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Unravelling the Philosophical Pantheon

January 1, 2025 No Comments

UNRAVELLING THE PHILOSOPHICAL PANTHEON

Analysing Raphael’s School of Athens Through His Depiction of His Philosophers

“The School of Athens” by Raphael (1509) stands as one of the pinnacle achievements in art and tapestry, proudly displayed in the upper reaches of the Vatican. This masterpiece resonates with the wisdom, knowledge, and intellectualism that permeated through Classical Antiquity from 500 BCE to 476 AD, immortalising a congregation of some of the greatest Greek philosophers whose ideas, predictions, and theories laid the foundation of Western civilization. These philosophers casually convene in a grand basilica with an arched lacunar ceiling inspired by the Byzantine-era churches built under Constantine.

The basilica’s backdrop, adorned with statues of Apollo and Athena on rectangular columns, not only echoes the architectural legacy of Hellenistic culture but also represents a synthesis of Renaissance and ancient architectural styles. This setting mirrors elements of St. Peter’s Basilica and other architectural landmarks of the Vatican, bridging Ancient Greece with the modern West. The inclusion of Apollo and Athena amplifies the message, as these deities symbolize various aspects central to the advancement of Western culture, including dance, war, music, and freedom.

At the exact centre of the basilica, framed by an arched Doric doorway, stand Aristotle and Plato engaged in conversation, dominating the congregation. Raphael likely cantered these figures to highlight what he perceived as the greatest thinkers of their time, who embody a dichotomy of thought. Their gestures divide the painting into two main schools of thought: Plato’s upward-pointing hand signifies his spiritual and metaphysical approach, suggesting a belief in higher powers and abstract forms. In contrast, Aristotle’s horizontally extended hand symbolizes his empirical and scientific approach grounded in observation and logic. This division underscores the duality of philosophical inquiry.

Analysing the gestures, actions, and positions of all the philosophers in the painting is complex. However, focusing on the most significant figures, we note the presence of Pythagoras, Hypatia, Archimedes, Diogenes, Euclid, and Alexander the Great. Art historians often debate their identities due to the intricacy of Raphael’s work, resulting in only educated guesses.

For instance, the figure reclining on the basilica steps is believed to be Diogenes. His posture and representation reflect his rejection of social conventions and luxury. Diogenes’ simple blue chiton robe and relaxed position contrast with the formality and attire of his fellow philosophers, signalling his disdain for material excess and social norms, embodying his quest for authenticity and simplicity.

Nearby, Pythagoras, the father of mathematics, is depicted surrounded by intrigued students. An image of the Pythagorean triangle is visible, while the text beneath emphasizes his harmonic theory of music, highlighting the sacredness of the number 10 in Western music and religion. Pythagorean mathematics is portrayed as a powerful language essential for understanding the universe’s patterns and mysteries.

To the right of Pythagoras sits Hypatia of Alexandria, a prominent female mathematician and philosopher. Hypatia, a proponent of Neoplatonism, explored the universe’s supreme goodness through mathematics and astronomy. Tragically, her work was deemed heretical by extreme Christian mobs, leading to her brutal murder. Raphael subtly hints at her tragic story through her attire and expression, alluding emotionally to her loss within the philosophical pantheon.

Opposite Hypatia and Pythagoras, Euclid is engaged in teaching geometry. Some modern sources suggest this figure could represent Archimedes, reflecting ongoing historical debate. Both philosophers were devoted to scientific inquiry as a means to enhance humanity’s understanding and control of the natural world. Archimedes, known for his inventions, exemplifies the practical application of science.

Above these figures, Socrates teaches the warrior Alcibiades, one of his infamous students who supposedly engaged in a pederastic relationship. Socrates’ focus on teaching, despite Alcibiades’ irritable expression, portrays him as patient and dedicated to imparting wisdom to his followers, regardless of emotional constraints.

Many other philosophers populate this artistic masterpiece, each contributing to its depth and complexity. Figures like Socrates, Anaximander, and Alexander the Great are depicted in natural poses, engaging with others. The vastness and intricacy of “The School of Athens” encapsulate the intellectual fervour and dynamism that originated in Classical Greece and Antiquity, ultimately shaping the Western world.

Despite its Church perspective, Raphael employs Renaissance colour palettes and subtle gestures to convey controversial narratives. This timeless artwork engages in a profound dialogue on philosophy, celebrating the enduring legacy of ancient thought. These are my preliminary ideas guided by factual evidence that encapsulate the essence of this tapestry.

Written by: Mineka

Creative Chronicles My Writing Corner

The Unhappy Voyeur

July 22, 2024 No Comments

THE UNHAPPY VOYEUR

As dusk gleams it’s golden elegance across the offices, flats and towers that highlight the metropolitan skyline of downtown New York, the unhappy voyeur sits by the now buttery-gold waters of the Hudson River perpendicular to a children’s park. Although his body faces the mighty Hudson, his eyes tilts towards the slides and swings that rise from the ground to create this fantasy of a playground. This is how he spends his daily evenings, sitting in a desolate bench overlooking the bitter-cold New York skyline.

He would usually hear a plethora of sweet sounds ranging from the saccharine commands, candied yelling and honeyed cries of innocent young children. Their sweet mellow tone would reverberate through his dying veins and stimulate the very few sugar molecules that were struggling to swim in his bloodstream which was no as cold and frigid as the frozen Hudson. Sometimes he would share the euphoria of these sounds by dazzling into a state of imagined youth feeling the pleasure of each child as he climbs onto the slide and slays down and repeats about a hundred times until his mental and physical muscles are sored and ached. However, such euphoric reciprocations were as uncommon as a warm winter’s day, for he would usually feel a wave of emptiness burgeoning upon his mind and soul. Against the gleeful and jubilant sound waves that circulate his physical space, the unhappy voyeur would question himself regarding the youth he has now lost and attempt to propose methods to recapture that youth before time ticks goodbye. Sometimes his emptiness would be so overwhelming that he would contemplate his unorthodox desire all in the spirit of recapturing is youth, though this grotesquely dire desire would soon propel him back to the moral rigidity of reality.

So, the unhappy voyeur would repress it; he would repress it so deeply until tears were now cascading down his wrinkled cheeks like waterfalls during a monsoon. The unhappy voyeur would leave the park and head to the eery dungeon he called Home which was isolated from downtown New York, much like from his youth.

As he journeyed through his mundane life, the unhappy voyeur would spend time observing the activities of the city youth through a discrete yet evident lens. For instance, one dawn he was walking out of his dingy little flat as he saw a young boy playing with a Red Balloon by a side walk whilst his mother babbled her tales with the nearby neighbours. The Young Boy’s eyes were glistering with purity as a joyous smile highlighted is visage. He looked up at the balloon and ran like a squirrel around the streets, all whist engaging in a deep conversation with the Red Balloon. He would sometimes inquire the balloon with bogus little questions or at other times instruct the balloon with silly little commands with his minute finger pointing up to the balloon’s little neck. He would then run around the street, again like a squirrel, just before his mother realised the scene behind her and dragged the little boy and his balloon home, out of the sight of the unhappy voyeur.

Another day as he walked into his flat after a meaningless day at work, his inquisitive instincts tilted his eyes towards the sight of a half open door of another flat through which sounds of intense pleasure were pulsating with his steps as he inched close to the door. Beyond the door was a sight that filled many cabinets of his mind though was yet and would never be realised.

On a comfortable bed, laid two frivolous teenagers, their faces reverberating with mixed expressions of pleasure, pain and passion. With an ephemeral ecstasy they topped each other as their playful howls intensified and traversed down the hallways of the empty apartment hurling life to all its objects and life, all except the unhappy voyeur who stood befuddled by the sight ahead of him as he closed the door and silently left with whisps of tears stopping right at the edge of his eyes.

In the heart of New York City, where the streets buzzed with the relentless rhythm of modern life, there existed a man known only to himself as the Unhappy Voyeur. His childhood had been a cruel twist of fate, deprived of the warmth of a mother’s embrace and the camaraderie of friends. Separated from his parents at a tender age, he was left to grow up under the watchful eye of a landlady during a time when New York grappled with the highs and lows of economic uncertainty.

The Unhappy Voyeur had never known the simple joys of childhood—no playdates, no laughter-filled afternoons. His existence was a solitary one, confined to the monotony of home tutoring from a disinterested accomplice of his landlady. As other children reveled in the sweetness of youthful adventures, he remained an observer, an outsider to the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding around him.

Time marched on, and he emerged into adulthood, not through the rites of infatuation or the glow of first love, but through the mundane routine of securing a job as an office clerk in a high-end New York firm. His salary, though sufficient to meet his material needs, failed to fill the void within him. He found himself ensnared in a limbo between the allure of the high life and the familiarity of his own unremarkable existence.

His solace came not from participation but from observation. From the sterile confines of his office, he watched the city’s youth, vibrant and free, embracing the very experiences he had been denied. The streets, parks, and cafes of New York became his stage, where he silently witnessed the laughter and love he had never known. His eyes followed their every move, capturing moments of joy and spontaneity that he could only dream of.

The Unhappy Voyeur’s life was a solitary vigil, his only company the distant hum of a city that seemed to mock him with its vibrancy. His days were filled with unspoken longings and suppressed regrets, his loneliness deepening with each passing moment. He could sense that the walls of his own life were closing in, suffocating him with their weight.

As the seasons changed, so did his despair, becoming a gnawing, relentless force within him. His yearning for a life he could never have grew stronger, like a tide that swells and crashes upon the shore. The gap between his existence and the world he observed became an ever-widening chasm.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows over the city, the Unhappy Voyeur made a fateful decision. Overwhelmed by the weight of his unfulfilled desires and the crushing burden of his isolation, he chose to end his vigil. He walked to the edge of the city, where the neon lights and the bustling crowd seemed like distant dreams.

In the final moments of his life, he took one last look at the world he had longed for, the world of youth and joy, of laughter and love. With a heavy heart, he let go of his repressed sorrow, the loneliness that had haunted him now released into the night. As the lights of New York sparkled below, he finally found peace, but it was a peace born of a tragic and irreversible farewell to the life he had always observed but never lived.

Written by: Mineka

Creative Chronicles My Writing Corner

The Pretty Petty Ironies of Life!

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THE PRETTY PETTY IRONIES OF LIFE!

Observations made at Piazza Archimide, Syracuse, Sicily – 23rd August 2023

Directly overlooking the gushing waters of the fountain of Diana on an archaic-style renaissance flat was a balcony consumed by a Sicilian Nonna (Aged 68) beating the final whisps of dust and dirt off of an extensive piece of clothing embroidery. It was a turquoise table cloth embodying the rich imagery of succulent lemons, royal laurel leaves and elegant prints of gardenia. She battered the sheet with a flaring passion in an almost mechanical manner of motion with each whip harder than the previous one. As whisps of dust gently surfaced from the heavenly garden that painted the cloth, they fell onto the streets like glittering silt. As her battering grew, brutal and boisterous, I could picture the frustrating vexations of her mind gently mitigating as her wrinkles softened, her eyes sparkled and her faced gleamed in joy which was now beautifully decorated by the presence of a wholesome smile.
Diagonally under the balcony where the Nonna indulged in battering the bedsheet, sat a cult of three shrewd businessmen (Aged 29, 30 and 34). They were dressed in Armani suits that boasted a Stygian shade of ebony black with their buttons unleashed. Yet under those heavy suits of corporate puissance, were simple white shirts, the craftsmanship of a nearby tailor, that was ironed by their mothers this very morning. Though their trains of thought may have been initially rumpled by the tangled turmoil of meetings, visits and presentations, they had chosen to decelerate those trains to engage their mental muscles in a fierce game of chess. Two played while the other observed; The battle on the board was bloody and brutal, the pawns were half dead, the knights were lost and the king whose king was killed was private preparing a ploy to commit vendetta. Despite the violence and gore that stood underneath their astute eyes, the men looked as merry as larks as they sipped their shots of espresso for, they knew their real battle was just around the corner, by the office block of Syracuse.
A few yards ahead of the mighty trio was another table, much closer to the gleaming waters of the Fountain of Diana. On this table sat the attractive daughter of the nearby vegetable vendor (aged 18), dressed in raven red which seamlessly harmonised with her coal-coloured hair and snow-coloured skin. She was glowing under the subtle solar of the Sicilian sun and although she had the aura of a femme fatale her facial features completely juxtaposed the vicious beauty of her physique. Her forehead was as small as her ears, her nose was compressed into her skin and her smile was gentle while her eyes were glistering in a solvent of utmost purity as she starred at her lover across the table (aged 18). He was a reincarnation of Adonis, a handsome Sicilian youth of aristocratic charm. He was wearing a casual brown coat over a white shirt as instructed by his father and although he boasts a finely sculpted seductive face, it is frequently overshadowed by the evil presence of an existential demon who questions the rationality of his desire. Yet as he stares into the depths of the glistering eyes of his lover, the demon disappears into thin air. She takes a gentle bite from a green summer apple and he reciprocates. The verdant flesh of the warm apple erupts its sweet juices on the surface of their tongues.
As the lovers luxuriate in the sweetness of the green summer apple, a young boy (aged 14) sits on the opposite side of the fountain, absorbed in his artistic pursuit. His ear holds a dwindling pencil, while a torn sketchpad rests on his lap, and a discarded piece of rubber lies beside him. His gaze is fixated on the towering statue of Diana and her voluptuous breasts that springs fertility through out the city. Despite the surrounding allure of Diana’s classical beauty, his focus remains unwavering on his artistic endeavour. The translucent tunic of the goddess reveals hints of her form underneath, capturing the essence of sensuality and grace from classical antiquity. The boy painstakingly sketches each detail, erasing and reworking parts of his drawing in a quest for perfection that seems both fervent and unending. Occasionally, he glances up, briefly captivated by the statue’s compelling presence before returning to his task. His determination to capture Diana’s feminine splendour on paper is palpable, reflecting both his artistic skill and the depth of his admiration for the timeless beauty before him.
Just as the young boy is once again cast by the sensual spell of Diana, behind him in bar is a professor of mathematics (aged 56) whose table is scattered by layers of papers which are in turn scattered by paragraphs of numerical sentences and adorned by a convulsion of free-hand sketches comprised of circles, lines and polygons. Two of his perceptive male and female students (aged 21 and 22) approach the scene with glasses of limoncello to quench the scorching heat of the sun. As much as they admire and celebrate the numerical fables and tales of mathematics, they are startled to see the intricacy of the professors work and are baffled by its purpose. The professor explains to them with a smile that he is trying to compute the value of pi by inscribing multiple polygons into an arbitrary circle just as Archimedes did here in Syracuse two millennia ago. But why would the professor spend time so meaninglessly on an endeavour that has already being pursued by a man of the past the students ask. The professor explains that sometimes we must step into the feet of our fore fathers in order to appreciate their silent steps and memorialise and ameliorate our alacrity towards academia. The two students intrigued by the Ancient mathematical methods that stood beneath their eyes take a sip out their limoncellos and sit by the professor and offer to help him in his endeavour.
At a perpendicular angle from the mathematical trio and opposite to me was another man (aged 65), whose eyes were locked with mine. He had a strong sense of apparel wearing a coat, shirt and trouser that boasted the ultimate bliss of privilege. He seems to have had multiple companionships yet deprived of friendship. He seems to have slept with every woman in Italy yet no one has offered him the gift of love. He seems to have lived in exquisite flats yet nowhere has he felt the presence of home. His face seems to have been pricked a myriad times with the Shots of Botox that hide the many wrinkles, scars and creases that would have now engulfed his pretty face. Although his aura echoes his portrayal as an elite king of the high life in Italy, his eyes seem discoloured, discoloured by the constant bombardment of luminescent lights, alcoholic oceans alcohol and stripping poles. Here he sits at a common man’s piazza with a cigarette diffusing the frustration from his mind and a pen and paper on which he diligent write the pretty petty ironies of the sweet life of the commoners he can no longer seek nor find. It was then that I realised I was starring at a mirror, a mirror that was under a attached to a rusty metal grill.

Written by: Mineka

Creative Chronicles My Writing Corner

Living Under A White Rose…

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LIVING UNDER A WHITE ROSE…

The following script entails an erudite consultation between a wise man and his grandson who has become intimately infatuated with his astute male companion, Léon. Although his heart envisions to foster an ineffably flourishing intellectual intimacy with Léon, he is impeded and quenched by an existential conflict in coming to terms with his queerness as he battles the generational religious, societal and cultural dogmas that pathologize and relegate his sexuality. Gradually, through multiple rounds of abductive philosophical reasoning with his grandfather, Théo gains the metacognition required to challenge his blind beliefs and confess his truth to Léon.

[Grandpa] (Enthusiastically, with tears glistering in his eyes) Oh my sweet son, how much I’ve missed our daily sagacious talks. Those memories glisten like cherries in sugar syrup as I traverse down my train of thought. How hast thou been? How is thy comrade, Léon?

[Théo] (Reciprocates Grandpa’s enthusiasm) Oh my gifted grandpa, our sagacious talks still resonate within the depths of my unconscious mind like the melancholic melodies of mockingbirds, such as the time I bluntly rambled about the nihilistic nature of religion, debated the utilitarianism of marriage or theorised the secret behind the Shakespearean sonnets. It is these same talks that embellish my companionship with Léon. As I stare into his Athenian soul, Adonic muscles and Appollian face, I feel liberated from the idiosyncrasies and insanities of this material world as I am dwelled into a parallel reality where my limbic brain prays that we were more than companions. Yet I doubt he’ll ever be mine and I’ll ever be his in this heteronormative world.

[Grandpa] (Pointing his finger towards the sky) Son, reality is inherently empty as we humans are condemned to cultivate meaning from the meaninglessness of life. Aristophanes once said that long ago humans, irrespective of gender, were affixed in pairs each having their own heart, brain and arms while sharing a singularly common soul. Deranged by their perfect affinity, the Gods split the creature into two humans who were displaced into the real world where they were destined to search endlessly for their counterpart in order to revive their meaningful bond from its millenary slumber. Son, you are among the few blessed souls to have found your other half, Léon, Is it not better to confess thy truth to him than die in emptiness? What dost stop you from taking the tone of confession?

[Théo] (With slight trepidation) Grandpa, as much as I question the metaphysics of reality, I am still condemned to live within its restrictive walls. It is religious, societal and cultural dogmas that have repressed my truth for Léon as much as my eternal queerness. As I sift through religious texts, I pray that I be dead than alive for I am a sinner, abomination and monstrosity to the sustenance of humanity. As I enter the societal system, heteronormative politics regularly consume me, instilling the life I am expected to live to which I miserably and falsely reciprocate in order to avoid the jarring judgements of society. Moreover, the movement that once fought for our acceptance have now radicalised their agenda and created a gender identity epidemic that has repulsed society to which I do not wish to associated with. I believe I should live as I always did, under a white rose, where I secretively suppress my idyllic desires and conform to the norms and constructs of the real world.

[Grandpa] (In a slow and mellow tone) My dear Théo, your mind speaks the ideology of the laymen of my generation. I am not one of them and aspire you not to be. Back in my day, human thought muscles were weakened by the manufactured forces of religious, societal and cultural norms which we humans usefully created to discipline our animalistic roots and forge a fruitful existence. Yet in the process of doing so, we have unempathetically discarded the existence of natural forces like human thoughts and emotions thus creating constitutions of cognitions that corrupt innocent souls like you.

My views on queerness are not restricted by these cognitions as I’ve told you that a philosopher’s mind is like a river flowing, always adapting and is never impeded by restrictive ideologies.

[Théo] (In shock and awe) I always believed that my queerness would upset you yet its astonishing that our viewpoints confound each other. Grandpa, I am as lost as a wandering barque in the Atlantic, tell me, is this unconscious desire of mine immoral in any way?

[Grandpa] (In a calculative and systematic tone) Son, morality can be expressed in an equation. It is the sum of our freewill, consequences and intentions. Your queerness is not an existential choice so is not an act of freewill. Your queer interactions pose no threat to yourself, him nor the sustenance of humanity. Your queer desires are not born of bad intent but rise from humanity’s deeply-rooted burning need to connect. Son, your desire seems to be amoral as opposed to moral or immoral.

[Théo] (Enlightened and Curious) Grandpa, enlighten me, if my desire is amoral, why must I still speak my truth to Léon?

[Grandpa] (Rises and looks into the vista in front speaking in a tone of finality) Son, our existence as humans primarily depends on us mediating between two worlds. One is the material world we live in where life is quenched by the relative illusion of time and bound by impediments in the form of religious, societal and cultural dogmas that hinder the fulfilment of our desires. The other is a hypothetical parallel world where time is infinite and no impediments exist to obstruct and repress the fulfilment of our desires. Yet for many this world simply resides within the depths of our futile minds as we continue to live in the material world suppressing our desires, under a white rose. As ordinary as it is for humans to live under a white rose and betray their desires, it suspends us in a whirlpool of guilt that conjures upon us at the grave where we die as unfulfilled souls.

Son, you have met your soul mate with whom you wish to forge the utopic fantasy that you behold in your parallel world. Therefore, I once gain ask Is it not better to confess thy truth to him than die in emptiness? Is it not best to quit living under a white rose and turn those roses into passionate shades of red?

Well, the dilemma rests in your hands now, as time calls me to leave. May you flourish a fruitful and idealistic existence while staying as humble and sapient as you really are. Thou art mine own lief son, so much ranker ver since i did recite the “to beest ‘r not to beest” on mine own lap nearly 15 years ago. Promise me you’ll make a wise choice. Farewell!

[Théo] (In tears, taking a tone of realisation) I will, my gifted grandpa. I will turn those white roses into passionate shades of red.

Grandpa’s figure fades into the mellow air, as dusk gleams its golden elegance over the jagged hills and gently-lit hamlets while the firry sky paints the background of this ethereal landscape. Hurtling back to the material world, Théo stares smiling into the grave of his long-lost grandfather that boasts the words “The Earth has music for those who listen”.

No sooner does Théo call Léon to a field of red roses where his truth is confessed and reciprocated allowing him to forge the utopic visons of his parallel reality. Together they flourish a fruitful life as two erudite young philosophers consulting troubled individuals just as Théo’s grandfather did to him when he was struggling to live under a white rose.

Written by: Mineka