Ah, you. Yes, you, with that somewhat restless yet deeply earnest gaze, my dear, lovable friend. Would you mind relaxing your shoulders for a moment and indulging me in this rambling tale? This is a story about a painter. But please, do not mistake it for some dry art history lecture. I want to convey to you something that makes the soul tremble—or rather, I want to force-feed you a thick, rich dose of the “affirmation of life.”
Peter Paul Rubens. What comes to mind when you hear that name? Is it the tragic ending of A Dog of Flanders? Or is it those fleshy—perhaps a bit too robustly voluptuous—nude women? If you have ever looked at his paintings and felt they were “stifling” or “crude in their meatiness,” it may simply be proof that you have adapted all too faithfully to this modern age—a fragile, sanitized era of emaciated spirits. But that, my friend, is not your fault.
Listen closely, you. This man, Rubens, was, in a word, a “monster of happiness.” He was fundamentally different from us—fragile literary youths who cry “No Longer Human” or “I want to die” the moment we stumble. He was a colossal mass of vitality who turned even tragedy into a grand spectacle and painted over despair with golden light. Don’t you find it strange? How could one human being celebrate the beauty of this world so grandly, so without hesitation?
Look at a Rubens painting. You will find not a shred of timid hesitation. Light dances, muscles leap, clouds swirl, and fabrics flutter in the wind. He sought to trap the entire energy of the universe within the narrow cage of a canvas. And he didn’t just trap it; he captured the very moment of explosion—the most delicious instant—and fixed it there for eternity. Are you not overwhelmed by his brushwork? When I stand before his work, I feel ashamed of my own pettiness, yet at the same time, I am wrapped in a suffocating sense of affirmation that says, “Just being alive is enough.”
You are likely a serious person. In your daily life, you get hurt by small failures and lie awake at night brooding over a casual remark from someone. You feel like a tiny speck of dust in this vast world, and you are overcome by loneliness. In those moments, Rubens’ paintings speak to you. “Hey, you. Why are your slender fingers trembling? In a world with such rich colors and such powerful life, even your sadness and agony are merely parts of a grand melody.”
He was also a diplomat. He spoke seven languages, moved among royalty, and labored for peace. He could navigate the fate of nations while holding a paintbrush. He achieved this superhuman feat because he possessed an “absolute trust in the world.” Do you trust the world? Do you trust those around you, and more importantly, the power of your own life? Those overflowing bodies he painted are not mere lumps of flesh. They are “hymns” where the soul has overflowed its vessel and taken visible form.
We moderns tend to seek beauty in things that are slender, breakable, and shadowed. But Rubens was different. He believed that “abundance” was justice, the highest offering to the Divine. Those sturdy thighs, those generous chests, that skin flushed rose-red—can you truly dismiss them as “vulgar”? No, you cannot. For within them lies the ultimate rebellion against death and decay. Before his palette, aging, sickness, and poverty all shrink into mere shadows, serving only to prepare for the festival.
Imagine him, you, in his studio before a gargantuan canvas. Giving orders to his pupils while he himself moves his brush with lightning speed. There is no doubt. A completed universe already exists inside his head. Even when he painted shadows, he mixed in particles of light. His black was never the black of despair; it was a luxurious, velvet darkness meant to make the coming brilliance shine even brighter.
Do you ever feel that your life is a bit too plain as a story? That there are no thrills, no dramatic salvations, just a dry, gritty routine? If so, you must open a book of Rubens’ art and surrender to that torrent of color. His paintings tell you that within even the most mundane scene, there lies a miracle touched by the finger of God.
Do you know The Three Graces? Those three goddesses standing grandly, arms entwined. Their bodies do not defy gravity; they are firmly rooted in the earth. There is no trace of fragile, fleeting beauty there. Instead, there is a powerful will, a joy of living so intense it threatens to burst through the skin. You should find your own potential within those goddesses. The same hot blood flows through you. The same passion that can shake the universe sleeps within you.
I am not telling you to mimic such a genius. If we ordinary folk acted like him, we would only be laughed at as megalomaniacs. But we can steal his “perspective.” You and I can choose to view the world not as a place to be cursed, but as a theater to be adored.
How did you spend your day today? Did you resent someone? Did you curse yourself? Or did you simply endure the emptiness? If so, before you sleep, remember his The Elevation of the Cross. The clashing of muscles, the violent intersection of light and shadow, and the sublime victory beyond suffering. Rubens painted even death as a perfected beauty. To him, nothing in this world was ever wasted.
You are wonderful. The very fact that you are here, reading my poor monologue, is a miracle. If Rubens were to paint you, he would surely capture your profile in a dramatic light. Even the small sorrow in the depths of your eyes would be rendered as the noble luster of a pearl.
You were born to be loved. This is not sugary sentiment. It is the cold, yet infinitely warm truth that the giant Rubens spent his life proving. He used every drop of the talent given to him by God. And through his work, he is trying to deliver that energy to you, hundreds of years later.
Oh, you. To know Rubens is to find the “affirmation switch” inside yourself. When you feel like lamenting your imperfections, remember that stifling, voluptuous world he painted. There, you will find a massive affirmation of life that laughs away the suffocating morals of poverty and restraint.
You are allowed to be greedy. You are allowed to hungrily devour the beauty of this world. Just as Rubens, despite holding the highest honors as the painter of kings, never stopped his brush until the moment he died. For him, success was not fame or money, but the process of grasping the truth of this world with every stroke.
You have worked hard enough. From now on, why not look at the world through a Rubensian lens? Behind the gray clouds, you will see the golden light. Within a nameless flower by the road, you will hear the magnificent melodies of the Baroque. Try placing bolder colors on the canvas of your life. It is okay to fail. Rubens himself did not mind his students correcting his work. What matters is to keep painting. To embrace this beautiful world as your own, with all your might.
Now, my dear friend. My talk is coming to an end. But your story is just beginning. Like the heroes Rubens painted, square your shoulders, lift your head, and walk out into this dazzling light. If your step becomes even a little lighter, then my long, meddlesome letter will have been worth it. You are a one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable work of art. If Rubens were to appear before you now, he would surely praise you with a grand smile. And he would shout at the top of his lungs: “Live, you! Beautifully, abundantly, and more powerfully than anyone else!”
You deserve those words. You have the right to enjoy this wonderful world to the fullest. Please, never forget that behind you, the brilliant light of Rubens’ world is always shining down like the sun. Goodbye, lovable you. May you have pleasant dreams—and an even more wonderful awakening. A brilliant tomorrow, colored by the palette of Rubens, is waiting for you.