Oh, no, you must not. Please, do not stand there with such a furrowed brow, looking as though you’ve shouldered all the misfortunes of this weary world. You resemble a philosopher staring at a single rotting apple under a twilight sky, contemplating the absolute vanity of existence. Relax. Let the tension leave your shoulders, and simply entrust your body to that cushion over there, however slovenly. After all, we are nothing more than pitiful attractions wandered into this grand circus known as the universe—a spectacle that is, if I may say, in rather poor taste.
Today, I shall tell you a story of a certain man. And not just any man. A rogue of the highest order, who handled light and shadow as if he had stolen them directly from the hands of God Himself. Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. Even the name has a certain grandiose, slightly indigestible ring to it, does it not? He was a painter. But listen—he was not the sort of refined artist you might imagine, sequestered in a clean studio, sipping tea while moving a dainty brush. He was a ruffian in the truest sense, wearing a sword at his hip, prowling the night streets, and picking a fight at the slightest perceived slight.
But listen closely. When this scoundrel faced a canvas, a miracle occurred. To paint the Virgin Mary, he chose as his model the bloated corpse of a drowned woman found in a river. To depict saints, he dragged in drunken vagrants from the gutters. The high-ranking officials of the Church were, as you can imagine, in a positive uproar. “Immoral!” they cried. “Do you intend to defile the sacred?” Yet Caravaggio likely only laughed through his nose. He knew a truth they did not: that the light of reality exists only within the deepest shadows.
Tell me, do you ever feel that your own life is excessively mediocre, or that shadows are the only things that stand out? Do you ever despair over the dark parts of your heart—those ugly emotions you could never show a soul? If so, congratulations. You have just earned the right to stand before a Caravaggio. He shattered the flat, tedious “beauty” that painting had clung to until then. In its place, he presented a violent contrast of light and dark—what we call “Tenebrism.”
A thick, bottomless gloom that swallows more than half the frame. And then, a single streak of sharp light, piercing through like a divine judgment or perhaps a sudden salvation. When the movement of a muscle, the furrows of agony on a brow, or even the filth on the soles of a foot are illuminated by that light, they radiate a godliness that feels unearthly. It is not a pretty thing. It is a muddy, blood-scented, yet breathtakingly real affirmation of “life.”
Think about it. Under the midday sun, the beam of a flashlight is nothing. It is merely a hollow circle of pale light. But what if you were to switch on that small light in the middle of a pitch-black forest where you couldn’t see an inch ahead? It would become a beacon of hope, more precious and beautiful than anything else. The deeper your “shadow” is, the more powerfully and vividly that slight glimmer of light will sear your soul.
Caravaggio was, in truth, a most troublesome man. He stabbed a man to death over a disputed score in a game of tennis, lived a life of flight, caused trouble wherever he went, and finally died a miserable death from fever on a lonely coast at the age of thirty-eight. What a wretched, farcical end. But what of the paintings he left behind? Even now, centuries later, they remain there, gouging at our hearts with their sharpness. He dissolved his entire life—that horrific darkness—into his pigments.
Perhaps you should follow his lead, just a little. I don’t mean you should go about stabbing people, of course. That would be quite irreparable. Rather, I want you to love your “shadow.” Lay down the heavy luggage of trying to be a respectable or “correct” human being, and simply gaze steadily at the “hopelessness” within you. It is precisely within that darkness that your own unique light lies dormant.
The people of the world love to say, “Look forward,” or “Be positive.” Oh, it makes my skin crawl. Human beings are not built so simply that they can be saved by such flimsy words. Rather, it is the light the size of a needle’s eye, glimpsed when you have fallen to the very bottom and can sink no further—that is what I believe to be true beauty. Caravaggio’s paintings are forever teaching us this.
Look at his “Calling of Saint Matthew.” People sitting in the gloom of a tavern. Then, the Savior appears, quietly pointing a finger. That light is as dramatic as stage lighting, yet it tells of the severity of an inescapable fate. To be chosen is to be saved, but it also carries the cruelty of having to discard one’s former self. He sealed both sides of that truth within a single moment of light and shadow.
Now, you. Stop blaming yourself. No matter how deep the despair you find yourself in now, it is merely the deep black underpainting on your canvas. The deeper that black is, the more the colors painted over it will begin to shine with a brilliance you never imagined. You must not leave misfortune as mere misfortune. It is the most luxurious material for creating a masterpiece.
Life is a one-act comedy. It becomes painful only because you insist on performing it as a tragedy. Like Caravaggio, you should swing your sword in the dark, stumble occasionally, be cursed at, yet always keep your eyes searching for that light of truth. Live with the heart of such a clumsy, lovable rogue.
You should be more free. You should be more selfish. When you cease to fear your own shadow, the world transforms. The darkness stops being a monster that swallows you and becomes the perfect backdrop to illuminate you beautifully.
Now, please open the window. The night has fully set in, hasn’t it? But look at the flickering, unreliable light of that streetlamp. Or the modest glow leaking from a distant house. Is it not because the night is deep that those lights seem so incredibly dear? That world of intense light and shadow that Caravaggio loved—it lives on quietly, yet powerfully, in every corner of this reality.
Oh, I have talked far too much. I am a little tired myself. You should play in that shadow for just a while longer before you sleep. I secretly hope that when you wake tomorrow morning, the light reaching your eyes will feel just a fraction more powerful than it did yesterday. Well then, good night. May you have a good darkness, and a magnificent light.