Art over time, a graph of progress.
Our discussion will proceed off of two data points, as all serious discussion ever does.
The first is Le déjeuner sur l'herbe, painted by Manet in the sixties. The other sixties.
The second is an untitled literary piece fished off the deep water of the Internetsi. Behold :
Hello, my name is Raj. I am from Assam, a state in northeastern India. I am currently enjoying a fulfilling college education at a squeaky-clean, high-end school. But I have not always been so fortunate. My teenage years were marred with poverty and overall hard times. This all commenced when my father abandoned my family. He had been the breadwinner, and with his absence my mother, my sister, and myself were forced into the slums for a period of time.
Several months after after impoverishment was ushered into our lives, my uncle, who was estranged from his brother, my dad, invited us to live in the basement of his sprawling, remote mansion. This soggy, claustrophobic cement coffin was a step in a positive direction after subsisting in the ghettos of Guwahati.
My uncle was, to put it bluntly, a tyrannical, evil creature. He held threats of kicking us out over my mother's head just to torture her. I can recall several instances in which he approached her violently, making her recede into a fetal position and cry, only to stop short of her at the last minute and chuckle at her misery. As horrible as he was, if it weren't for him, I'd be collecting trash on the city streets for pennies rather then run my fingers wildly over the keyboard of my sleek, modern laptop.
Anyways, the most extreme and memorable incident regarding his abuse came about during a riverside picnic three years ago, when I was 18.
8-10 people, mostly family & friends of Uncle, embarked on a daylong hiking trip to a national park, which would end when we reached a secluded river. Most of us, except for my mother and aunt, had brought swim clothes and intended to meander in the river's ferocious current.
Once everyone but her and the aunt were enjoying the roaring waters of the river, uncle and my friends teased my mother, prodding and insisting that she come in and join them. She brushed them off with a smirk and a few remarks. Uncle nudged one of his buddies and told him something in a hushed, quick tone. He nodded, and the other friends appeared to concur, bobbing their heads up and down at an excited velocity.
Uncle then emerged from the river and casually strode on the shore and towards my mother, a grin frozen on his face and a blank, cold glance etched onto hers.
"You really should get into the water, Tanya," my uncle implored once more.
"I didn't bring any bathing clothes, Palash," she insisted, with her voice subtlety tinted with fear.
My uncle grasped onto mom's shoulder and led her off into the jungle, where no one could here the horrid things he was undoubtedly spewing out of his wretched lips. During this distant conversation I saw him grasp mom's clothed butt, on other instances I spotted a few precise and painful spanks. His fingers trembled and wiggled with arousal as they graced her crotch, which was shielded from his prying eyes by a pair of jeans.
My mother stomped back to the shore of the river, sadness contorting her face. I was shocked to see my her whip toss aside her belt and let her jeans cascade to the jungle floor.
At this point, I suppose I should describe my mother to you. She was 39 by that point in her life, tall and skinny, but with meat on her bones. Mom has a very full and firm butt, which would cling nicely to anything she donned. She had a curvaceous figure that was splashed by a delicious, toasted brown skin. Her breasts had to be c-cup sized, firmly jutting outward from her chest. Long, gleaming black hair traversed across her shoulder before graciously dropping off along her back.
As soon as her jeans were stripped away, everyone started laughing. She was wearing extremely small Hello Kitty panties, no doubt intended for a girl thirty years her junior. They looked painful, riding up on both ends of her pelvis. In fact, I could see red sores emanating from my poor mother's crotch. Uncle gave us everything we owned, so he dictated what would be worn, let alone what would be possessed, and by whom.
All of uncle's friends and relatives were hysterical as tears softly rolled out of mom's eyes and dripped onto the dirt. She took off her t-shirt, revealing a bra which clung so tight to her chest that the straps could be seen in tatters. It was a miracle the terrible contraption held in her huge breasts, whose nipples pointed hard and straight outwards. Her useless bra was practically transparent!
Now, with only underwear protecting mom's sex from her tormentor and his co-conspirators, mother entered the roaring suds of the river, certainly per uncle's "request." Her unmentionables were both largely white, so my mother's tactic of hiding in the neck-deep waters of a nearby river delta only dampened her undergarments to the point of literal transparency, as I would soon find out.
Uncle doggy-paddled with a purpose towards my mother, who froze, wading meekly in place. Uncle swung her over his shoulder, her desperate squirms and convulsions no match for his muscles. Grasping her by the stomach, he whispered something into her ear, causing her struggle to fade. Seeing my mother in such revealing clothing gave me a mild erection, which was held back by moral obligations to the fact that she was, of course, my mom!
Uncle grabbed both shoulder straps of the bra and pulled in one swift, deadly movement. She kept her hands at her sides, an act surely part of uncle's demands, as the debris from the ruined bra gradually settled on the water at her ankles. Her breasts were exquisite. Her boobs curved elegantly from her chest, topped with perky nipples that were encompassed by small, dark areolae. My penis must've tripled in size.
All ethical arguments aside, at that age, a nude woman was a nude woman, frankly, it didn't matter who it was in front of me, just that a woman was naked within my line of sight, something I has never had the fortune of bearing witness to beforehand.
Mom was weeping extraneously now, her tears crisscrossing down her cheeks. She looked like she was constantly holding in a scream of horror, her mouth left agap so that moans could escape it.
"And now, for the grand finale!" Uncle exclaimed, his shrill shriek of excitement bouncing off of every frog, tree and rock in the jungle. He bent down and hooked his fingers into the waistband of mother's panties. Uncle's villainous gang of family and friends all simultaneously encouraged what was about to unfold. Various forms of the phrase 'Pull it down!' converged together in a cacophonous chant that was so large in volume that it somehow distracted me enough from the incredible spectacle to shield my ears with my hands.
I can only remember the following split second in painfully slow motion, so that is how I must describe it.
Uncle's fingers worked with gravity to send the panties sailing past mother's vagina. Inch by inch, her vagina materialized. It is completely bald, allowing every crevice and mole to be fully indulged by the hungry, cheering observers. The panties then brushed past her thighs and landed at her ankles with a sharp splash, sending sparkling pockets of water upwards from their disturbed place of origin.
Mother was beyond consolation. Mucus flowed rapidly from her nostrils and conjoined with those ever-present tears as the combined substances snaked down her body.
Uncle positioned himself in front of mom, fingers still occupying the waistband, and pulled forward, sending mom to the river floor, crashing on her bottom. His gang found this incredibly funny. As she surfaced, so did a swirling tornado of blood. Her cries intensified now, the unclean water mixing with a wound ascertained from the unforgiving bottom of the river.
"My-my, does someone have a boo-boo?" My sick uncle inquired in a poorly staged voice that attempted to mimic some resemblance of care and sympathy. He put her back on her feet, kneeling down so close that her backside was pressed against his nose. He started to laugh, giggles tearing out of him in a sickening series of three bursts. He swerved my mother around to show his audience just what was so hilarious.
A huge, jagged cut ran along both of my mother's butt cheeks, with brilliant red blood escaping the incision at a lazy rate. She was shaking in pain, screaming at the ground and stomping, sending earth flying into the air. Thankfully, the gash wasn't deep, or else she would've lost a serious amount of blood.
"Don't worry, Dr. Palash has just the cure for this," he said, gifting the presiding observers with a prolonged wink before returning to his victim. He once again swung her over his shoulder and clambered back onto the shore, where he delved into the picnic basket.
You may be wondering why I didn't do anything to protest the wildly horrific events that were unfolding. My mother had sat down my sister and I after uncle had taken us under his wing, and told us how important it was to, no matter what he did to her, just put on a brave face and watch. He could kick us out, or, more importantly, seriously hurt someone.
Going back to the events of that day, my uncle had now retrieved a salt shaker from the basket. He settled on a nearby rock, with my mother bent over across his lap. Spotting the salt shaker, she couldn't overcome the urge to wiggle and kick with all her might, which, of course, was to no avail.
His meaty hands rummaged around mom's ass cheeks, ensuring that no spot was left untouched; no corner of her magnificent behind was to remain unexplored.
After he decided that his sister-in-law's ass was fully mapped out by his perverted phalanges, uncle took the salt shaker, and in one quick shake of it sent a huge heap of salt into her gaping wound, the cursed white dots settling right in between the two sides of the gash and spreading irritation like a wildfire. This was met with a bloodcurdling scream from my mother, who was now pounding the ground in frustration.
"Stop that. YOU WILL KNOW YOUR PLACE, GOD DAMN IT!" He screeched like an dying bird. Uncle raised his hand like he had many times before, but this time did not hesitate as his palm met the delicate flesh of mom's butt with a blunt, lasting force. Her ass was now completely red thanks to the blood and irritation from uncle's slaps.
At long last, uncle conceded, citing the need to return home before dark. A standing ovation was given by the followers of my sick relative, who bowed as my mother lay in a trembling, wheezing heap to his right.
I helped my humiliated mom to her feet, slipping on her pants and shirt and walking her to the car. She cried all the way back to our miserable, damp life beneath uncle's house. Although what transpired that day was cruel, I will never forget the sight of my nude mother in all of her beautiful glory.
Now then. Various socialists and assorted other libertardsii occasionally wish to know why sane people (whom they usually call "conservative") tend to sneer at their precious notion of "progress" and instead depict evolution of society since the Socialist Revolutioniii in terms of the festering decay it actually is. This would be why : pestering the elite so that Raj from Assam has a keyboard to go with his "sleek new laptop" is not an improvement in any perspective worth the mention.
Sure, the argument could be brought that one day Raj, or maybe Raj's soniv will raise himself up to the point where his output may be worth the mention. Theoretically a country full of people who don't need to work to feed themselves and moreover are free from the indignities of their own inferiority will present itself filled to the brims with accomplished painters, composers, philosophers and what have you, marking an indelible high spot in the history of mankind.
This theory does not work in practice, principally because absent the salted gash in the butt the rajlets find little incentive to actually put in the work. This is confirmed by the recent misadventure of the foremost republic in the modern world : ensuring people never starve has produced a generation of cappuccino cup "artists", Britney Spearses and redditors. A more horrible waste of resources could not be imagined, and the turning tide of that federation's economy is the sound of the bill coming due.v Apparently making sure everyone is happy or at least content or at any rate "heard" is not a sensible use of resources. Who knew ?
The great designs of socialists always work great on paper and miserably in practice. Pass the salt shaker.———
- Fella101 is the 1542591th registered profile on literotica, and declaratively an adult male from Southern California. [↩]
- A libertard is a retard who thinks himself liberal. [↩]
- 1789, Paris. [↩]
- I don't think rajes have daughters, ever. Do they ? [↩]
- The Cold War duality is striking. The Red Republic proved over the course of about a century that a honest, deep and uncompromising worship of the Ideal in spite of any practical inconvenience does not work. The Red-White-And-Blue federation proved over the course of about half a century that crafty and convenient pursuit of the Ideal does not work either. Romantism nix, Hedonism nix, what's left for
manlibertard on god's green Earth ?! [↩]
Saturday, 20 July 2013
...though the argument could maybe be brought that the comparison is not of like things (the painting and the story)?
Saturday, 20 July 2013
But it is of like things. Art is one thing, whole, indivisible ; perennial and universal.
Saturday, 20 July 2013
Okay. Do you think that when Manet was painting people didn't produce complete crap?
Saturday, 20 July 2013
The painting at the time was complete crap. It comes from the meanwhile famous Salon des Refuses. So yes I am comparing like things : the refuse of a culture with the accomplishments of a failure.
Saturday, 20 July 2013
Oh. Well then your article makes a *very* good point. :D
Saturday, 20 July 2013
Y u no raep?
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Sunday, 15 January 2017
Other bookend : http://vshakah.ru/images1/ruurodskaja-rosija-13.jpg
Sunday, 15 January 2017