This essay is based on a true story.

I’m in the movie theater, waiting until the silver screen lights up with a story that entertains me for the coming two hours, and hopefully leave me a little wiser. The commercials and movie trailers begin, the last for which I shut my eyes and ears so I don’t end up spoiled of their complete storyline.

The movie starts. I make myself comfortable. Some titles prior to the film; director, lead actrice, writer, etc. Then it pops up:

“BASED ON A TRUE STORY”

I sigh. I wasn’t up for this. I walked into the theater blind, admittedly, without any idea what was on, but another true story doesn’t hit me right. I’ve seen too many as of late. I’d like to walk out, but I stay seated — my suspension of disbelief however, has sprinted out.

Before I start this essay I have to admit I have no quarrels with a movie based on a true story. Just like the spirit and imagination can make up stories out of bare nothingness, there are plenty of stories ripe for picking on the streets.

My quarrel, however, is with titles at the beginning of a picture that inform me about the fact that this story really did happen, and is based on a true story, and that everything you see on screen actually happened. Really.

The pinnacle of which I saw past week, when I was looking for a movie to see after Christmas (bad idea). When I clicked the trailer for Molly’s Game I made my choice very quickly; Jessica Chastain says, in the trailer, in character, that the movie is a true story. Am I supposed to believe this?

There is a strong case to be made for true stories. It can be very interesting to see a story on the big screen of which you would think no person in the real world could ever have gone through, and yet did. It does charge the story with an extra layer of believability and awe.

A true story can also teach us about the human soul in absurd situations, with other people, or against all the obstacles life sometimes imposes upon us, in a much more direct way than an imagined story can. It can be hugely inspiring.

But, and here comes the big but; when films claim before they even start that it is in fact a true story, I am unable to drench myself in the imaginative world of the story. Worse even, it yanks me straight back to reality for the two hours, and I cannot stop thinking about the real world. That is not why I visit the cinema.

In movie theaters I want to forget the real world, and one of my biggest demands for adoration is that filmmakers can suspend my disbelief, and make me enjoy a completely different world, one which I can wholeheartedly accept, despite it not being real. The title prior to a story denies me that chance.

What I also notice, is that when I see the dreaded ‘true story’ title, is the same thought flashing through my mind: ‘Don’t you think I’d believe it otherwise?’ Is it so that the filmmaker wasn’t sure of the story him- or herself? That it has to be mentioned that it is based on a true story, and that all the counterarguments concerning believability, like: ‘This would never happen.’, or ‘What a weak story.’ can be refuted with the argument; ‘Yeah, but it did.’?

My final reason for my distaste towards the a priori titles is that I feel they claim a true story is better than a ‘non-true’ story. Why would filmmakers think this? I’m of the conviction the exact opposite is true; imagination is superior to reality.

What would separate us from the rest of the animal kingdom, if not for our consciousness and our imagination? Is fantasy not that from which so many inventions and advancements have sprouted? Is fantasy not our power, and therefore not less than physical reality? Is Lord of the Rings a lesser story than, say, The Wolf of Wall Street? Is Harry Potter less true than, say, Dallas Buyers Club?

Our imagination might not be actual reality, but I think it is a higher reality, one that may even tell us more about our own, oftentimes shortcoming reality. When people visit a screening of Star Wars, revel eyes wide like a small child in the cinema, and then leave saying; ‘Yeah, I could see myself in that.’ — isn’t that a testament to the trueness of non-truth?

Since 2007/’08 there have been many more ‘based on a true story’ films than all the years prior. I hope, personally, they do not negate the force of our imagination, and will leave us longing only for stories that have happened in the physical realm.

My solution; use the fantasy obliterating title at the end of the movie. Why? When people watch the film, believe it and are amazed, they will be even more amazed by the title at the ending. If people do not believe it and see the title at the ending, they will have to face the facts that it did happen. The ending can only provide extra value — the beginning can only create skepticism, can only disillude, or be forgotten.

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There is unprecedented value in the discovery of something; revealing innovation could yield endless possibilities, and when the inventor is able to make it reality, it could prove positive for others as well. It could make life easier, provide new knowledge that enriches us or make us look at problems in a different light, and maybe even make us better humans.

Or not.

Sometimes discoveries are too great, to big, or is it not what it appeared to be. We often see new knowledge in a positive light, luckily, but it cannot always be positive. Sometimes discoveries lead to chaos and can cause damage that was not initially intended.

Take the invention of dynamite for example; Alfred Nobel had the intention in 1866 to further the use of nitroglycerine — which had been invented twenty-three years prior to his invention by the Italian Asciano Sobrero. He wanted the stuff, that was highly unstable, to be safe for use in the mines.

Unfortunately it was used for something other than mining.

On the 20th of August, 1890 in Providence, Rhode Island a boy was born named Howard Philips Lovecraft. He would later become the writer known to us for the Cthulhu Mythos, the Rats in the Wall, numerous short stories and novellas, and the invention of the genre ‘Lovecraftian horror’, or ‘Cosmic horror’.

H.P. Lovecraft was a sickly child and spent many of his school years at home, where he read most of his time. In that time he went through many of the works of Edgar Allan Poe, but also literature on astronomy, a field of science that made leaps of discovery during that time.

He can remember the moment at five years of age, when he was told that Santa Claus didn’t exist; a statement to which his question in return was: “Is God then not equally a myth?”

Lovecraft lived through a youth filled with grief, disease, disillusion, but also scientific and imaginative fascination, which gave him the fertile ground to flourish to the now well-known writer. Sadly enough that fame never came into being during his own time.

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

This is, of course, the opening to one of his most well known stories; The Call of Cthulhu — the story wherein the famous Great Old One Cthulhu first makes its vivid appearance on the page. If the central theme of Lovecraft shines through anywhere — that of forbidden knowledge too great for human understanding — it’s here.

In the ancient Athens there lived a philosopher known to us all; Plato. One of the most influential thinkers of early Western philosophy, student of Socrates, teacher of Artistotle and the founder of the first institute for higher education in the west; the Athenian Akademia.

Plato wrote many texts, but there was one piece that came to mind: the allegory of the cave. The allegory of the cave is an analogy for the philosopher who returns enlightened from his discoveries. It begins with people chained in a dark cave, looking at shadows of things on a wall; trees, animals, humans, etc.

One day, one of the men in the cave is let go, and he sees the opening of the cave. He climbs out and is blinded by the light. He no longer sees things in shadow form, but in their actual appearance. At first, the shadows seem much more real, but later he finds out that they are but simplifications of reality.

He returns to the cave to relate his beautiful discovery to his contemporaries, but is no longer accustomed to the darkness of the cave. When he makes it down and shares his knowledge with the people, they label him insane and dismiss him. Stubborn as he is, the philosopher continues to orate, after which the people threaten him with execution if he continues.

People do not like being confronted with truths that drag them out of the comfort of the cave.

Lovecraft created a sort of toned down version of the cave allegory; his characters (often scientists or explorers) live in the cave of Plato, ignorant of the unknown around them, but find out about their lack of knowledge in the story. They rise from the cave, but never adjust to the sunlight. Blinded by their actual, insignificant existence and in sight of the revelatory horror from the light — they all crumble.

We live in an absurd era, I cannot describe it better, wherein robots are looking more like humans, algorithms can predict what you will like and where our physical exchange of currency could disappear in a few years.

I often see science come forward as the holy grail (ironic, no?) on the internet, and that frightens me. Science is good, better than the church ever could have become, but we should not follow our passion for discovery into every dark corner science shows us. Sometimes things need to remain in that corner.

Science has offered us so much since the fall of the church, but also brought us in danger. The (partial) father of the atom bomb, J. Robert Oppenheimer did not utter the following line for nothing during the successful test on July 16th 1945 in the New Mexico desert; “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

I am no advocate for what is still considered the great counterpart to science, religion. I am also not in favour of running to a different altar — one where no cross, but a portrait of Newton or Bacon hangs high. Science must become better than that. In a time where science has the definite upper hand, and the goal is rational, critical analysis, we cannot lose ourself.

Man is more, and science can never become what the church was. Science cannot only bring forth positive discoveries, but seeing as it is human, it can fall prey to human errors.

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Ah, how we love our famous couples on the silver screen. Jack & Rose, Ross & Rachel and Forrest and Jenny, to name but a few.

Sometimes there are those couples on the screen whose love is so beautiful and pure, that it’s almost irritating. Love at first sight. Acceptance of each other’s deepest, darkest secrets, and that ever-present motivation to make it better than it was yesterday.

Man, those couples have it great. Of course, this is unreachable by anyone in the real world. It’s only fantasy; get it out of your head.

But, there is one movie-couple that has always stuck with me — Driver and Irene from the movie Drive. Drive was for me the film I studied as a young, ignorant student, and where I sought other explanations for its excellence than; “Cool movie, dude.”

I must’ve watched Drive thirty times in the span of one school year. Looking for essays online that explained cinematography, storyline, characters and symbolism like the scorpion on Driver’s jacket — I couldn’t get enough of it.

Drive summarized

Drive is a neo-noir directed by the Danish Nicolas Winding Refn, who has become well known for his often unconventional and controversial films.

Drive is about a silent, lonely man named Driver; his real name is never mentioned. Driver is a stuntman for the movies during the day and makes a little money on the side during the night as a getaway driver for criminals.

Driver comes into contact with his neighbour Irene, who enchants him with her innocent, soft looks. However, Irene turns out to be married to a man getting out of prison just as they meet. The husband has a problem, a debt; he received protection during his time inside in order to survive.

Now that Irene’s husband is out, his family is in danger, his debt is with the people you don’t want to owe a penny. Driver offers to help him, strangely, and the two get tangled up in a plot with the East-Coast mafia, corrupt Hollywood producers and betrayal.

I won’t say more, but despite these classical thriller-elements, Drive has always been a romantic movie to me. At the heart of the action and murder there is a heart wrenching drama about two people not being able to be together.

The director

Nicolas Winding Refn is a renowned director in the art-house niche of cinema. He is famous for his violence, lack of dialogue, ambiguity, intense use of colours, masterful cinematography and provoking, contrarian films that have earned him a boo-ing crowd at the Cannes film festival, twice — not to his displeasure, mind you.

One of the most recognisable aspects about the director personally, is that he is colour blind. He admits, in many interviews, that he can’t see mid-tones, the more subtle colours between powerful, deep tones.

First he viewed it as a weakness, but turned it into his strength later. Nowadays you’ll recognise any Refn-film by its amazing use of deep colours that almost jump off of the screen.

Driver and Irene; the perfect couple?

One of the scenes that will always stay with me, is the moment where Driver and Irene fall in love. It’s two shots, very simple, where they look at each other without saying a word. Yet as viewer we know that that is the moment

But I always wondered about something; if you were to take away the environment, the colour, the music and change the position of the camera — would the acting be as strong as it is?

Don’t get me wrong, the acting in the film is wonderful. Ryan Gosling as the silent warrior trying to help his love, despite the impossibility of being with her is an amazing performance. Carey Mulligan as the duped, yet strong mother is equally outstanding.

But, there has to be more than just acting?

Mise-en-scène

There is. Last year we were introduced to a term in filmschool: mise-en-scène. A term many seasoned veteran of filmmaking has in mind, but most regular consumers don’t.

Mise-en-scène is everything visible in the frame; lighting, costume, the actors, the colours, make-up, props, etc.

It’s not random that acting fits in that sequence. The colours, the costumes, the framing of the camera and the lighting each play off of each other. It has to synergise.

Colours synergise with the acting, and if anything speaks volumes in a Refn-film, it’s colour.

When we look towards the colour combination used for the two, Driver and Irene, we see that the classic form of cyan-blue and orange-yellow has been used. That combination is one of the most prevalent in Hollywood because it works perfectly, and we see it recur everywhere in Drive.

Blue and orange defines Driver in the blue, and Irene in the orange. It’s not only complimentary, but also telling of the story. Driver lives a cold, lonely life, while Irene leads a warm life as a mother, even though she has her problems. Also Irene is to Driver that loving centre while he shows little to no emotion for his own life — he sacrifices himself in an instant for her.

Conclusion

Nicolas Winding Refn is a great example when it comes to using colours to make two people fit together, even better than just acting can.

He shows that acting is more than just acting. There has to be a solid performance, obviously, but it’s never just that. It’s also about the setting, the lighting, the choice in shots, the costumes, and mainly, in the case of Refn, the colours.

So; if you watch a film next time and see whether two people fit together, or not, don’t just look at the acting. You’ll find all the other tools used by the director to make you believe more than just the acting can convince you of.

With this knowledge; look at the image beneath this text, at the colours of the costumes, and try to think of what it means. You’ll be surprisingly able in predicting the story. Let me know in the comments what you came up with.

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Stop your emotions, think rationally. Take your time. Analyse the situation and all possible outcomes carefully. Don’t seek advice from others. Think outside your own body and see the situation from a new perspective. Think in a different language (???).

Sounds nice, maybe there’s something in it, but I think something is missing. When I think of people, I don’t think of creatures that can stop when faced with a choice and then think rationally about the possible outcomes.

Even though we like to be rational in this time of science, we are not.

Last week I wrote about how you can organise life goals in manageable bits, while maintaining a vision for the future. If you haven’t gotten the chance to read or listen to the article, follow this link.

The article ended with a question; how do you make the choice to work on those goals every day?

It’s great you’ve created a value structure, that you articulated what you want within ten, twenty years and at the same time what needs to be done today — but how do you know that when you sit down every day you won’t choose to do something else, something fun in the now?

We have to make hundreds, maybe thousands of decisions every day. Where the advice from the beginning falls short in my opinion, are the small choices we make in the fraction of a second. The emotional choices.

To find a possible answer to that question, I’d like to introduce you to a Danish philosopher. One who has nothing to do with this subject, but whose insights are applicable to many situations. Søren Kierkegaard.

The melancholic Dane

Søren’s life was not a happy adventure. For starters, his last name means graveyard in Danish (kirkegård). Not an image you’d want for your identification.

Søren’s life, and also his father’s, was branded by an ever-present sense of doom. This came from his father who had cursed God in his youth, once. He was convinced that because of this, his children would perish before the age Jesus Christ on the cross; 33. The prophecy was almost fulfilled. All the children from the family of seven, apart from Søren and his brother Peter, would be no more before that age.

Apart from the doom looming over his head, there was also, always, the plague of loneliness and a sense of estrangement. In his life he was frequently pointed out as the village idiot, as apparent from his diaries.

If that wasn’t enough; he also had an engagement, which is one of the most investigated and explored aspects of his personal life, with a girl named Regine Olsen. After being engaged for a year, he broke it off. He thought it for the best, so he wouldn’t destroy her in marriage with what he called ‘his heaviness’, something he inherited from his father. The guilt of the damage done to the young girl and the inaccessibility of love would also plague him until the day he collapsed in the streets of Copenhagen at the age of 42, the day he died.

What this article was inspired by was one of the following things Kierkegaard wrote:

“Marry, and you will regret it; don’t marry, you will also regret it; marry or don’t marry, you will regret it either way. Laugh at the world’s foolishness, you will regret it; weep over it, you will regret that too; laugh at the world’s foolishness or weep over it, you will regret both. Believe a woman, you will regret it; believe her not, you will also regret it… Hang yourself, you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will regret that too; hang yourself or don’t hang yourself, you’ll regret it either way; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both. This, gentlemen, is the essence of all philosophy.”

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or; 20 februari 1843

Even though I have not had the pleasure of reading Either/Or, I came across this quote when I was introduced to Kierkegaard by a video from the School of Life. Apart from the meaning in context of the work, which is undoubtedly different, it always stuck with me.

A question popped up in my mind; What if we invert this?

Imagine that the quote written by the melancholic Dane is truth — every choice we make carries a form of regret with itself. You can choose A or B, but when you pick one, you always wonder what the other one was, despite it being the better choice or not.

What to do with this?

What if we accept this regret and look for the choice that’ll leave us with the least amount of it? Isn’t that an easier shorthand for making decisions?

With the value structure you prioritise things that should leave you with no regret. Becoming a writer is my highest goal in life, and yet with fulfilling that comes some sense of regret; what if I could have become something else? There are infinite interesting things in this world.

Working towards the goals demands work, every day, and that is what the value structure is for. But if you are convinced you will sit down every day after making it and working hard, you have to think twice about the fact that you are merely human.

Maybe in those moments we can think about what will leave us with more, or less regret. When I sit down to write and I think about the possibility of playing a game of Rocket League, what will leave me with the most regret?

Rocket League. I won’t get any closer to my goal with that.

The choice is then easily made. The feeling of greater regret will hopefully overtake the desire to relax with a video-game. I won’t have to think about the pro’s and cons of doing one thing or the other. No lists, don’t step outside my body and no thinking in a different language.

I think feeling where the source of least regret lies for yourself leads to better decisions. Decisions made responsibly, future oriented and with emotion and rationality.

But maybe you have a completely different theory or method that helps you make decisions, if so, I’d like to hear it!

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A dream

Six a.m., my alarm will go off any second now. Quickly, shut it up so it doesn’t wake up my wife. She’s still in deep sleep next to me and I give her a careful kiss on her forehead, I won’t see her out of bed before nine at least.

Getting up early, I love it. I have to actually, my most creative hours are in the morning. I can hear television noises downstairs and I dress myself comfortably.

On the stairs I can hear the tv clearly, I have no idea what they’re watching. It’s weekend and for some reason they actually can get out of bed on time then.

Downstairs I enter the living room, cozy and not too big, enough for four people in one house. It’s decorated simple, a nice couch, coffee table, a television and some art on the wall, but mainly: books everywhere. My two kids are watching the screen and apparently the wooden floor is a better seat for that than the sofa.

“Good morning.” I say as I plant a kiss on both their cheeks. The only thing in return is a beastly murmur as their eyes remain glued to the colourful display. Psh… Cartoons from my days were way better… Stop, I would only say things like that if I were old.

Let them be, I am ready for my morning walk. I am greeted with enthusiasm by the dog thankfully, he knows what’s coming. I down a glass of water in the kitchen and bring a banana with me. Out the door, in to the chilly fresh morning.

After a lovely walk through the rich nature my house is surrounded by I come home. Nothing changed. I make coffee and some breakfast for me and the kids and take mine upstairs, into my writer’s room. Once I’m in there it’s quiet. Silent. Time to write.

I take seat behind my desk, surrounded by books that have most influenced me throughout my life: Camus, Kierkegaard, Lovecraft, and many more. I feel the energy of those great writers flow through me as I attempt to step in their footsteps. The day can start.

Back to reality

Sometimes I get lost in fantasy about what I want my future to look like. Of course we can’t always shape it that nice and happy and rhythmic, but it feels nice to imagine it like that once in a while.

I want to be a writer, with two children (maybe three) and a wife. I don’t want a mansion, something to live in where we don’t have to sit on each others laps to join in at dinner, and if I’m in a really crazy mood, I’ll envision the house on the breathtaking Iceland. Everywhere in the house are books, without books there’s no soul. I know what I earn, not an absurd amount, but enough to live off of.

That is no small wish, I am very aware of that. It’s only a fantasy as of yet. These are large goals; having a healthy relationship, being a good father and becoming a professional, independent writer off his own work. I am very conscious of the Everest I’m aiming for.

But I think we have to imagine those goals. When we don’t occupy ourselves with working towards a greater good, something we can only realise in at best twenty or thirty years, maybe, how can we be motivated to do anything in the now?

And yet, there are major downsides to setting goals like that. In my research for this post I found, as usual on the internet, arguments both in favour and against.

A tale of two arguments

In an article by Forbes I ran into the argument in favour of so-called ‘stretch goals’, goals that are so high in reach that they might consume a life-time to achieve.

Let’s set awesome goals for ourselves that uplift the human spirit, goals that inspire those doing work and delight those for whom work is done (…) Such stretch goals will be hard to achieve but they’re essential for our health and our prosperity.

I can side with this. When I fantasise about them I feel a certain greatness because I know what I am doing it for. I think it essential to be able to envision those goals.

(…) people often become overwhelmed and discouraged when faced with massive and complex problems.

Ouch, that’s true too. If I look at my numbers who tell me how many people read my articles, I can get disappointed sometimes. The song of digital crickets is no stranger to me. That nice house, those children, that lovely wife and independence in writing vanish in black smoke then.

Those kind of ‘stretch goals’ can be incredibly demotivating according to an article by Harvard Business Review. They can be so abstract that the problems are too big to conceptualise into; “What needs to be done today?” The moment something like that enters your thoughts, probably not much will get done that day. The hurdle is so high that it can not be overcome.

But how can we find a middle road between these two ideas?

For that, you can read the second part.

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When we step on our bikes in the dark of early morning to catch the train to school, or when we take seat in our cars to go to work, there is not much going on apart from the reality of the external world. Nothing extraordinary. We might forget, in such instances, that there is more than that.

About a year ago, thanks to a reddit post, I came across the art of a Polish painter named Zdzisław Beksiński. His paintings of hellish displays picturing death and decay gave life to a strange romance in me, a romance only felt when faced with artworks that move us in some way.

Without delving into what the painted nightmares meant, I kept them to myself whenever I searched for inspiration and sent them to many of my friends, all of whom had the same reaction:

“Wow.”

As I write this, my Pinterest board ‘illustrations’ is filled with his work.

Now that the first butterflies of love have flown I can look at it with a different set of eyes. Now it felt like the time to look and ask myself the question: “What is this?” I think Beksiński’s work can offer us an important lesson.

His life

Zdzisław Beksiński was born on February 24th, 1929, in a small southeastern town called Sanok, Poland. It doesn’t require much thought about the date of his birth to bring to mind the impending tragedy; the Second World War.

In 1939, when little Beksiński was ten years of age, Poland was invaded by Nazi-Germany, despite just signing a non-aggression pact with Soviet Russia — the invasion that would unleash the hell hound of war.

From history we know that during the German invasion many people died, but later, and certainly with the counter invasion of Russia, many more perished. Polish soldiers surrendered in October of 1939 after they had lost 65,000 soldiers and several thousand civilians.

When we look at pictures taken in Poland during that time, it isn’t hard to imagine these harrowing displays made a permanent impact on the young Zdzisław.

Warning; these pictures can be disturbing.

The discovery of art

Despite the war Zdzisław went off to study in Warsaw, where he graduated as a designer and afterwards came back to his birthplace to design buses.

He also discovered photography during that time, something that captured his imagination, but only momentarily, as it quickly proved inadequate for his powerful fantasy. Once finished with experimenting cutting together photographic elements to something that could satisfy him artistically, he discovered painting.

Painting was what eventually gave Zdzisław his fame. He found the possibilities of the canvas an adequate subject for his imagination. He did not do much else from that day until his last.

One of the interesting things about Beksiński is that he showed no interest in trends. He was his own universe and cared little about new developments in the world of his craft. He was also very reticent to display his work or even selling it, especially in his later years.

In an interview held in 1997 he told the interviewer his animosity towards exposing his work was partly because of the lighting. He held the belief the light had to be exactly the same as when the painter created his work, or it would not be up to the artwork’s origin, and therefore insufficient for viewing.

His fame grew when in 1998 his tragic life story climaxed. His wife Zofia died of cancer, and a year later his son, Tomasz, committed suicide, of whom Zdzisław himself found the body. If this wasn’t enough yet, he was stabbed to death in 2005 in his Warsaw apartment by a teenager he knew because he had declined to lend the boy a small sum of money.

Finding meaning

It wasn’t easy finding a meaning behind Zdzisław’s works. Partly because the painter remained an absolute vacuum when it came to the meaning behind his art, even if he articulated it himself, which is questionable.

His reaction to questions like those was as following:

“Meaning is meaningless to me. I do not care for symbolism and I paint what I paint without meditating on a story.”

On the one hand I doubt this, on the other I can see him painting what his heart tells him. In any way, the work shows a genius and absence of articulated vision of the artist himself does not discredit that. A different, very inspiring quote surfaced during my research.

“What matters is what appears in your soul, not what your eyes see and what you can name.”

As someone who is, at this moment, very analytical in trying to articulate meaning in my own work, this is very inspiring. Yet it wasn’t only positive. I was left with the feeling that I should just conjure up something myself without finding other visions or counter arguments to sharpen mine. Luckily, I found an important statement made by the artist.

“I wish to paint in such a manner as if I were photographing dreams”

If there was anything that sprung out as a possible angle for finding meaning behind the dark art of the Polish painter, it was this one. I immediately recalled the opening to a short story by H.P. Lovecraft, titled; ‘Beyond the Wall of Sleep’ from 1919.

“I have frequently wondered if the majority of mankind ever pause to reflect upon the occasionally titanic significance of dreams, and of the obscure world to which they belong.”

Beksiński’s work is frequently linked to the tragic later years of his life, but that is of course chronologically impossible. Even a creative genius like him can’t predict the future, I think.

My interpretation

What I think a large part of his work refers to, is the experience of the Second World War. We see many religious motives in his work like cathedrals and the cross, but also regular surroundings transformed by a traumatic experience.

I can not imagine any support gained from faith (even if he held it to begin with) when people are being shot in the streets, cities are burning down and Jews are being shipped of to death camps in trains filled to the brim.

What I think Beksiński shows us, is that there is more than mere reality of the external world. The power and importance of fantasy and imagination is something downplayed as unimportant, especially during a time where science is, thankfully, important and powerful. But it is not less than science.

If I can speak freely, I sometimes view fantasy and imagination as more important than science. I can read history books and view photographs from reporters during the time where the Polish painter found himself in, but when I look at his paintings and try to imagine that time it hits me a thousand times harder. It obviously didn’t look like this literally, but it did to him, it felt like that.

Viewing the works of Beksiński we can experience his situation from a vacuum. It allows us to place our self in the psyche of someone who was metaphorically possessed by the hellish displays taking place on the street and in his country. Emaciated, broken people, cities transformed into ruins and any support found in faith crumbling until there is nothing more than a plucked carcass left on the cross.

Zdzisław Beksiński shows us more than reality can; it shows the human experience of true trauma’s during times barely possible to imagine from just dry facts. He tells us honestly about his fantasies originating from the darkest corners of his mind, and shows us that there is more than mere reality, which sometimes feels painfully insufficient in expression.

But this is just my interpretation, what do you think?

To end things on a positive note, the man was not depressed and tormented all of the time. He had, according to many, a keen sense of humor and was pleasant in conversation.

Want to see more of his work? Check out this page, or my Pinterest board.

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It seems it’s much easier to be sucked down that peculiar black hole. Going against the flow of people is barely possible. Their sinuous bodies provide immense suction towards their destination, but not to mine. That’s not what I came for. My gold. My gold in the distance.

Grabbing onto one of the bodies isn’t an option either. I’ll have to do it myself. Swimming with all the strength I have left. The pressure of the deep sea is gone, thankfully, but not without doing its damage. My ribs crack as I try to swim against the current.

It looks like I’m making progress, but sadly I have to measure by how far I am from that terrible abyss, instead of the proximity of my gold.

Behind me I see a dent in the flow, it’s the people from the school. That fat ass doesn’t have much use now, does it? I can’t help but chuckle, but notice my energy is better put to use to get forward instead of cracking jokes. Behind me the first one has already gotten through.

I have to swim faster, but the pain in my chest is holding me back. A second and a third enter — with how many are they chasing me?

In my hurry I managed to create quite a distance between me and the abyss, but the school is catching up to me. They brought nets, I hadn’t seen them yet. One of the pursuers throws his, but without success. It dwindles to the floor and returns to the owner.

A second net is thrown my way and scrapes my calf. A third one hits and gets stuck on both my feet. I have to stop swimming, I can’t go on like this. Get it off my feet, quickly, before I sink down to my pursuers. Did it. The brown rope comes loose and I throw it back. It hits one of the white suits, who gets stuck hopelessly. He floats screaming his lungs out and disappears in the black arms.

Satisfied with my victory, I have no idea what is happening in front of me. To my surprise my supervisor has worked her way into the flow ahead of me. With a fiendish grin and her net, she lets herself fall down. She crashes on me and we shoot backwards towards the rest. Her net has a tightening grip on me, working my way out has a worse result than doing nothing. We rush like tangled bodies towards the beginning, towards the end.

I feel an opening in the net. My supervisor isn’t paying much attention to me, only to the abyss coming up to dump me in. I work the net off me and throw it behind us, to the others who get stuck and disappear in the black hole.

I’m prepared this time and I can prevent the blows to my chest. Struggling between the ignorant stream of bodies we rush towards that abyss. I look back. Shouldn’t have done that. She gets me in a vice grip. I can’t go anywhere.

With my head in a grip she forces me to look at the doom up ahead. Just before the both of us fall into nothingness she lets me go with a good push. Just before the arms grab onto me I can stop myself and with my last remaining strength I lunge forward to grab her hand. She never expected that. Crush it, just like she always did.

Hand in hand we disappear into the black arms. She disappears within seconds. The hands tickle my face with their disgusting fingers. Everything is black and I sink deeper, and deeper.

Wake. Wake up. I want to wake up. Where is everyone? Where is Jonas? Someone turned the light on. Jonas, you’re not allowed. Jonas. We have to sleep. Punishment. We’ll get punished. What? Get back in your bed. What are you talking about? Gold? Where? Jonas, what do you mean, you found gold? Footsteps. Jonas I hear footsteps. Get back. Get back in bed. Quickly. Under the covers. Lights out. Jonas quickly! Door. The door opens. There they are. They know. They know Jonas turned the lights on. What are they asking you? Did you tell anyone? Don’t lie. Help, they want to help you. Say it. Dorian knows. No? Why did you say no? Sleep. I have to pretend to be asleep. Jonas. What are they doing? They’re leaving. Peak over my blankets. Look out. They’re coming back. Cups. What are they giving you? Don’t swallow. Jonas! Gone. He’s gone. His supervisor. My supervisor now. Bitch. Gold. My gold. Jonas’ gold. I want to wake up.

Open your eyes. I can hardly see anything. The warmth still surrounds me. My sense of direction is completely gone. I turn my head in every direction, but still can’t see anything. Maybe turn my body over. Everything hurts, especially my ribs. Next to me I see my supervisor. Her eyes are shut and the black fingers slither across her face.

She’s on her back, face up. I look where she’s looking at with her shut eyes. A light. The fall of the flow. Like through thick syrup I attempt swimming up, but the hands grab onto my ankles.

I shake them off and free myself from their terrible grasp. I come back at the point we fell off. In the distance I see it again. My gold. Jonas’ gold. Nothing can stop me now. Swim. Swim!

The surface. The surface. Almost there. Sound of the sea breaks. Feel cold wind on my face. Barely enough energy to lift my head. This isn’t the bay. Where am I? Drag yourself onto the coast.

In the distance I hear shouting. A man. Shouts at me. Footsteps come closer. He runs, they run, it’s two. Warmth. Delightful warmth. I lift my head up. Mountains. From behind the mountains comes a light. Golden light. So beautiful and sweet. I’ve found her. I let my head fall in the sand.

Shock. Shock. My body shocks up and down. Where am I? Hands. Hands under my arms. Help! Help! To men are screaming next to me. More. More people. They whisper. Looking. Big eyes. Old. An old man. Beard. Big beard. He talks to me. I can’t hear him. He grabs my jaw. I’m awake. I’m finally awake.

“Where have you been?”

— “The depths.” I mumble.

“What depths?”

— “All depths.”

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It’s strange walking through this unknown valley. No flat floors with shiny tiles. I’ve never seen such beauty like this before. Flowers stretching as far as the eye can see. It feels as if I’m floating to the bay where my gold seems to sink into the ocean.

With the gentle arrival of waves by forces I don’t understand, I feel a calm flow over me. A calm I’ve never felt in the school before. Everything was work there. Everything was obeying. Listen. Learn. But what have they told me? Not of this. This view. My gold floats above the sea, but seems to sink into the depths. She’s leading me somewhere.

Behind me I hear shouting. I fear they’ve gotten rid of the table. Their white suits move wildly with the wind. My supervisor is doing her best keeping up, but I was never a runner and her endurance can’t be meant for this. They’ve come to hunt me, not bring me back for punishment. I already know too much. I’ve tasted freedom. No medicine that will make my brain into pulp.

They’ve closed all the exits of the bay. The rest seems to be unclimbable rock. My only option is the sea. I turn back around to the blue giant and my gold in the distance. I hear them shouting behind me. Don’t do it! Come with us! She’s almost gone under. There is no other option. I’ll have to swim.

Something moves under the surface. It looks like it’s making eye-contact. As it shoots away I can see air bubbles float up. I hear a splash next to me. They’re charging down and throwing rocks. I dive into the water, this is my only chance.

I’m swimming as quick as I can, but the water is ice cold and hurts my face. I hear them diving into the water. Who has seen this underwater world ever before? Could I be the first? I want to enjoy it, but my pursuers are closing the distance. These rocks, broken off by the might of the sea — only the strongest survive.

Everything looks alike here. Everything is the same colour blue, my gold is nowhere to be found. The ground under me has disappeared and I float around in this endless blue world. Where do I go for my gold?

A tiny fish is appears next to me. With his big eyes the animal looks at me somewhat confused. I move my hand to his grey scales, but he moves quickly in fear. I didn’t mean to do that. The fish swims down, towards a darkness beneath us. I can barely discern my little friend from that black mass. Do I follow him? In a rush it comes back up and looks at me.

The fish shoots back down, it’s my only chance. My gold would send me signs to find her. I swim down, down to my scaled friend. The deeper I dive in this swallowing abyss, the greater the pressure, as if my supervisor sat down on my chest. Where has my gold led me?

Just keep on swimming, there is no other choice. The white suits are probably right behind me. The only thing I can see is my fish swimming ahead as if nothing is wrong. Into the depths.

In the distance I hear something, a roaring. My guide picks it up as well and shoots ahead, into the darkness. Without my guide I have no idea where I am. How can I survive this? I’ve made a huge mistake. I was safe inside, with food and drink and class, a shower and people around me.

Now I am alone, in the ocean, in the depths, without up or down, or a sense of where I came from. Swim. Flee. Die. Will I end like this? Was this worth it? Idiot. You’re such an idiot. Gold. Why would I do it for that gold? My gold? Please. No one’s gold. Nowhere. Lost. I’m lost. I want to wake up.

Sound. Where is that sound? That’s where my scaled friend must’ve headed. I can still hear it. Somewhere in the distance. Behind this darkness. I can’t see. Something in the distance. It shines. Something shiny in the distance. Is it my gold? Could it be my gold? She probably waits for me at the bottom of the sea.

Thankfully the darkness no longer embraces me, and a small bit of light is present here. My ribs hurt. I can’t go any deeper. I see my little friend swimming ahead of me. I quickly follow him as he moves to a hill. At the top we have an unprecedented view. The sound is deafening.

In the distance is a huge torrent, some sort of twisting snake of swimming humans, lying at the bottom of the ocean. Thousands of bodies move past each other as a school of fish. Their face at the outside, their eyes closed. On the one end I can’t see where it ends, but on the other side it falls off where the darkness seems even blacker than where we just came from.

Behind us I can see the white suits. They’re still following us. The fish shoots off our vantage point and rushes along the bottom to the flow in the distance. While I do the same and drop down from the hill, I can feel my ribs cave under the pressure. Breath escapes my lungs, but this is my only chance. With intense pain and effort I reach to where my little friend is waiting for me. They’re right behind us. He demonstrates and shoots into the flurry of bodies. Gone. I try the same, but my larger body can’t find an opening. Again. The white suits are almost here. Again. I can’t do this. One last time.

I shoot into the flow. The pressure is gone. People’s backs glide past me. I look ahead and see my guide swimming towards a light in the distance. Gold. My gold. I feel being pulled away by the force of the flow and look behind me, to that abyss of abysses.

Black arms seem to grab the bodies to drag them down into the depths. I can feel that putrid warmth of the darkness from here.

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There’s something on the floor there. Yellow. Not white. Where did that come from? Maybe from under the floor. It’s beautiful. Soft. Small and round and yellow, there, on the floor. Where did it come from?

I hear something from the top of the stairs. Noise. People running and shouting. Someone yells something from atop the forbidden stairs. Because of this small circle? I’ve never seen anything like it. See. Eyes are covered with hands. The supervisor put her hands on my eyes. I don’t want to wake up. I want to see.

Footsteps. People all around me. I hear them. Everywhere. I hear supervisors panting and children crying. Tears. Why are they crying? Where did that circle go? My supervisor with her nosy hands. Stop. Away. I want to be free.

Light. Right in my eyes. Suddenly. She’s gone. Where is she? Alone! Where is that circle? Floor. Look at the floor. Where is it? People are looking. People are looking at the floor. There. Quick! Before that bitch with those big hands and fat ass finds you.

There it is. It looks like gold. Gold on the floor. What a joke. Gold is valuable. The most valuable. Thank you ma’am. What is this beautiful thing? Foot. Touch it with my foot. My white shoes. It falls over my shoe. Look. Everyone looks at my shoe. Bell. That alarm bell again. Loud and crass.

One more step. Stop. This isn’t allowed. This’ll get you in trouble. Still do it. My whole foot is on it. It’s not gone, but on my whole shoe.

Step. One more step. Now it’s gone. Where did it go? Under my foot? No. That’s not where it went. Above? Atop the stairs? I look up. Everyone looks with me.

Right in my eyes. It hurts to look up. I look away. Didn’t see it. Everyone looks at me. Big eyes. Why is everyone looking at me? Is there something on my face? Look again. Upstairs. Ouch! It’s so bright, as if you look into the lights as you wake up. Wake up. Can I wake up?

I see it. It’s coming from upstairs. At the top of the forbidden stairs. I have to go up. Have to find the gold. Gold. So much gold. My circle. Push. Out of my way. I hear my supervisor behind me. Dorian! Stop! You’re not allowed. I don’t care. There’s gold up there.

Stairs. Run. Legs feel like acid. Breathing is hard. This isn’t easy. It hurts my legs. Run. I hear them shouting. Dorian! Come back, now! I won’t stop. I’ll be punished anyway.

So much. I didn’t know there were so many steps. I’m almost there. Hatch. Big red hatch. Don’t open it says. There’s a hole in there. Small and round. I hold my hand under the hole. Gold. Gold in my hand. It must be there. Push. The hatch opens. Lots of creaking. Climb. Quickly, climb through it. Shut. Shut it. Quickly.

Where have I ended up now? This room looks so different than the school. No white, or shiny floor, or hard lights, but soft and pleasant. Light. Gold. Where has my gold gone to? Brown. Everything in this room is wood. It creaks and squeaks and it smells nice. It’s cold here. I can’t find my gold yet.

There’s not much in this room, only a chair that hasn’t been used and a table. Not a bed or desk. Who could sleep or study here? Thank you sir. Stop. Shut up. You’re not in class now. There is no teacher. Only me.

I hear something. From downstairs. The hatch. Someone’s pushing it. What if they get me? Jonas. The same’ll happen to me. Table. This thing is heavy. Push. Just in time.

Gold. I see my gold. My precious gold fell on the tabletop. There’s a hole in the ceiling, just above the door on the other side of the room. My gold, it falls through the hole, I can see it. My gold, wait for me.

I yank open the door and my gold surges in the room. It fills the room completely and hurts my eyes. They have to get used to it. There she is. Finally my eyes have gotten used to her beauty.

I’ve never seen anything like this. My shoes are on a soft soil, not white, but brown. We’ve been taught what sand and grass is, but I’ve never seen it. The grass feels soft between my fingers. I can pull it out. It dances in the air when I let them go.What a peculiar place. There are no lights, anywhere, except my gold in the distance. There are no stairs or classrooms, only hills. Where have I found myself?

The teachers never told us of this place. We only heard how it looked during the Fall, where great explosions painted the sky red. The floor was poisonous then. People got sick, but they saved us so that we could grow up safely.

My gold seems to drop, there in the distance. It hangs above blue, the sea. Could my gold be there?

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Light. Light. I can feel it. Light from behind my eyelids. Tick. Tick. Tick it goes. The lights are turning in the hall. Wake up. Rustling. Bodies around me. Other kids. I hear them. I’m afraid to move. Door. Door is opening. Other end of the hall. Wake up. Am I awake?

Stomp. I hear the footsteps stomp. All in sync. Stomp those big feet. Stop. Be nice to her. She’s my supervisor. She only wants to help you. Hate. I hate her. Stop. With her hands of steel. Bitch, I’m old enough, eighteen years old.

Stop. Shut up. Here she comes. I hear them all, but mine better. With her fat feet. Stop! She’s almost here. She might hear you think. Think. Head feels foggy. Teach. It’s good we have class here. Thank you sir, thank you ma’am, you know so much. Shut up. We’re not even in class.

Stomp. Next to my bed. Sit up straight. She’s waiting. Clothing. She has your clothing. You said good morning ma’am? No. Out loud, idiot. Good morning ma’am. She says good morning back. Does she mean it? She never says that. Bitch. Stop. Take your clothes from her!

Pile. Pants and shirt and shoes. White. Something is on top. Colours. Swallow them my supervisor says. I don’t know about that. I look around. There are others everywhere. Just as old as me. All in their underwear. About a thousand. All their supervisors next to their beds.

Do they have pills too? I don’t see anyone swallow. No one. Empty bed. An empty space. Next to me is an empty bed. Jonas was there. He was nice. Crazy Jonas. Hyper. Jonas was hyperactive. They took him. Why? Jonas didn’t do anything, right? Eyes closed. Jonas gone.

Jaw. Thank you ma’am. I’m grabbed by my jaw. Not so rough. Bitch. Stop. I have to swallow this. Everyone is walking out. Whereto? Hurry up. Water. Pill. Water. Swallow. Hand is grabbed. She’ll crush it. Away from the bed, just like everyone else. Out the hall. There’s a sign above the door. Sixteen to eighteen. I’m eighteen. What’ll happen to me? Do I need to leave? Follow the rest. Move it.

Steam. It’s warm here. Hand is let go. Supervisor exits through a door. Queue up. Buzzer goes off. Step forward. Humming. I hear humming in the distance. Splatter. Water. I hear the splatter of water. That buzzer again. Steps forward. I’m almost through the door. What’s happening behind it?

Tiles. Slippery. Watch out. Don’t slip. It smells nice here. Soap. We get a bit of soap down the line. Steam is everywhere. Bodies. I see everyone is naked. That buzzer again. Move forward. Almost at my shower. Have to take off my underpants.

Buzzer. Soap in my hand. Woman in a suit. She walks around, checks everyone. I get a shower. Go under it. Warm water on my head feels nice. Soap up, your whole body I’ve been taught. Nice. Nice. This feels nice. I don’t want to leave yet.

Shouting. Other side. Left. Look left. A boy is shouting. You’re not allowed. Loud voice. I hear a loud voice through the speakers. Last warning! Everyone is looking. Everyone is scared. Boy keeps on screaming. Different. A different alarm is rung.

A cold blast out of the wall. I know it’s cold. Pain. It hurts. Boy stops. He lies down. Supervisors run up to him. Grab him. Jonas. Stop. Buzzer. Others are walking out. Follow each other. Good boy. It’s over. Dress yourself. Be nice. Supervisor helps me. Thank you ma’am. Out loud. Thank you ma’am. She takes my hand.

Walk. Hallway. We’re walking in a white hallway, me and my supervisor. Wake up. Wake. Up. Ouch, you’re squeezing my hand, bitch. Keep those thoughts to yourself. She’s your supervisor. They can hear it. They won’t appreciate it.

Classroom. Classroom. Classroom. The only thing you see here. Fluorescents. Fluorescents. Fluorescents. I’m pulled through the hallways by my hand. I don’t know where my classroom is. This hallway? That one? Didn’t we just miss it? Geography? English maybe… Where do I need to be?

I want to wake up. This sturdy woman should ease up on my hand, stupid bitch. Stop. Be nice now. The big hallway. Here are the stairs. The stairs. The stairs. What’s at the top? I don’t know. Would she know? I can’t ask. She has such a strong grip on my hand today. I can’t say anything, my voice is gone and I can’t find it. Voice. It only comes back when it needs to. Only when the teachers say something. Yes, thank you sir. That’s when my voice comes back. Knowledge. Thank you, we are eternally grateful ma’am.

That’s where the the stairs are, why is she leading me here? The stairs. I want to go up there — no, we’re not allowed. We’re never allowed. Look ahead of you. Upstairs is forbidden, I can tell because my hand is being crushed. My arm is pulled again. I’m walking too slow. Walk with her, my supervisor, with her fat ass. Always that fat ass. Stop. Don’t think about it, walk on. I want to wake up.

What is that?

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