everything away! Here are just a few of our favorite highlights from “The Fifth Season.”

  The exhibit entrance gave us serious Twin Peaks vibes.

    La premeditation (Forethought), 1943

Wait a minute… this doesn’t look like Magritte at all! Turns out in 1943, when the Germans began their occupation of Belgium, Magritte abandoned his refined painting style for a more experimental one. To him, Surrealism wasn’t appropriate for a time of worldwide devastation. Inspired by Impressionist artists like Renoir, he began a brief but powerful rebellion where he broke away from typical Surrealism and instead experimented heavily with color and lighting.

  La moisson (The Harvest), 1943

  This nude painting wouldn’t be that strange if the woman didn’t look like a human Everlasting Gobstopper. The Harvest depicts the same woman in Magritte’s Les Bon Jours de Monsieur Ingres (Monsieur Ingres’ Good Days) which was basically a copy of Magritte’s favorite Louvre painting La Source (The Spring) by Ingres- but with a multicolored woman. This painting implies the woman has to take a nap after pouring water after a vase, and her artificial coloring further questions the authenticity of humanity’s connection with nature.

  Le Lyrisme (Lyricism), 1947

I know what you’re thinking: “WHAT?” A-pear-ently this pear-headed man was supposed to resemble King Louis XVI, the last king of France before the French Revolution. His well-known selfishness and dramatized ego is reflected in the greedy glare at another pear. Despite having context to the painting, it’s still disturbing and I’m definitely not going to be sleeping anytime soon.

  Le vie des insectes (The Life of Insects), 1947

For a painting titled The Life of Insects, there sure is an astounding lack of bugs. The two men are supposed to be fighting off the instinct for survival, similarly to how bugs do. The Simpson-esque skin tone against an overbearing green sun doesn’t make the situation any less unsettling.

  Le galet (The Pebble), 1948

This weirdly erotic nude is discomforting enough, with her being both on the beach but also set against what looks to be bathroom tiles. Some believe the “pebble” in the title refers to her pearl necklace or the pin in her hair, but Harley was convinced the pebble was actually her nipple. She’s probably right.

  La condition humaine (The Human Condition), 1933

Ah, there’s that classic Magritte trippiness we know and love. In 1949, Magritte returned to his classic style but still sought ways to what we see and what knew, particularly with windows. This entire gallery called “The Human Condition” featured paintings that encourage dual thinking when it comes to representation- in other words, how objects can be both “inside and outside, natural and artificial, original and copy.”

  La belle captive (The Fair Captive), 1950

This painting complicated the illusion that the canvases perfectly capture the scenes behind them. The nearby fire’s reflection on the right side of the canvas disrupts the math between painted surface and what lies beyond the canvas, reminding us that pictures can obstruct views as well as create new imaginative visions.

  Les monde des images (The World of Images), 1950

This beautiful painting doesn’t feature a canvas, which makes it all the more interesting that the landscape of the sunset is both inside and outside of the broken window. Magritte not only focused on paintings within paintings, but also on the “problem of the window” to generate the same paradoxical effect.

La survivant (The Survivor), 1950

With the current controversy surrounding gun control in the United States, this painting really hits hard. The absence of any people and the gun’s upright position almost implies that it is moving of its own accord, and the blood at the barrel causes us to to question just exactly who has been attacked and who has survived.

  La résponse imprévue (The Unexpected Answer), 1933

  How do we get through a closed door? The unexpected answer provided by Magritte is to make an oddly shaped hole in the door. Despite creating an opening in the door, we still cannot see what lies beyond the door because it’s shrouded in darkness. In addition to forcing viewers to figure out what the question is to the “unexpected answer” - who created the hole? Why? What lies beyond the door that we are trying to see?- Magritte also makes note of the contradiction that doors manage to both hide and expose simultaneously.

  Theory: Perhaps Botero’s Dancer at the Barre created the hole?

  .

Le bain de cristal (The Cut Glass Bath), 1946

I like to imagine the inspiration for this came from Magritte noticing the “giraffe” cocktail on a bar menu, but that’s likely not the case. The long neck of the giraffe resembles the stem of the enlarged wine glass, creating a resonance between forms that at first glance seem unsimilar. Still, there is an actual giraffe cocktail out there- it calls for melon liqueur, pineapple and cranberry juice, and vodka. Cheers to surrealism!

    Harley’s bag matching with The Treachery of Images

Is it really a Magritte exhibit if you don’t have this pipe that isn’t a pipe? Magritte’s debut of this now-iconic pipe in 1928 confused people with its meta language. Of course it’s a pipe! But Magritte’s sentence below called for a questioning of our relationship with images but pointing out that they are merely symbols of what they represent rather than the actual thing it is representing. Simple yet trippy, which I think you could say about all of Magritte’s works.

  Le fils de l'homme (Son of Man), 1964

And is it really a Magritte exhibit if you don’t have at least one bowler-hatted man with a face concealed by an object?? Magritte’s most famous work now stands in a SFMoMa in a gallery full of paintings featuring bowler-hatted men. Magritte explained that to him, the bowler hat was a symbol of the average middle-class working man.

  Side note: while I was trying to look at Son of Man, I found this guy’s awesome jacket of Magritte’s Waterfall, which was featured earlier in the exhibit!

  Dear Schulmeister (The Schoolmaster), 1954

Overheard while taking this picture: “What’s so special about that painting? People must really like the moon.”

You’re darn right I like the moon! And so did Magritte- we lost count of how many artworks featured a little crescent in them. There’s nothing particular about this painting that signifies the man’s profession. But the moon provides illumination in darkness, and its placement above the figure’s head like a light bulb in a cartoon suggests that this person is granted illumination, or knowledge, in darkness, or dark times (or just life in general). The title suggests they are subsequently responsible for passing that knowledge to others.

  The Dominion of Light, 1953-4

There are seventeen total artworks by Magritte that share this title and image. In the exhibit there’s an entire gallery in this exhibit with just the seven or so variations of this painting- the most ever displayed together as a collection. Inspired by Victorian landscape artist John Atkinson Grimshaw, these paintings display a paradox of daytime and nighttime occurring simultaneously. The picture later inspired the movie poster for classic horror film The Exorcist.

  La clef de verre (The Glass Key)  

Harley and I really enjoyed this painting of a large rock on top of larger rocks. Magritte used this oblong rock in a lot of his paintings. The rock essentially loses its meaning here. At the same time, the rock calls for our attention, to try to figure out its worth despite its placement on the mountains, thereby suggesting that objects mean a lot more than what they appear to be.

    Of course, there were a lot more paintings than what we’ve shown you here- we want you to go see the exhibit for yourself! We will let you in on one secret-ish part of the exhibit- the end included a cool interactive section where guests could take trippy pictures among the trees from Le Blanc Seing, which oddly enough was not in the exhibit. There was also a face-scanner that put your face in Sheherazade and plenty of places to take wistful staring-at-the-moon selfies.

  Le Blanc Seing (The Blank Signature), 1965

  Harley and I among the trees

  What exhibit isn’t complete without a gift store at the end? Our favorite items were these bowler hat colanders that I now regret not buying.

  The Member Preview had an exclusive party with cool cloud decorations and tacky rolling cloud animation projected on the walls. We showed up just as the bar closed, but apparently there were apple-themed desserts, cocktails, and the debut of a new beer called “Son of Hops” by Seven Stills brewery.

  Partying hard in the name of art

  Yum! (by tashadrew on Instagram)

  Definitely the coolest beer can ever (by sevenstills on Instagram)

  Despite missing all the edible and drinkable content, we managed to get in line for this adorable Magritte-themed photobooth!

  Who needs photobooth props when you have apples on sticks?

  If you’re in the San Francisco Bay Area, be sure to check out “René Magritte: The Fifth Season!” Don't forget your bowler hat, and bring a couple green apples to snack on while you’re at it.

By: Alannah Clark