“Why does any artist receive their fame, soon as they’ve escaped this world, through the grave, now dead? It is in us always considering creation, before causation, that we say to even an evil artist, that when they’re dead, they can no longer cause others to be dead. It is to creation, that makes the living person a shocking symptom of truth, because when they die, truth is all to be seen.”– Modern Romanticism
Art is only ever creation, as creation is from the artist and is also themselves. Upon the death of life, of creation, we see only what was made, by the once-living, by the artist. Sculpted about us in varying intricacies, being only what is able to become seen by remaining life, by the remaining viewers.
Art objectively does not stand for chaos, unless materialism is to the living artist’s motto, and never to the soul of themselves depicted in their work.
Under chaos, art works as numbers, praising the death of others, praising the death of life, of objectivism in truth. By this, art that causes, or speaks for itself on causation, kills originalism by way of the roots. Therefore, art that cites itself on numbers, kills the universal away.
Hitler, having killed, was an artist of the latter sort. Yet, by his death, we see only his very creations. It is by the death of anything, that we see the good of what died, by our remembrances to their once-living selves. We forgive the life that died, knowing our criticism cannot extend to the death of a life to become better, for it is now too late.
Forgiveness acts upon faith, comprehending to life that it will be better, keeping our trust up in that regard. If Hitler is said to be a genius, it was only due to an inevitability of life’s psychological understanding of itself, of life understanding life, and of life comprehending truth. Each thing of truth, is life, is what decays, and soon to become the enemy of chaos. For chaos is against life. Chaos is for death. Chaos is for the decay of truth, into sheer deception, that the garden of Eden might appear autumnal so that everything falls, with beginnings into endings.
We forgive the life that died, inevitably so, that we understand Hitler to have been the evil artist, becoming forgiven for the sake of our awareness to truth. That truth? It is the truth of what remaining life metaphysically pulls from the metaphysical realm, being of goodness, no matter how small. Even of the monster, we pull from memories, never the badness that would equate to chaos or causation. We simply do not remember death, by death. We remember life, by death. Therefore, we do not remember what Hitler caused, though by what he created, simply by recognizing humanity that it was buried under the pressure of its own guilt.
It is there to be known for why we remember life, being the same reason that we remember art. It is that we remember what remains, being of surrounding life, being of the once-living’s existence that still lingers. In this, we grieve even for monsters.