John the Baptist and the Insolently Sexy Sheep. Also: Christmas.

I considered posting an actual review of this book I’m reading, Peter Robb’s M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio. But I think I can sum my feelings up best with a picture and a short comment.

Any book that says this kid’s smile is “insolently sexy” or otherwise “inviting” is just trying way too hard:

Detail of Caravaggio’s “John the Baptist I”

Not to mention that such commentary makes one reflect upon the sanity of the author. In ways that make me wish I believed in hell. It looks like a painting of a kid who just got licked on the nose by a sheep. Now, as my friend Reenie points out, I cannot comment on the ram’s take on the situation. It may be more sinister. But let’s be serious, here.

That said, I’ve been lucky enough to see a few of Caravaggio’s paintings in person in my lifetime, and at the risk of sounding uber-melodramatic, I gotta admit that they’ve all stopped my heart for a few seconds. The man painted saints with the faces of Roman street people, much to the shock of the counter-reformation, delighted in invading your space and pulling you into his (ahh trompe-l’œil!), and was just all around brilliant and revolutionary at hooking his viewer.

You think about it, and this is the goal of every writer, artist, musician, etc. The books (or whatever) that show us the truth in unexpected ways are the ones we love the most. So someone who was doing it at the turn of the seventeenth century is fascinating on multiple levels, both academic and personal.

I’m a bit of a fangirl, is what I mean to say. And other than the weird Freudian tendencies of the author, this is a pretty interesting read. He reflects what’s best and most interesting in the painter, so much so that I can almost forgive him his rare irresponsible liberties with the scholarship. I had tenured professors in grad school who were much worse. (This is officially the least long-winded I’ve ever been about art. In my life. Go me.)

In other news, I had a spectacularly unproductive month. I wrote one 8k short story, and it’s completely devoid of fantastic or horrific content, though I’m glad I wrote it, and hope I can eventually make something of it. (Barry recently discussed how this can happen, and I think Aaron‘s about to do the same). I prepped a full manuscript for submission, which made me a little crazy, but also made me realize I don’t hate my own book. I (think I) finalized edits on a story for slated for a July ’09 Anthology of Awesome, under the guidance of two wonderful editors. I got one older story edited up and submitted to a magazine with the help of my generous beta-editor friends. And I’ve been relying heavily on my love of lists and anal retentive organization to build the foundations of a strange epic fantasy/clockpunk world that’s quickly spiraling out of control.

See, I look at that and I think, no, you’ve worked rather hard, haven’t you, for the month after writing a novel in two weeks? But I guess as long as I never feel like I’m working hard enough, I’ll stay hungry, right?

With that, this dorky little blog will likely be silent until after Christmas. My best friend is coming in from Pittsburgh this afternoon, and we’re going to hit up the Oasis show in town. (This makes number 8 for me I think, or maybe 9. Again, with the obsessive fangirling. I might as well be 15, still in love with the same bad music, excellent art, decent books and sci-fi.) And then, you know. Time to make the traditional Christmas Chili!

Have a good one, y’all.

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Now playing: Oasis – Bag It Up
posted with FoxyTunes