How can one live in this day and age? In an essay on Theodor W. Adorno, Terry Eagleton notes that “for what the body signals to Adorno is not first of all pleasure but suffering” however, one cannot ignore the aspect of pleasure since it serves as a gauge in those instances of intense pain (1990, p. 41). Today, the body which still lives is damaged and reduced to its barest minimum. Time is left to touch a terrain in which “humanity itself has come to a full stop” (Eagleton, 1990, p.42). One questions how life has continued after this complete cessation. Nothing new seems to emerge and the differences which individuals look for appear to be fixed (Baudrillard, 1998). At the same time, contemporary society is constantly facing uncertainty (Bauman, 2007). It is therefore more germane to this context to ask another question: How is it possible to paint since everything seems to have already been negotiated?
The artist who aims to be distinct by moving away from the mind blinkered by imposed customs which, to him, envelop the whole of society has to come up with his own project. This involves making a plan and disciplining his mind to work for hours on his art. It is developed in moments of frustration and agony while facing the dense and suffocating environment of norms and rules. At times, this project is revealed by the things one uses and makes, which are left scattered around and are left for others to comprehend. By looking for and at what is left, one may also find traces of the person who has worked in that closed environment. However, this space is not invulnerable to the elements which characterise the society he resides in. The artist grapples with the values and norms which seal the enclosure he faces (Bauman, 2005). The institutionalization of “the artist against the norms of society” as well as the reduction of freedom to the possibility of choosing from pre-set configurations within the market, leave the artist no escape (Bauman, 1993; Blackshaw, 2005). Entrapped in this cage one finds that his “vulnerabilities” become his muse. From one cage to the other with no openings, anxiety leaves the artist fighting for breath. This state of anxiety also becomes an object of inspiration and study. The act of wrestling against the norm is not only the outcome of this perceived order, which the artist aims to break, but also of the ambivalence which torments him knowing that there is no actual opponent which can be located in a fixed place (Bauman, 1993). The uncertainty about which way to go within the complex of cages and the constant test by others to see if one is following a desired path leaves the person under examination susceptible to succumb to anxiety. It is how the artist is able to turn the tables on anxiety which makes it possible to see that the negotiations are also inconclusive. It is the fear of empty cages which the artist aims to eliminate. By going astray from the meaning which others give to confinements, the sense of an empty enclosure is produced. At the same time, one is bound to feel free to choose which path to take from what is available.
The paintings are made in haste ; the rush is to fill up the canvas with paint. The canvas is meant to be full. There is a sense of the need to ascertain oneself that no part of it is left untouched with paint in order to eliminate the void. It is said that after an accident in which Pascal was involved in , his anxiety intensified and fearing that there was a chasm on his left hand side he used to position a chair to assure himself that this abyss was not really there (Vidler, 2000). Pascal’s “abyssal anxiety” and his fear of the void accompanied his general interest on emptiness and the vacuum (Vidler, 2000, p.16). For the artist, the void which is covered with paint is not rooted in the psychological but in the social. A vacuum is created when the individual is left abandoned due to the collapse of those regulations which confine as well as provide a framework to comprehend the world (Bauman, 2007). In this precipice, the echo of Emile Durkheim’s warning on the state of anomie can be heard. One may also find that this complex of cages is part of a much larger structure and some of its sections are older than presumed. The artist is aware of this enclosure by heeding the insight of those who were there before him and the pieces of information he encounters.
The artist is confined to a society whose enclosure is shrouded with interlocking gates and hides the ambivalence which permeates it with complex systems of conduct. The sense of individuality is ultimately also a consequence of the society which provides it with room to breathe. This individuality facilitates the promise of being away from the confines of society but, at the same time, it makes that person reliant on this possibility (Marske, 1987). If this struggle for individuality becomes the basis upon which both life and paint are put, then one finds himself aiming to be alone no matter how unsuccessful the attempts turn out to be and taking passages within the cage with the aim of maintaining a distance from the rest. This leads the person to wander those areas which are less frequented and to begin to consider the enclosure as empty. In an empty confinement with boundaries which can be perceived, yet unsure how to proceed, the artist considers his vulnerabilities as a starting point for investigation. One strives for individuality yet knows that one cannot escape the tangled roots of relations with others; the family and sexuality are two domains where other humans have to be acknowledged (Bauman, 2003).
The artist, imbued with anxiety upon realizing the confinement he inhabits, attempts a pedagogical manoeuvre upon himself by transforming the questions which he is asked by those whom he meets on his way to these empty parts into statements. From this stems the source of inspiration for some of his work. The question “What are you doing?” becomes “This is what I am doing” and “This is my anxiety”. The artist begins to build his own space in those empty parts of the cage. He positions the figures in a way which makes it unclear whether they are reposed or in strain. The artist fights against the empty parts of the canvas with paint but it is the fear of emptiness once again which resurfaces on the canvas. This emptiness is like a deep well which is devoid of water; a well that is empty. The emptiness which resurfaces in the form of paint is like that in the case of an empty well—a confined space holding the potential mass of a heavy downpour. The fear of this mass which can engulf the vacuum and the frightening scenario of being trapped down there is felt even when the well is empty.
Baudrillard, J. (1998). The Consumer Society. London: Sage.
Bauman, Z. (1993). Modernity and Ambivalence. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Bauman, Z. (2005). Work, Consumerism and the New Poor. New York: Open University Press.
Bauman, Z. (2007). Liquid Times. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Blackshaw, T. (2005). Zygmunt Bauman. New York: Routledge.
Durkheim, E. (2006). Suicide. New York: Routledge.
Eagleton, T. (1990). The Significance of Theory. Oxford: Blackwell.
Marske, C. (1987). Durkheim's "Cult of the Individual" and the Moral Reconstitution of Society. Sociological Theory, 1-14.
Sammut, F. (1971). Il-Gaġġa. Lux Press.
Smith, D. (1999). Zygmunt Bauman: Prophet of Postmodernity. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Vidler, A. (2000). Warped Space. London: MIT Press.
2016 - Paintings, Heritage Malta, Melita Street, Valletta Malta
On 'Nudes' 2016
The works on paper and canvas in this present collection constitute Gabriel Buttigieg’s second solo exhibition. Buttigieg’s work is instantaneously recognisable, both due to its style and subject-matter. Many of the works on paper feature a series of quasi-impulsive, free-flowing brush strokes which give a sense of naturalness and spontaneity to the works. Such spontaneity is however also supported and controlled by strategically distributed bolder lines which create determinate boundaries within the works, and draw the composition together into a structured whole. Other works in this collection are however decidedly softer, and give off a more intimate feel.
Buttigieg himself seeks to steer away from over-rationalising his own work and intentions; the thrust of his art can be said to intentionally rest on this explicit emotive rather than conceptual content. Buttigieg’s attitude towards his own work may then be paraphrased as follows: “there ought to be no psychologising present here … the works simply are what they are, and say what they say”. Yet it would be impossible not to notice the recurrent theme present in Buttigieg’s work overall: predominantly female figures – bar the fact that artist occasionally features as a protagonist – hidden behind an uncanny, alluring, yet at times unnerving, veil of anonymity. The way the figures are portrayed in turn give the artworks an intimate, personal feel, and invite the viewer into their world as well as that of the artist. Interestingly, the figures draw the viewer closer, yet their anonymity allows them to remain forever at a distance.
I would then claim that Buttigieg’s work is deeply conceptual and existential, even if the artist is rarely willing to explicitly concede this. His work is not innocent for the very same reason that a slip of the tongue is not simply innocent. In other words, his work often speaks more than it lets out, even if its underlying force is never present at face value.
On 'Dik il-Qtajra' Series 2017
“In Buttigieg’s work, lines on paper converge with the artist’s memories and desires. This convergence is recurrently presented with very little modification. In the nakedness of these depicted bodies, the artist has concurrently exposed his own thoughts. This bold act does not require elaborate colour. People undress willingly when they feel confident to do so and this work reflects the artist’s confidence in inviting the viewer to delve deeper into his mind. The line is nude. Where the line is drawn, it is a decisive mark. The artist provides a visual and personal statement, explained in lines. In this work the images are left bare in order to allow the curious onlookers to wrestle with the honesty that is being displayed in front of them.”
On 'Babies' Series 2017
In his ‘Babies’ series, Buttigieg reflects on what he sees as characteristic features of our human condition. From the moment of conception, we are subject to deterministic forces bestowed upon us through the expression of a parent’s irrational will. Each and every one of us exists in a world, and inhabits a body that is, to a very large extent, indifferent to our desires and motivations. We are nevertheless simultaneously both motivated and enslaved by these very drives which we can neither fully control nor simply reject.
In the womb, the child exists in a suspended state, represented in the series by the large empty spaces that surround each of the infant figures. Yet it may also be noted that the series does not depict the children as foetuses or neonates, indicating that the deterministic process of character formation occurs from the very beginning.
On 'Dik il-Qtajra' & 'Babies' Series 2017
There is something preformed about our personalities before they are ever even moulded and yet we often do not have the slightest idea who or what we are until we become it. This series of works on paper deals precisely with this preconceived idea of who we are before we are born and the sexual self-narrative that according to artist drives us all forward.
It has long been said that the purity of line is capable of holding the free expression of pure artistic thought and sentiment. These works contain many delicate definitions of many interesting points of form, and there is expression as much as there is spontaneity in each one, as the two go hand in hand for the artist. His babies are formed with the fewest of lines, and like Marlene Dumas’ ‘The First People’ these infants are all lying in peculiar positions. However, whereas Dumas emphasised monumentality, Gabriel emphasises sexuality, self- awareness and survival. These babies are contradicted by their innocence and need to survive, they put themselves first as they subconsciously fantasise about satisfying their sexual needs and desires. Likewise, another type of line is at play here, the line of Alfred Buttigieg’s words in ‘Dik il Qtajra’, as these conditions of sex and survival, of love and pain, are further explored in Gabriel’s reactions to his father’s work from the 1980s. The very essence of sex is stripped down to its bare essentials, sometimes more abstractedly than others, and yet he has found a place for its realism without it ever becoming banal.
Gabriel’s work is this and more; it is about being the same person over time whilst not holding onto every aspect of one’s current self but instead, changing purposefully. Transformation does not necessarily threaten identity but instead unearths our core identity, our essence. The work in his third solo exhibition is located smack in the middle of this transformation.
On 'Saudade' 2018
'In his current oeuvre, Gabriel is strongly determined to throw light on the very fibre of everyday life, as evidenced in the myriad of psycho-sexual instances that texture its on-going narrative. He unfolds the intimate, the innermost private obsessions haunting adolecence, adulthood and old age, and explodes into a liberating dialogue, devoid of inhibition, brimming with unrestrained conviction. Gabriel's soul searching catharsis revealing the essential vulnerabilities of humankind is presented in a forcefully candid and almost 'matissean' palette, denouncing any inclination towards any dramatic evocations, but exuding serene nonchalance for what may ultimately comprise of life's obscurely chronicled deficiencies.'
Dr. John Paul Grech
On 'Saudade' 2018
For Gabriel Buttigieg, human beings are immersed in a Proustian longing for lost enchantment, adrift in dream worlds that maroon them from compassion, self-awareness and purity.
At first glance, the works seem exuberantly happy. They are drenched in dazzling colour, luxuriant blooms shower figures floating and coupling in the air like fantasies made flesh. Others frolic in delightful orgies and golden summerscapes. ‘Saudade’ celebrates nature’s fertility and splendour.
But these are nuanced and multilayered paintings, and the viewer should take a closer look. The figures hovering in mid-flight are actually in mid-fall, plunging to earth like Icarus after their mad pursuit of dreams. The fecundity of nature and the beauty of the human figures presage autumnal decay. The erotic tableaux, despite their whimsical details and playfulness, hint at rape, subjugation, neglect and stolen innocence.
In these beautiful, unsettling works, Gabriel Buttigieg suggests that regret for an alternative past or present, or saudade, is both corrosive and inevitable.
On 'Saudade' 2018
‘In ‘Saudade’, Gabriel Buttigieg is exhibiting a series of paintings which portray the mundane lives of ordinary people along other paintings, which convey stories of figures drawn from mythology and imagination. The basis of these art pieces lies in the representation of passions, nostalgia and the need to be desired by others. In each image, there is an outburst of colour, careful composition as well as a balanced emphasis on the figure and landscape. Such emphasis indicates a change in the artist’s influences and style. Buttigieg is painting both the joys and troubles of life. A sense of longing for serenity ultimately unifies the work.’
On 'Saudade' 2018
‘Saudade is a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. It carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.
In his new body of work Gabriel explores with beauty the strained nature of experience. Establishing identity through memory, nothing remains unmoved. Gabriel’s paintings array how cultural memory is a reconstructive affair where through colour, tone, and emotion, specific events are constantly recollected or revalued.
Saudade; or the presence of absence.’
On ‘Saudade’ 2018
I have known Gabriel and followed his work closely for nearly the last decade, having visited his studio a few times especially in the last two years. I have also held long discussions with him and witnessed regular changes in the way he looks at his process of artmaking, particularly in the way he chooses to express himself through his drawing and painting.
As a young artist, I must say that Gabriel has managed to mature pretty quickly. His earlier work showed a strong passion for the raw act of painting, which compelled him to ravage the canvas in order to create works that rested on raw execution and expressive colour to deliver their content. His handling of paint, although quick in execution, has always shown a maturity that belies his age and a keen sense of colour observation. Gabriel’s interest and direction has always been towards figuration. Being driven by all that makes us human, he relies on the bodily form to deliver his concept, swaying between the expressionistic rendering of the human figure and on the other hand its abstraction.
I have seen this wonderful collection of works take root some months back in one of my visits to Gabriel’s studio. Back then he told me that he was increasingly becoming interested in a reduction of his instinctive brush stroke and preferring a more defined, flatter colour application. He also informed me that he was interested in unearthing his childhood memories, and therefore the works that eventually came to form this exhibition are an elegy to the progressive loss of his, and I also contend our own, childhood. Gabriel uses the work as a rekindling of childhood memories, in his case not through the serene and joyful common practices of looking at family photos or listening to recorded tapes or viewing of video films, but through the much more painful, lengthy and complex painting process.
Recently, Gabriel was also feeling the need to alter such a process in order to ‘become one’ with the canvas, a self-redress that also meant that he had to choose to work in a larger dimension in order for the canvas dominate him, rather than him dominating the canvas as is the case in works of a smaller dimension. He found this oneness not only through the change in his painting process, but also in the subject matter chosen for this exhibition, embodied in its title - Saudade: which translates as a feeling of longing for something or someone that one loves and which has been lost, repressed by the knowledge that the subject and object of longing will never return. This feeling is normally experienced when one loses a relative, a loved one, or a relationship, or even the feeling that comes from barrenness, of a child that one could never have. The strange thing about the state of Saudage is that it puts one in a melancholic state which at times inversely heightens one’s emotional charge.
The title for the exhibition is therefore very carefully chosen, as, for me, the works themselves present a similar, if not this same contradiction. They are charged with a deep inner sadness, but also testify to a reassuring happiness that stems from the very same state of melancholy, this opposing duality of sadness that comes from missing someone or something loved, as expressed through Gabriel’s explicit narrative; and the warm and reassuring happiness of having experienced that love.
Such contradiction becomes more complicated when one is faced by the seeminglycontradictory vehicle that carries this pictorial narrative, that is , the careful selection of bright, flat colours and the meticulous compositional stasis of the works, which are normally strategies used by artists to carry much lighter themes.
One thing that becomes clear in all of this intricacy is that only through producing this work, could Gabriel’s redemptive catharsis happen. Through the very personal act of painting, and through the morphing of memory to allegory, the artist completes the circular path to catharsis, as without the work, and without the verbalising process of painting, the complete state of Saudade is never reached. To put this dilemma in another way, were it not for the creation of these brightly coloured quasi fables, the artist’s purging of his inner turbulence would not have been possible.
In this work, Gabriel does not want to show us metaphors. He is careful to choose allegory as a form of fiction to represent his immaterial memories as images. He rests on this age-old form to make us read the work as a story; a frame not very different from that of a comic book or a fairy tale, but nevertheless one which engages us on many levels of participation if we dare to dig deeper, such as the art historical, the sociological, the philosophical and the cognitive amongst many others.
It is with this reflection on the allegorical nature of these works that I would like to end this address, and leave you with one last friendly word of warning. Do not be carried away by the pictorial and the superficial composedness of these works. These are only the calm before the storm. These works are as turbulent as Gabriel’s former, more instinctive work, if not more!
The main difference is that this time Gabriel is more calculating with his emotions, and through guileful and glossy bargaining, he is wittingly involving us in his complex dramas. It is up to us to willingly give in and make our own sense of the works through reading their multi-layered memories according to our own baggage. It is only through spending time with these works that we can unravel their secrets. I will therefore stop here and invite you to get lost in Saudade’s wonderful complexity.
Vince Briffa 8 November 2018
An Essay by Lara Zammit — On Gabriel Buttigieg’s “Icarus Series”
Contradictions in Flight: An Essay that could have Waited, but didn’t.
A set of paintings named after Icarus remained stirring in my mind after having viewed them on Thursday, 8th November, 2018. Upon viewing some new paintings by Gabriel Buttigieg and curated by Sarah Farrugia, a desire to speak of them arose, perhaps because the setting was so surprising. A Latin proverb states, with all the authority of a language threaded into eternity, “ubicumque ars ostentatur veritas abesse videtur” (wherever art is ostentatious, truth seems to be absent). It must be then for a lack of ostentation that some truth was allowed to seep through the cacophony of those unseeing, who seem to gather whether what they are shown is truthful or not. How surprising to find some truth in days like these...
A set of four, draped in blue with hints of red, displayed in prominence a figure dissolved into the Lethe of this common narrative we have inherited from the Greeks. The mother of Icarus: a nameless axiom, a necessary preconception, uncontested and unnoticed, who is unseen the way things that are everywhere are invisible to us—anonymity (namelessness) shrouding her into concealment.1 But she has a name, according to Apollodorus: in his Library, a compendium of Greek myth, he identifies her as Naucrate, a slave of Minos, the King who condemned Daedalus and his son to oblivion within the labyrinth Daedalus himself had built.2 But even when named, she is nameless.
Things are true in disparate ways. A thing named becomes true by virtue of some initial recognition, and upon recognition can ensue identification (first we notice, then we place into some greater system: one composed of things that are the same as one another). Truth here is only true insofar as what was once concealed is now available to our minds. Recognition and identification give way to discernment—the named thing is then put before the scrutiny of judgment (how true is this thing that we have identified?). There are truths that are true by virtue of having emerged from causality. Parentage is a causal concern that we do not always bother naming. It is axiomatic that Icarus had a mother, whether she is recognised or not. Indeed, she is only ever mentioned once by Apollodorus in passim—Ovid does not speak of her in his compendium, the Metamorphosis—perhaps rightly so, for her only role was to have birthed Daedalus’s son. Nowhere else is she to be found, dissolved into the obviousness of the axiomatic.
But we find her displayed, or splayed, in the surprising series by Gabriel Buttigieg, who grants this axiom some agency of its own, giving it the possibility to be itself surprising. She exists with the autonomy of an agent uninhibited by recognition—unnoticed, she is free. In a way, she is less of a slave than Daedalus who is condemned to be recognised ad aeternum. We see her at her most free, enthralled in the spirit of Eros with a lover himself unnamed (is this Daedalus prior to the invention of Icarus, or is this a lover she has taken on while the rest of the narrative goes on without her?).
Icarus strives for the freedom residing outside the oblivion of his father’s labyrinth. He ignores the proto-Aristotelian advice of his father to neither strive too vehemently nor too laxly, to fly not too close to the sun nor too close to the sea—a Goldilocks principle as old as time. Icarus is often characterised as the embodiment of hubris, as a warning to all those who are tempted by the self-defeating nature of ambition. He is always seen as the agent of his own destruction, marked in time by an island and sea named after the hamartia that removed him from the narrative. But who is it really who falls when Icarus tumbles to his watery grave? Daedalus survives and lands in Sicily, and his mother is very much alive in the works of Gabriel Buttigieg and in the axiomatic truth that grants her existence necessity, but at what point in the confounding event of parentage do they end and their child begin?
Icarus, like every child, is composed of a contradiction. In Western logic, a contradiction is usually shunned, or, at best, regarded as a helpful tool for discerning where one has gone wrong and must rectify some mistake. Propositions (P) are regarded through a threefold logical edifice:
(P) is (being)
(P) is not (being)
(P) is or is not (being)
However, the Buddhist logical argument called Catuṣkoṭi, “the four corners of truth”,3 includes a fourth category in addition to the Western ones, namely:
4. (P) neither is nor is not OR
both is and is not
In other words, the forth category is the contradiction. Icarus is both himself and his parents: compelled into being by the very forces that compelled his parents into being and their parents before them, he is simultaneously this and, also, indivisibly himself in all his distinguishability. A continuity stretching across time immemorial, axiomatic, necessary, and unnoticed, has forged him into existence, and thus is carried with him throughout every instance of his being-in-the-world. Within him is the infinity that spurred his own existence. His enactment of himself is at once singularly his and of the entire lineage that begot him.
There comes a point in every child’s life when he begins to see in himself his corresponding parent, and can foresee, with varying degrees of aversion and distress, that he is to become one or the other parent in the near future. Once the parents stop being merely parents and take on the form of human beings, their qualities and quirks start to become visible to us, and begin to become recognised in ourselves. Where do we begin, we ask ourselves, and where do our parents end? But we are using the wrong logical device there. It is not a question of either-or (3) but of both-and (4). Icarus holds within himself his father and his mother. Indeed, his mother, although unrecognised, not included in the narrative explicitly, resides all across the narrative wherever her son is present, but also, simultaneously, is not there wherever her son is present. The same goes for Daedalus who both resides and does not reside within the delimitations of his son. There is a hint of this contradiction in the painting entitled “Icarus’s Mother (After P. Gowy)” where Icarus’s mother is depicted in the same position in which Jacob Peter Gowy depicted Icarus falling from the heavens in his own painting. The parallelism of mother and son, taking on the same physicality, encapsulates the contradiction of them both being and not being each other simultaneously.
We must not forget, however, that Icarus is the agent of his own destruction. He alone is responsible for his own downfall, for, when called to action, only those who are present can respond. His father and his mother are not capable of speaking except through the delimitations of their own respective selves, and so cannot take on the responsibly of being other than themselves. Only Icarus qua Icarus can speak, and therefore respond to the call of conscience brought about by that formative and (ultimately) fatal event. We see Icarus himself in the final painting of the series, in flight right before the fall, in seemingly blissful unawareness of the dismantled wings he bears, the bird resting on his hand a symbol of self- deception.
Subjectivity is composed of the physicality (both corporeal and subtle) of oneself and all other elements of character that teem from this singular configuration, and, simultaneously, the history that placed the configurable elements into that singular being. Continuity through parentage, while carrying within itself the vast history from which it stems, is always incomplete. Each child is an attempt to quell that incompleteness, an attempt to subdue the tension brought about by what is felt to be unresolved. The merging of two distinct parts of a sequence creates the next element of the configuration in an attempt to call for some possible resolution, but, much like the Fibonacci sequence that threads through much of the natural world, this sequence is always perennially incomplete, with its hands always reaching outward, looking for the next element, and the next, and the next... If we map out the Fibonacci sequence into a Golden Segment, we find ourselves feeling as though we are beholding the most harmonious of figures. Harmony must be the result of completeness, we tell ourselves. The Golden Segment must be entirely proportional, following a ratio of terms, hence being rational, but the Golden Segment is composed of a sequence that is inherently irrational as it is without resolution, always calling for completion but always falling short, since, like every instance of irrationality, it goes on forever.4
A child is irrational in the sense of being incomplete and thus always striving for resolution. This for us often takes the form of striving to escape the labyrinths our parents have built and unwittingly condemned us to, which may or may not be a fatal endeavour depending on the wings they have bestowed us and our own sense of proportion. We are at once irredeemably our parents and uncontestably ourselves, and this contradiction is what spurs is us the desire for resolution. Icarus’s downfall is an act of defiance in the face of the necessity of his own incompleteness. On the other hand, having a child is irrational in the usual way of understanding the word, namely an activity that is so far removed from proportion that it is near impossible to justify or comprehend.
The paradox of continuity is recurrence, and with each event of recurrence comes novelty tinged with what came before it. The mother and father of Icarus may very well have caused in him the conditions for his eventual downfall, and may just have easily been helpless in the face of Icarus’s incontestable agency, but, again, it is not an either-or, but a both-and. We see glimpses of a mother who is herself an incontestable agent, enthralled in nameless freedom, but the contradiction lies in her very motherhood: a term indelible, a “damned spot”5 irremovable, a mark of agency tempered by necessity. Likewise, ‘son’ is a term infused with necessity, a mark of karmic incompleteness and irresolution, whose bearer’s task is to escape the parental labyrinth and become himself... an endeavour that may very well encapsulate the greatest of contradictions.
1 Un-concealment, the Heideggerian aletheia (also crudely termed “truth”), is denied to her because the privative ‘a-’ can only be deprived of things than can be, at the very least, noticed.
2 Apollodorus, The Library, Volume II, Loeb Classical Library 122 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921), 138–39.
3 Aaron J. Cotnoir, “Nāgārjuna’s Logic,” in The Moon Points Back, ed. Y. Deguchi et al. (Oxford University Press, 2015), 176–88.
4 The seed of this thought had been planted in my mind in October 2018 during a European Graduate School seminar given by Robert Brewer Young.
5 William Shakespeare, “The Tragedy of Macbeth,” in The Complete Oxford Shakespeare, ed. Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 1330.
Apollodorus. The Library, Volume II. Loeb Classical Library 122. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921.
Cotnoir, Aaron J. “Nāgārjuna’s Logic.” In The Moon Points Back. Edited by Y. Deguchi et al., 176–88. Oxford University Press, 2015.
Shakespeare, William. “The Tragedy of Macbeth.” In The Complete Oxford Shakespeare. Edited by Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor, 1307–34 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987.