Artifice

"It was not meant to be aesthetic or to adorn the walls. It seems somehow unfair that it is so pleasing to the eye--that the photographer ordered it just right, that he captured the feeling of life within the rigid order and cleanliness."

A friend posted this tonight, and included the caption. It's not very often a picture stops me and causes me to think deeply, and in truth it has more to do with the poignancy of the caption than the picture itself. The caption tells the viewer everything the viewer should be seeing, but is likely missing. Every so often though, something grabs my attention and won't let go... this is one of those times. When someone sees something deeper in anything you've only skimmed over and neglected, it makes you feel ashamed you didn't pay attention. And if it's something hidden that you are convinced you could not have seen yourself, you are then indebted to the eyes that saw that something first. It makes you want to be a better person, more perceptive, makes you strive to be more brilliant and poignant. At least, that's what it does to me. And even more with this photo and caption, the caption expresses an opinion/perspective about the contents of the photo, which could not be more succinct or better said. It is the kind of compaction for which poetry strives. The man here is real, gritty, rough and tumble. The background shows order in steely fashion, the holes and rivets too perfect, unbending and unyielding. It shows the man in the attire of order; he is poised, hand on hip, gigantic hammer comfortably resting upon shoulder, sleeves rolled perfectly. But look at his face; his eyes. His clothes do not fit well; the rolled sleeves are too perfect, the fabric too clean. His beard is barely tamed, his forearms are full of muscle and strength. He is an animal caged in iron order, the precise holes and rivets show themselves to be artifice, as do the clothes, the pose in which he holds himself. The only thing organic and real is the man fastened in the artificial and manufactured world surrounding him. And yet for all of it, the man remains. Caged perhaps, but the spirit is not cowed; there is life in him still.