sightless passion

a creature calls to us from a chamber inside our heads.

the deadly masquerade. movement of eyes under shields over crowds of the wanton. i see you, forgetfully spiteful, intently unaffected. i’ll remain anonymous until you remove your ego from your gut and your eyes clear of sightless passion.
i lost it in the fold, the cold ground sunken. from a time i’m not a part of, i imagine what it meant to love him. i knew you, your name etched beside me. lingering voices, i hear them; judging with envy. we can fall in love, often with what we do not see; why not, for our own fear, with what does not breathe? only now, i groan for the end of my days, as i catch you in a glimpse, and you spin in your grave.
emergence from the quiet; pangs of a survivalist’s world, echoing in the light that comes fogged with more questions. how is it I am guised under artificial beauty when this is where I came from? a place where beauty was first defined.
i can’t forget the way you touch me. when you’re faceless and the walls fall down like cardboard. the closed room opens to leaves beneath my back and branches that tear through the ceiling. your hair is long enough to touch my lips, but it changes, slowly shortens, ages, until i can see your eyes. and i wake, wanting you.
these transformations of once-imagined things. a creature calls to us from a chamber inside our heads. captive, until it speaks and convinces us to let it roam.
a ruthless spirit in an unforgiving world.

 


 

Marissa-CastingSpells-1CMarissa-Smoke-DistresedMarissa-B&W-editedMarissa-EyesOpen-StampMarissa-Leaves-ObscureMarissa-Portrait-GrainMarissa-CastingSpells-2b

 


the model     //      @peeksters       //       orlando, fl
art/photography account    //    @archaicmalady
personal account      //      @belleathena
bring me to the archives

 

woodland whimsy

life bellows from the bones // portrait session with courtnie

HOLDING DEATH BETWEEN PHANTOM FINGERS, I HOPE FOR IT TO LIVE AGAIN. LUCIDLY, THE HOPE CONJURES, LIKE A SPELL BROUGHT TO SUBCONSCIOUS LANDSCAPES, AND LIFE BELLOWS FROM THE BONES. PERCEIVED IN SENTIENT IRISES, WE FIGHT NOTHING WHEN IT IS BEAUTIFUL. A REVIVAL OF EMOTIVE COLOR.

 

Courtnie-6C

Courtnie-2B

Courtnie-3B

Courtnie-4C

Courtnie-5B

 


the model     //      @courtnie_shea       //       orlando, fl
mua     //     @beautyby_mackenzie    //    palm harbour, fl
art/photography account    //    @archaicmalady
personal account      //      @belleathena
bring me to the archives

the unfinished masterpiece

this is existential fodder–when do artists decide their work has reached its potential? I’m resolving that they don’t; I’m absolutely certain that the feeling must be complete, not the work itself.

finish me | nicely put, it is a work-in-progress


photograph by Nia Garza

I used to think it was out of habit to leave things unfinished. Lately, however, I’ve been considering that maybe I do this because I like it. I’m not sure if it pleases me, but there is some kind of beauty; a forbidden excitement, of sorts. We are told as children to finish our plate, our homework; to pursue and eventually desire completion. Isn’t that counterintuitive? We are made to feel guilty of the unfinished—our lover, on the bed, starving, and therefore, unsatisfied. No, dissatisfied with us—When did Incomplete begin to equate lack of skill, interest, or care?

I sat down to write this thinking it would only apply to my paintings. Then I felt my nails scratching the keys and realized, no, it is not confined to one medium. Everything I do is incomplete: relationships end too soon; some, gone on too long, made to feel overworked and therefore unfinished in an entirely different sense. To be finished is to be terminated, made to feel some kind of closure with the project or the person. To be incomplete is to be partial, aware that there is something missing. I am unfinished and incomplete in so many ways.

You commented on my eating habits: “It seems you never finish your plate, and not because you don’t like the food.” I hadn’t thought of this ever before. Perhaps, you are responsible for me realizing this practice–(I’m eliminating the word “habit” altogether)–and I should thank you for revealing a part of myself that was hidden and always present, like my own nose.

It is my writing, too. I have so many ideas which I’ve become so accustomed to spawning, I don’t even bother to jot them all down anymore. If the itch becomes constant or repetitive, then I address it, but otherwise I know my curse will consume anything I set out to do. And my novel, what a feat it has been—I’m determined to finish it–but that is such a relative term! If I finish it, it will remain a part of a conversation: explaining what I do, that it is alive in the mind of the reader, future edits, always wondering if words should be changed or if the message was naïve. “Charlotte” was like that. It came to a point where I just wanted it off my mind and out of my hands. Those things all feel unfinished, as if the inkwell and the drying is just another step to an endless list.

I don’t take on too much. I don’t think I take on enough. And as I’m sitting here, enjoying the day, dreading the continuation of this chapter, trying to remain positive in the confusion and divinity of humanhood, I come to love the painting unfinished; I come to find a breathy excitement in the things that cannot be totally complete. Because–this is existential fodder–when do artists decide their work has reached its potential? I’m resolving that they don’t; I’m absolutely certain that the feeling must be complete, not the work itself. The strife and pursuit of art and expression is completely insatiable, and humans—we are like our art—there’s never enough time before we die,  never enough love from our spouses, nor enough peace and goodness in the world: we want it all. We want to represent all, keep all in the conversation; never leave a man or concept behind. And in the end, we do; we will; there’s just no stopping it.

So, we might as well enjoy the unfinished, the incomplete, in these moments of water and pigment on a page not fit for these elements. Are any of us fit for our own humanity?

belle, reimagined

“Musings” is the result of a creative metamorphosis. This is my capsule portfolio of all things that inspire, perplex, and linger. Unrestricted.

“Archaic Malady” is the result of a creative metamorphosis. This is my capsule portfolio of all things that inspire, perplex, and linger. Unrestricted.


photo by Nia Garza

I first tried out the alter-ego of “Belle” on social media in 2013, becoming known as “belle athena” on most platforms. The name stuck, but the intent of the blog shifted as I began to take myself, and my work, more seriously. After much planning and consideration, I revamped the site in May 2017.
This site is dedicated to the authentic, to the dangerous and sticky parts of humanhood; all the things I’d striven to keep buried. The intention now is to tell the truth to my readers–it is likely to shock some of the loyal followers–and hopefully, with some time and consistency, crack open what it means to be Belle.
Follow, share, and enjoy; start conversations, question and comment, but please, remain kind. Content is all original and must be respected as such. Send all requests, collaboration or otherwise, to ArchaicMalady@gmail.com. Social platforms are also a preferred form of contact.

Thank you,

Fairy Queen Out

wasting paints | wip

translating a dream state

I BEGAN LAYERING PAINT, WITHOUT THINKING.
FLOWERS BLOOMED, AND I GUESS, THAT’S JUST ME, IN TRUTH, AN OPTIMIST WHO HAS FAITH IN THE SMALL PLEASURES OF THE WORLD. I THINK I’M TRANSLATING A DREAM STATE WHERE I’VE TRIED TO IMAGINE SUMMERLAND.

img_6783.jpg

NO PREDETERMINED PALETTE OR SUBJECT
JUST UNCONSCIOUS, WITH LACK OF ANY BRIGHT IDEAS OF WHAT MY STROKES AND LAYERS WOULD BE LEADING TO. AND ISN’T THAT JUST LIKE US?

soul of a nomad

to inspire others to prioritize exploration

Our ancestors were nomadic; never in one place for too long. Due to lack of resources, tracking herds of animals, and the innate human urge to explore, our genetics ultimately track the choices our elders made; where they came from and where they ended up.

So much of what we believe in is based on faith or sight. We can see a photograph of the Parthenon, but until we witness it for ourselves, the well-rounded sensation is lost. We can read a holy text, but until we feel that spiritual connection within ourselves, provoked by first-hand experience, we aren’t going to fully commit to God, doubt Him, or create a whole new way of life that might completely exclude divinity.

For me, God is in art, science, culture, and nature. Experience is the vehicle by which I pursue enlightenment, self-actualization, happiness and positivity. You can have an adventure in your backyard, in your home town, in the woods or mountains an hour drive away, or across the Atlantic Ocean in Europe. Wherever you go, there will be stimuli for you to either pass over or relish in: the choice is yours.

I hope to inspire others to prioritize exploration. So much of our lives are concentrated in a particular place with a certain group of people, like an adult trap intended to keep us structured, stable; living without risk. And for some, that is a very attractive way to live out their lives. In this, I say, follow your heart. If you love where you are, what you do on a daily basis, keep at it. But if the reason you don’t pick up and go is because you are afraid of the cost, consequences, or what will change in your absence, let those fears go! I promise, you’ll be better for the knowledge you’ll gain while living in the present moment.

travel