#3: "I Know What Nothing Means"

 

“I know what 'nothing' means, and keep on playing.”

    I know what nothing means. We often imagine it’s a lack of something, as though it were once alive, and then gone. But sometimes, it simply never existed in the first place.

Nothingness is the absence of existence. The concept of blindness is the complete absence of vision, often described as seeing nothing at all, rather than seeing “black.” It is why when people encounter greater experiences of loss than love, it is a monumental pain that has never existed; it means possessing everything and nothing all at once.

It has been a heavy week. I’m not currently in mourning, but I’m still grieving years later. I experienced all kinds of loss this week: the near-death of a family friend, an inevitable breakup, and a ghost who visits me here and there. It felt dizzying, like whiplash.

But I’m okay. There’s comfort in understanding why these things happen. The color black—or perhaps, complete absence of color—can evoke a sense of emptiness, nothingness, or even a void symbolizing ominous obscurity. However, the act of living itself is a rebellion against the absurdity of life. Understanding the pursuit of meaning while acknowledging the ultimate lack of it, an agonizing tension between love and loss; something and nothing, was once stated by French philosopher Albert Camus: “The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

Black is a color one perceives conceptually. Beyond visual ability, it can also teach us more about loss. Black is the absence of light or color. It’s nothing yet has many shades: charcoal, jet, onyx, ebony. Vantablack is the world’s blackest substance. It is how we create shadows. It’s emo (XD). It is powerful, sophisticated, and the most mysterious colour in the room. The “little black dress” is a timeless staple of elegance (remember Princess Diana’s?). It is sociologically the colour of my skin. It is also worth thinking about how these negative connotations of the color black unknowingly add to external perceptions of my race. A black hole is a cosmic mystery so dense that not even light can escape its gravitational pull. Black is a void where nothing prevails.

Surprisingly, it is also the most experimental background for any pre-modern painter. Vincent Van Gogh became the icon of post-impressionist art, unfortunately, only after reaching the lowest point of his impoverished career. “Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette” (1885-86) is an early work from his time at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp, which he heavily criticised.

So, it is no surprise that this painting is the most ironic allegory of death. It subtly foreshadows his troubled life and later suicide. It is not an anti-smoking message either. The skeleton, rendered hollow yet smoothly, faces away from the viewer. His clay-like sternum sticks out the most, as though in the middle of an inhalation, while a long, vaporised cigarette burns, hooked between the overbite of his decayed teeth.

The skull serves as a “memento mori,” a reminder of death. As do all things entailing death, so is one reminded of corporality. Van Gogh highlights the cynicism of conservatism, the fragility of life, and ultimately, the black void, which shows its detriment through the passage of time itself on the mind and body. The skeleton daring to smoke, as if it would change the circumstances of its fate. His cranium looks as though it’s pulsating, thinking through his coal-black, aghast socket for eyes. The skeleton knows what nothing means and keeps on smoking. That’s the most humorous aspect of all.

Comic relief serves as an antidote to the burdensome weight of grief. The myth of Van Gogh as a tortured artist is propagated by one severed ear and a tube of yellow paint. But one can admit he had a sense of humor when considering suicide: sometimes wicked, sometimes self-loathing, and often, like “Skull of a Skeleton,” playfully fatalistic. He shot himself in the chest in 1890. Regrettably, in life, he amounted to nothing. Yet in death, he gained the most canonical legacy in modern art history.

What I admire about “Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette” is that it paradoxically embodies everything and nothing. That is the point of life: to be close to death yet avoiding it entirely with each breath; to understand that that family friend will recover and is going to be okay; to love someone wholeheartedly and know you must let them go; and most importantly, to welcome the ghosts onto your doorstep, because even eight years later, they will continue to knock on your door, reminding you what once was in the face of oblivion.