The only rule the Catholic Church should have is that the pope be a dyed in the wool artist.
The pope’s real name is Pontifex: “bridge maker.” He holds the férula to represent the leadership of the tribe via the symbolic stick (the tree of life in man’s hand) connecting the great Above to the people below.
The speaking stick is the same symbol (in the beginning was the word and the word was with god, John 1:1) thus, the word (in Greek, the One Word, God’s word…man’s word: the Logos. Hence the one with the connection to god, who speaks for him, the one who ‘has the word’ has the stick: and lest you misunderstand its milder meaning for its major, the stick has a purpose far older and more striking than the word alone. Spare the rod mosses did not, and it were his ten Logos, the Decalogue, the Ten Commandments as he dictated ‘from the high place,’ God’s first usurperoua cognate.
The artist plays the same role. Articulation, artus work, happens in the joints between known cultural symbols. This is why it is that without the artist our society gets art-hritis, an immobility that negates movement, expression, life! The artist hangs the cognate, the sign, the séma. The symbol, who in her art associates, articulates, and binds two meanings into one.
Twine between the crossroads’ cross, ligatures unbound, a fresh angle ensues and sews new meaning into the ground.
NM
This is to bring together two sterile static and stultified symbols in such a way as to create a new cognate of her art—a new word. A new logos. A new Law from the god of man’s mind, driven by mad men’s confusion over what in abstract stupor must surely be, but in the light of day and men, he cannot reconcile.
Drunk on cognition, forbidden libido splattered across canvas, his combustible atoms of irony exploding their citric acidic hombres onto a thick skull, sockets wholly unprotected to his norther exposure—his orientation, where the soft mind of man may be plied with both reckless abandon for the sake of birthing something new, and with precision befitting a king—an inborn aesthetic for the highest ideal, and even to dane and speak for it.
The pope and the artist share much. They both speak for god. One can’t bear tell the truth and who is burdened by its blatant clarity; the other cant bear a lie, but must use one to tell a truth that he is wholly unqualified, yet, doomed to utter.
“Tikkun olam” says the artist to her pontifex, brushing her way past his robe, head barely bowed —and with a wink felt ‘round the courtyard, a spontaneous collective catharsis befell the people who for one sacred moment —a moment never to be spoken of again but in the nigh hours, they laughed their fool heads off and died.
NM