|demon:||i possessed you|
|me:||get the fuck out|
|demon:||damn...aight...rude ass bitch...i just need a place to stay my girl kicked me out and i aint got no money...|
|me:||shit man, you can stay but don't be spinning my head like an owl and shit|
These, for me, are the two most depressing paintings in western history. They were painted by post-impressionist Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, a man who, due to inbreeding, was born with a genetic disorder that prevented his legs from growing after they were broken. After being so thoroughly mocked for is appearance, he became an alcoholic, which is what eventually caused his institutionalization and death. His only known romantic relations were with prostitutes.
And then he paints something like this which is so beautiful and tender and sentimental. It seems like the couple in bed really loves each other—cares about each other. Wakes up happy to look at each other. And I see that love and passion and I wonder how lonely he must have been. I wonder how he could paint something like this without it breaking his heart.
Maybe they say artists should create what they know, not because its unbelievable when they extend themselves beyond their experiences, but because when they pull it off with such elegance, it’s so damn unbearable to look at. I hate thinking of Lautrec, wondering about the lovers he created and knowing it was beyond his experience. Creating something that he knows is beautiful and knows he’ll never really understand.
it’s weird how when women who work as prostitutes are murdered, the media refers to them as prostitutes rather than people. like, it’s never “man kills two women”, it’s “man kills two prostitutes”. you’d never see “man kills two lawyers” or something.
it’s like in their eyes being a sex worker takes away your right to being human
they don’t even say their names.