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Briefing for a Descent into Hell (3) | by Miss Belua
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Briefing for a Descent into Hell (3)

Doris Lessing's novel 'Briefing for a Descent into Hell' is defined as inner space fiction. It is an incomparably harrowing voyage into the fantastical, terrifying, unexplored, yet sometimes glimpsed territory of the inner mind.


Yet these meanderings and discoverings of that inner journey echo my own, the metaphors of loss firmly rooted in reality; of a breakdown after the death of both my dear parents; (this art is dedicated to Mum & Dad who both passed away, tragically, very close to each other. I am still in a sort of numbed shock and yet to come to terms with the suddenness of them going away from me like they did).


An enigma locked in the mind's adventure only resurfacing now and again but always being reconstructed, remembering those almost forgotten places of dreams, of childhood memories. Of eerie and surreal, dreamlike worlds where strange images and unsettling objects inhabit their own lonely, isolated spaces, inhabiting flooded places, blue misty wraiths hanging shoulder-high, always ahead of me or behind me, catching the corner of my eye then disappearing as I turn to them, their features almost faceless, not recognisable, they stare blankly, blank as the dark blue mood I walk in, the heavily drenched atmosphere weighing me down into the stony water.


The light is blue, blue and mystical over the face of the stars, this is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. I live here. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. I have fallen a long way. The moon, white as a knuckle, drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet with the o-gape of complete despair. Clouds are flowering; fumy, spirituous mists inhabit this place. The moon sees nothing of this blue blackness, this blue black of silence.


Conveying the sense of isolation, the loneliness of the disquieting poses, pained figures lost in a moment of time; I walk round them and once past these dream people, my eyes entertain no dream. The long, lonely howl of wind, oppressively pares my person down to the barest pinch of flame, it blows its burdened howling deep in the whorl of my ear, filling it with far off haunted voices of lost ones.


Thank you to everyone who faved my art! :)


A link to my gallery; La Galleria de Luce



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Taken circa 2016