I've totally figured out immortality and I'm going to share it with you.
John Logan pointed it out in his new-ish play "Red" about Rothko and some random guy who bitch at each other about the nature of art, change, and death (excellent play). In it the random guy talks about Matisse and how fierce the colors of his later paintings were despite the fact that he knew he was dying. And when he was to ill to paint, he took some scissors and made collages. He made collages until he died. That is immortality.
It certainly would be wonderful if this blog were dipped in titanium and bolted to the White House steps for eternity. But why should I give a shit about eternity? I'll be dead. I won't care who reads the immortalized yet under-recognized genius of this blog. Nor will I care about the millions of lives this blog will save through it's brilliant insight into the human condition. Again: I'll be dead.
At this moment, Matisse doesn't care about his paintings nor his fame. Matisse's a sense of immortality came from passion and the consequent loss of self. Painting wasn't about creating a personal image. It wasn't about demarcating a past or impregnating a future. It was about a ritual. The dipping of a brush into paint, into canvas, into self. The ritual eliminated self-consciousness. Death, illness, body, identity were meaningless. And when the ritual became impossible, he developed a new one. Death meant nothing. That is immortality: not that something is left behind, but that you don't care if it is or not. Immortality is now.
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