The Garden of Earthly Delights

7:00 AM

Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights (Closed), c. 1504

Hieronymus Bosch.

My personal Jesus Christ. 

From here on out, the timeline of my life will be laid out according to the day I first discovered Bosch's brillance. My own "revelation" so-to-speak. Instead of 1300 B.C, It'll be 1300 B.B (Before Bosch). And this painting--this masterpiece, is both the beginning and the end, the first and the last, of everything I am and everything I will ever be. 

Truly the epitome of perfection, each brushstroke of  The Garden of Earthly Delights is enough to reduce someone to tears.  In fact, I may have teared up a little bit just uploading the photos. With a painting so tragically beautiful and devastatingly stunning, who wouldn't get a little emotional?

To own such a painting, would be to own the universe. 

One of the great tragedies of The Garden of Earthly Delights lies in the myriad mysteries woven through it's much debated history. Who was Bosch? What was his intention? And, What the hell is that?! 

Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights (Open), c. 1504

After scouring every inch of it  I've found the real tragedy is in it's complexity.

At first glance, one may see a jumble of naked people, vibrant life-sized fruits and eerie-nether-creatures straight out of the most blood-curdling of nightmares. But, the longer you look, the more you begin to see queer, and curious things: an Albino giraffe with dragon horns, Men and women of all races, running about in the nude, indulging in both fruit and each other, or a man, head stuck under an avocado-lute, his butt tattooed with the score for some 600-year-old-butt-song from hell. 

The beauty, mind you, is in the details. Alas, only very few will ever have the opportunity to fully experience them. Nothing does it justice (trust me, I've tried everything). Printing it mutes the colors and diminishes the details, tracing or copying it in any way proves fruitless (no pun intended) every time and don't even get me started on the disillusionment generated by attempting to view such a gem on a computer. 

Ceci n'est pas un jardin des plaisirs terrestres. 
Ceci n'est pas perfection. 

The notion that one man could fantasize such things, and execute them so flawlessly, is beyond me. With no access to the internet, no access to LSD (I hope), and previous demonstrations of surrealism,
Bosch just dreamt everything up with sheer brainpower. 

If we found a way to harness it, we could fuel the universe on Bosch's imagination alone.  
And that gives me hope.

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