Acrylic on canvas
90 x 120 cm

I always felt for the ancient monks, frozen in the high altitudes of unreality. Monks ordained by the sublime to be doomed to a parasitic life. Biology has been craving, since the start of mankind, for physical ecstasies, while the church was hiding behind a formless simulacrum. I believe that monks and cardinals albeit being suffocated in God must have endured doubt ridden elucubrations and agonies of the flesh. Drowning in God is nothing but an act of refuge from our own individuality, right? Here, we see a monk, depicted in the tenebrist style strongly influenced by Jusepe de Ribera, eying up several concubines, his hands folded in a prayer, and stunned by his own inner turmoil. The expression of his eyes contradicts the position of his hands. Well, our monk feels trapped by the shame of having been seduced by the infinite and being drenched by an icy bitterness. A bitterness that maybe finds its roots in a Bible advocated pseudo-castration? Man exists in order to think, love and will, right? So, isn’t theology nothing but speculative philosophy? A theology doomed to collapse? The upper half of the painting we see courtesans toying with the monk’s mind. They remind us of American ‘Pulp’ illustrations with a daub of Manara. A woman’s head on the lower left, looks traumatised by this agonising spectacle, she represents the collective unconsciousness. Why is she crying? She cries because she feels the deep sense of the monk's loneliness. A loneliness that implies his painful suspension in life. Living alone means not expecting anything from life anymore, right? Maybe he regrets something that died in him? Monk, embrace and master you’re suffering, and get rid of your clerical domesticity. I can hear Martin Luther giggling somewhere.