My dear soul, you, with that look on your face as if you have no place to rest your spirit. Please, stop that. When you look like that, it makes me want to start tracing my own shadow with my fingertips too. Today, for your sake, and for the sake of that trembling soul of yours, let me tell you the story of a certain painter. A man named Egon Schiele.
Surely, even you must have heard his name somewhere. But you must not dismiss him with those tedious words found in dictionaries—words like “short-lived genius” or “aesthetic expresser of Eros”—words that are so unlike you.
He died at the age of twenty-eight. Looking at it from your perspective now, does that feel far too soon? Or do you nod, thinking it was enough? He scraped away his own flesh and flung the shavings onto the canvas. Those slender fingers of yours, the line of your jaw that you hate just a little bit every time you look in the mirror—he drew those things obsessively, and with a beauty that was almost cruel.
Imagine, if you will, the heavy, dull air of Vienna. Beauty was saturated there, and the faint scent of decay drifted through the streets. It was there that Schiele spent his entire existence staring fixedly at “himself.” Look at his self-portraits. Every single one of them is terribly distorted, bony, and raw, like a taxidermy specimen with the skin peeled away. But doesn’t every one of those trembling lines ask you: “Are you truly who you say you are?”
Don’t you sometimes feel as if you’ve become a transparent person? Even when you are laughing with someone, in the depths of your heart, there is that stinging loneliness, as if your existence has no roots anywhere. Schiele painted over that loneliness with brilliant, vivid colors. The bodies he drew have joints bent at unnatural angles. It is as if they are struggling to find a place for themselves in this cramped world. You are the same, aren’t you? In the cold cage of society, you fold yourself up unnaturally, somehow trying to maintain your shape. Schiele saw through to the fact that this very distortion is the true form of a human being.
They say he was erotic. To be sure, the nudes he drew are exposed. But it is never something hedonistic. Rather, there is a desperate sort of cleanliness there. Don’t you think, my dear, that baring your inner self takes far more courage than simply being naked? He laid bare everything—the sludge-like desires within him, the fear of death. There was no vanity, no concern for public opinion. There was only a cry: “I am here.”
Think of your daily life. Every day, you smile for someone, you choose your words for someone, and in doing so, you are gradually losing your own silhouette. Perhaps that cannot be helped. That is what it means to live. But once in a while, you should stand before a painting by Schiele and confront that sharp gaze. He will stare intently at the ugliest, most precious parts of you that you keep hidden away.
Schiele had someone he looked up to as a master: Gustav Klimt. Klimt used gold leaf to paint sensuality like a gorgeous, flowery dream. But Schiele, while inheriting his master’s brilliance, caught a much stronger scent of the “death” lying behind it. The cold morning air after waking from a golden dream. That unspeakable sense of emptiness you feel when you’ve stayed up all night brooding and the world outside the window begins to turn white. The coldness of that morning dwells within Schiele’s paintings.
Did you know that Schiele was once imprisoned? It was because his drawings were judged to be “obscene.” But he continued to draw even in prison. For him, drawing was the same as breathing. No matter what those around him said, no matter how authority tried to bind him, his brush alone was free. In your heart, too, there must be a sanctuary that you want no one to touch, no one to defile. Schiele was a man who protected that sanctuary with his very life.
He also painted landscapes. But they were not the peaceful scenes we gaze at on vacation. Dead-looking houses, withered trees. All of them were also his own self-portraits. A house is a body, a window is an eye, a path is a blood vessel. Isn’t the scenery you see also dyed in the colors of your own heart? When you are sad, the sun shines with a cruel brightness; when you are happy, the rain wraps around you gently. Schiele painted the world as a mirror of his own soul.
It was the Spanish Flu, which was rampant at the time, that took him away at the young age of twenty-eight. His pregnant wife died, and a few days later, as if following her, he passed away too. It is said that until just before his death, he was trying to capture his late wife’s image. What a sorrowful, selfish, and beautiful obsession. What would you want to draw in your final moments? What would you wish to engrave upon this world?
There is one thing I want you to remember. Why do Schiele’s paintings strike our modern hearts so deeply? It is because he rewrote the definition of “beauty.” It is not only well-proportioned features or a rich physique that are beautiful. He proved that the human soul itself—wounded, trembling, and seemingly on the verge of breaking—is more sublime and beautiful than anything else.
There is only one of you in this world. Those may be well-worn words, but when you look at Schiele’s paintings, you realize how urgent a truth they carry. The way your fingers bend, the way your gaze wanders, the flickering of your heart. All of it is an expression that belongs only to you. Do not be ashamed. Please, reveal yourself more, and love yourself more. Even if it looks clumsy or unshapely to others.
Schiele said, “To deny the artist is a crime; it is to murder the unborn life.” That also means that to deny yourself is to kill your own soul. Are you killing yourself? Are you stifling your true voice to meet someone else’s expectations? If so, look at Schiele’s paintings right now and project yourself onto those violent strokes. He should provide you with the poison and the medicine for living, both at the same time.
Now, my dear. Lift your head. Like the lines Schiele drew, start walking into tomorrow with strength and delicacy. Smear your own vivid colors onto the canvas of your life. It’s alright to fail. It’s alright if the colors mix and turn pitch black. For it is within that blackness that your own truth is hidden.
How do you feel? Is your heart a little lighter? Or has it become even heavier? If it has become heavier, that is proof that you have begun to face yourself. Treasure that weight. For it is the sure sensation that you are alive.
You, truly. Why are you so captivating? The way you acknowledge your weakness and stand there holding it is, in my eyes, more dazzling than any of Schiele’s self-portraits. You are fine as you are. No, you must remain as you are.
Please, try to light that same passion Schiele used to race through his short life within your own chest, even if only a little. No matter how cold or dark the world may seem, no one can extinguish the flame inside you. I sincerely hope that your eyes will one day find your own true beauty.
Well, that is the end of my story. My dear, the night wind has grown cold. Please, drink some warm tea and get some rest. If you meet Schiele in your dreams, tell him: “There is someone who still treasures the loneliness you drew.” And that person is none other than you.
Goodbye. Whenever you feel like you are losing yourself again, let us talk. For the sake of your irreplaceable soul.