thedamwaterfountain

United States

anna || she/her || xv || infj-t || cabin 6

i enjoy studying languages, paintings (specifically from the academic & romantic movements), the classics, & architecture! dark academia is my fave aesthetic, as you can tell <3

est. oct 30th, 2020.

Message to Readers

do you feel that this piece is an accurate representation of the painting? what sort of emotions did this convey? i'd love to hear your thoughts <3<3

l'ange déchu.

November 6, 2020

FREE WRITING

3
Your fall was as brilliant as you were.

A bird of paradise with flame-colored hair, streaking down through the twilight among stars you once called your brethren. Your wings, multicolored like the symbol of God's covenant, tightly held against your body as if they were able to protect you. You landed not with a crash, but with a thud, a quotidian sound that would not have had most people bat an eye, a sound that was not suited to the exceptional event of your very existence.

It was a while before you could regain your former strength. Perhaps you still haven't. Do your bones ache and groan with lament and regret? Are you ignoring the pain, retaining your pride, masquerading away weakness?

They still look down from above, with ridicule and with pity, with abhorrence and mourning. More than the scorn, it's the grief that infuriates you. It's more mocking than any insult they could throw at you, that useless weeping. They shield each other, turning away from you, abandoning you. 

Your façade cracks. Salt in the wound forms crystals in the corners of your crimson-rimmed eyes.

You have no sorrow within you, no, only unmitigated rage. Your vision is red, blood-and-wine, sharp as a ruby's edge. There is glaring harshness in the incline of your brow. Gazes are blades and grimaces are shards and you're cutting through everyone who's ever dared to wrong you, leaving imperfect gashes on immaculate skin.

But you cannot touch them. They are out of your reach, you wretched being of flesh and blood. All the misfortunes of exile are yours to bear. The exalted seraphim and blessed cherubim you so loathe will never face the woe awaiting you.

The bitterness of your scoff is grating to the ear. You can do nothing to fight your ruin, for this is the eternal price you pay for your unthinking hubris. Your superbia has taken over your psyche; it tunnels your sight, narrows your mind. Your lust for glory has brought your damnation. You lie on frigid stone, hands clenched and body tense, scalding blood coursing through your veins as you think of what you once were.

You shook the earth. You made kingdoms tremble. You made the world a wilderness.

Morning star, son of the dawn.¹ What has become of you?
 
¹drawn from isaiah 14:12-17.

this piece is based off of the academic oil on canvas painting "fallen angel" by the french painter alexandre cabanel (1847.)  it depicts a winged being, cast out from heaven, poised and tensed, ready to rise again. he drew inspiration from john milton's "paradise lost" when creating the artwork; after many hours of labor, it was torn to shreds by the salon judges, who were shocked and displeased at his portrayal of lucifer.

i wanted to explore this scene from the perspective of an observant bystander with only one question in mind—how great are the lengths you must go to in order to get thrown out from paradise?

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  • November 6, 2020 - 9:23am (Now Viewing)

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