Texts from Your Existentialist
— Nix Thérèse
Inevitably, once I get comfortable enough in any group chat or friendship, I start dropping gifs & memes (or tweets, which are an extension). Those from ‘Texts from Your Existentialist’ are the better of the crop, combining wry humor in iMessage bubbles with varied, but sometimes instantly recognizable paintings & figures. The latent art history nerd in me is always elated when I recognize one of the images, but it’s the text that often deeply expresses an unnerving thought or feeling with me barely having to lift a finger.
Coupling “drop it like your sense of self in the pale moonlight” with a painting of Salvador Dali was choice. His renderings of the body feel simultaneously solid and fluid, dictated almost completely by where the light hits the backbone and hipbone. Similarly, a sense of self is both physical articulation and amorphous light. We can pinpoint with our presentation, our tenor of voice, the ways we manifest in the world, yet we can never truly hold it in our hands. Dropping it low usually doesn’t involve shattering. Yet the moonlight surrounding this moment of casual self-sabotage offers tenderness: a spotlight reminding us that we’ve sunk, a voice calling us to regain.
Picasso entwined with “I think we should perceive different realities” makes me laugh-sigh, mostly in the implication of “at this point in time.” Really, some relationships are entirely made of being on different planes, but only recognizing you’re separately hovering when a particular instance highlights the divergence. Even in some of the best partnerships, there’s still wiggle room in regards to seeing that simultaneously keeps the relationship fresh, but also leaves it open to fracture; it’s both the bind and the untangle. Here, I’m struck by how this acceptance feels both generous and heartbreaking. It names a self that cannot fully be shared. It’s a moment flitting between a kind goodbye wave and a well-needed shoo.
“I feel like death is using my body as a timeshare” takes the cake though. The idea that Death has vacation time and spends those moments inside our living bodies is A Lot. It feels like we’re composed of these many rooms that are tarnished by Death’s touch. Yet this Gabriel Ferrier painting feels very luxurious: the transparent cloth spins off, the human back rubs against the velvety bat, and nothing is noticeably decayed. Whenever I see this, I wonder how I can reconcile my deep discomfort re: swipes with Death with wanting this openness / lack of tension.
In these seemingly simple commentaries, TFYE is able to open theoretical avenues that sometimes have me stopping mid-scroll to go “hmmm.” If you browse the collection, I’m sure you’ll find a piece to mull over as well.