ThatGuyChaps
Chieftain
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2008
- Messages
- 4
Constantine Paxinou, Greek Resident of a Small Border-City
I have long rejoiced in the universality of art; but I am torn at what it can do. This is not how I meant it. Two months ago, an elderly Sumerian painter, of 69 years or so, completed his finest project and accompanied it from his countryside villa to a city quite near to our borders. He and his creation arrived recently, but it was not exhibited immediately; instead, he withheld it as reputed artists tend to do, and unveiled his masterpiece only yesterday.
I cannot say what magic took hold of my people because of this painting.
A surge of Sumerian pride spilled into my city and the countryside. Loyal Greeks began to sing praises of the man's work and the accomplishments of a foreign civilization. At first I was ecstatic; I thought it a sign that our peoples-at-war had finally learnt to understand one another, to be drawn into co-existence. This was not the reality.
In weeks the "Sumerian-Fever" translated into civil chaos. The first secessionist movement crippled the city infrastructure for years. The military had to intervene in order to restrain it from ballooning into a broader conflict. Yet today I have many more fellow citizens who deny their heritage. They reject their meals: they say the food is not theirs. They do not work or labour: they say their sweat is not ours. They say they are not Greeks but Sumerians! If only they could feel the frustrations of our forefathers!
Now, learned men congregate in their secretive circles, and conclude that the next generation will be lost to Sumeria. Again do I hear the rumours of rebellion, and with them the rustle of rifles in the night.
I still cannot understand how a painting could do such a thing.
I have long rejoiced in the universality of art; but I am torn at what it can do. This is not how I meant it. Two months ago, an elderly Sumerian painter, of 69 years or so, completed his finest project and accompanied it from his countryside villa to a city quite near to our borders. He and his creation arrived recently, but it was not exhibited immediately; instead, he withheld it as reputed artists tend to do, and unveiled his masterpiece only yesterday.
I cannot say what magic took hold of my people because of this painting.
A surge of Sumerian pride spilled into my city and the countryside. Loyal Greeks began to sing praises of the man's work and the accomplishments of a foreign civilization. At first I was ecstatic; I thought it a sign that our peoples-at-war had finally learnt to understand one another, to be drawn into co-existence. This was not the reality.
In weeks the "Sumerian-Fever" translated into civil chaos. The first secessionist movement crippled the city infrastructure for years. The military had to intervene in order to restrain it from ballooning into a broader conflict. Yet today I have many more fellow citizens who deny their heritage. They reject their meals: they say the food is not theirs. They do not work or labour: they say their sweat is not ours. They say they are not Greeks but Sumerians! If only they could feel the frustrations of our forefathers!
Now, learned men congregate in their secretive circles, and conclude that the next generation will be lost to Sumeria. Again do I hear the rumours of rebellion, and with them the rustle of rifles in the night.
I still cannot understand how a painting could do such a thing.