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Scapegoat
by Odd Nerdrum
. . . But first Aaron lay
both hands on the goat’s head
. . . the others did the same.
Their sins were placed on the chosen one
. . . now called the scapegoat . . .
ready to be driven out into the desert to
die.
With a red ribbon strung on his
horns…he was chased out into the
desert sand.
The flock hoped to find the goat dead,
a white band around his forehead.
It would absolve them all.
_
Now the bearer of sins would
suffer sandstorms and thirst.
In time
he would lie down to die…only to rise again
on unstable hoofs, and
stumble on…
Far away, near the foot of a mountain, the
scapegoat found
a cave…with black water
. . . from which he drank.
But within the darkness came the sound of a heavy
bray…a great white goat appeared.
Good evening my son, said the old goat.
The scapegoat did not reply. It turned to leave.
The old one:
You need rest and comfort . . .
You are limping!?
The scapegoat:
I don’t want to talk to you.
The old one:
Can you afford not to?
The scapegoat:
You are just a poor,
dirty goat . . . and your headband
is grey and ragged . . .
God does not approve of you.
I must move on . . . I want to be accepted
by men.
The old one:
By men?
Look at you . . . there . . . in the mud puddle.
You are also a scapegoat – – –
The scapegoat:
But I can see you are doing poorly
. . . for you are alone.
I know I will be happy,
because I believe in justice.
If one just behaves oneself among men,
all will be well.
The old one:
But you have behaved.
It is your beauty that is at
fault. They can see you are a very
special goat. You have therefore been
chosen, by men, to be their scapegoat. . .
They understand little else.
The scapegoat thinks . . . stares . . .
They understand nothing else.
Man cannot hear
the music in your lovely bray,
cannot see the brown sheep curls under your silvery coat,
cannot see the look in those pale yellow goat eyes
that so resemble your mother’s.
Yes, I had . . . many ewes that fall…the year before I was
chosen to be their scapegoat…
Suddenly!!
The scapegoat lumbers toward the old one,
and rubs up against him.
Oh father!...
The old one:
Now we are two . . .
They brayed with joy.
_
More scapegoats arrived at the cave…and soon they
were a group
of brave and seasoned goats.
A soldier with a bow and poisoned arrows…creeps
up toward the cave.
At once…
The goats rush out from the darkness and ram the would-be murderer.
He hurries back down to the people.
From that day, no man dared approach
the infamous fortress of goats.
G.F. Watts - Hope
I found this letter at the Caledonian Market in London, hidden inside a book of maps (!) entitled Eastern Countries. The letter was written by the painter George Fredric Watts, and the recipient was probably Edward Burne-Jones.
September 20, 1886
Dear Edward,
I sit by the hearth here at Compton House.
I glance at my dog.
Kerberos is not happy…nor is he sad.
Those black eyes will never fool me,
but he ponders…God knows what.
Once Kerby sat in cool halls
…he heard Epicurus speak…
He bayed when Praxiteles embraced his lovely Phryne.
Listened to Dante’s pen as it scraped against the
parchment.
Followed Titian’s timeworn shadow, as it passed through
twilight alleys.
Nothing has changed.
No age can claim Kerby.
He is timeless.
Does he heed my call?
Well, why not?
Just a bit of fun…in eternity.
Back in the happy days of my youth,
I ran into the woods and shouted:
Hello, birds!
Be happy…yes, you!
You live in the best of times and in the best of lands
…our pleasant England.
Hello out there! I know you’re enjoying yourselves in these woods.
No reply.
They were timeless.
Here I stand in this most miserable of times,
the time of thieves.
Contemporary man. Those who generated this
hate toward Ethos.
These peculiar beings…half animal…half angel.
They have forgotten the animal…forgotten the angel…
Forgotten eternity itself.
With me, it’s strange.
When I feel the light beating of ‘angel wings’,
hot tears fill my eyes.
That is something…but what?
Now I shall travel…to the cliffs of Dover,
my sketchbook in hand.
Kerby as well.
There I will find beautiful sunsets.
We will sit and look out over the ocean…
but what do we see?
Kerby looks, but takes no notice.
Three blasts of the whistle…
There sails the ferry for Calais.
Two men in flashy sports clothes.
They chatter of documents and numbers.
The landscape changes…
a gaudy veil is pulled over my eyes,
and the view transforms to a weary tourism poster…
I look at Kerby…
he sits, unruffled.
He takes no notice of the voices, just as he took no notice of Epicurus’ speech.
He disregards the ferry, just as he disregarded Dante’s ‘Purgatorio’.
Eternity gazes through him…
while Buddha grins his Buddha grin.
Do you agree, Edward?
To capture eternity – this is what is so difficult.
I have completed ‘Hope’…I think!
Yours,
G.F. Watts
