Rodin will be our second full length album based on four sculptures by Auguste Rodin.
The Burghers of Calais
To the streets with the ropes around their necks. Keys in hand, sacrifice, trudging on. A year has past and Calais is lost. Starvation, famine, capitulation, a Faustian offer displayed: send forth six of their richest. Adorn them in rags and nooses. Their fate is undeniable. The rest will spare. With all the strength left that he could gather, their mayor, St-Pierre, volunteers. Five brave men step forward, with apprehension, to follow his lead.
What option left, save the honorable one: lay down their lives and begin the march. Take them away.
March, march, keys in hand, sacrifice. To their fate they walk, fraught with altruism. Their sinewy hands grip to the point of bleeding. The city walls, they glisten with the tears of a fresh morning dew. The sun in all its glory casts the biggest shadow on this day.
A starving city waits overwrought and nervously. ‘Not like this! There has to be a better way!’
So they walk, keys in hand, even file, measured step. Heads sunk low by the shackles that drag them closer to the earth. The gravity of coming death; dragging feet, labored breath. The city lives by the hearts of these six brave men who can save them. ‘Who can save them?’ The tragedy that could have been. ‘Who can save them?’ The city lives by the hearts of these. The city lives, the city lives, the city lives…
Reflect! Watching… waiting… a life indentured, the alpha/omega. Lost in solemn rumination; muscles actuated. The Gates of Hell are watched with weary eyes. A modern world built on a tired titan’s back.
They rise to seek the light, but their aims are met with failure, because the sun has cast them down and riches cloud their luminous minds with fable and with narcissism. A heaving brain baptized in bronze. The bane, the blight of humanity, is waiting to erupt. They rise, and lay waste.
The weight of this burden falls solely on his back. What miracle is meant, suggested by this frame relaxed and bent?
Can we still find the light at the end of the tunnel?
Those who live by hope alone will end up watching their own lives fade away. -Attente tourmente.
The Man with the Broken Nose
Faced with judgement, truth becomes somewhat subjective. Once was something honest and natural turns synthetic, while beauty wallows in the muck. Take your eyes off for a moment and it all comes crashing down. The back of its head smashed into pieces, renders beauty into ruins; or so they thought.
In a moment of clarity, bathed in these broken shards, we found our muse through deconstructive means and laid it out for the world to see.
At our feet, plaster dust and graying eyes – terra cotta streaked cement – strands of hair, intertwined – both craggy and matted litter a work space only a wretched vagabond with nowhere else to turn would envy without pity or remorse.
The day had come. Plated windows, frozen breath before the fall.
Cordwain leather-lined chambers, within they wait.
The visage of a weathered man – deep lines and knotted curves. Who sees the beauty in a face like this?
‘The vulgar readily imagine that what they consider ugly in existence is not fit subject for the artist. It is a great error on their part. What is commonly called ugliness in nature can, in art, become full of great beauty. There is nothing ugly in art except that which is without character, that is to say, that which offers no outer or inner truth.’
Cartilage pierces the skin and inspiration bleeds out; a tightened chest exhales and breathes life into beauty.