این نقاشی یکی از کارهای مهم رامبرانته که اونقدر بهش اهمیت داده نشده. قسمتهای زیادی ازش توی آتیش از بین رفته ولی این چیزی که میبینید اونیه که تونستن بازسازی کنن. توی نقاشی شما انجمن جراحان آمستردام رو میبینید که دارن کالبدشکافی مغز یک اعدامی رو تماشا میکنن.
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رامبرانت دوتا نقاشی از انجمن جراحان آمستردام کشید و این کار همیشه توجه کمتری داشته تا اون یکی. که خب بیشتر بخاطر همون آسیب شدیدیه که دیده.
اسکچها رامبرانت از نقاشی تونست باعث بشه که بتونیم به صورت دیجیتال تا جایی که میشه بازسازیش کنیم.
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حالا چرا مهمه؟ چون کالبد شکافی توی این تصویر اشتباهه =) اصلا هدف رامبرانت نشون دادن یه کالبدشکافی توسط انجمن نبوده و داس مغز به این شکل برداشته نمیشه و اون زمان کالبد شکافی هیچ وقت با مغز شروع نمیشده و اگه نگاه کنید قفسهی سینهی جسد هنوز باز نشده.
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ممکنه بعدا دکتر جراح انجامش بده ولی چرا رامبرانت صبر نکرده تا کالبدشکافی کامل بشه؟
میخواسته فقط اهمیت مغز و شکوهش رو نشون بده؟ پس چرا داس مغز؟ میتونست بخشهای جالبتری رو انتخاب کنه ولی توجهش روی داس خیلی جالبه.
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دلیلش رو خیلی دوست دارم.
یکی از کارهای رامبرانت مرگیه که داسش رو حمل میکنه و اسکلتی انسان همراه و یا بدون داس نماد انجمن جراحان بوده. و بخاطر ژرفنمایی خاصی که داره این حس به شما القا میشه که تمام این کالبدشکافی فقط برای شماست و بینندهی اصلی شمایید. داس اون وسیلهایه که زندگی انسان رو میگیره و توجه این انجمن روی همین فانی بودن انسانه. اینکه چقدر راحت میتونید با داسی که توی سرتونه یا داسی که توی دست مرگه زندگیتون رو از دست بدید.
یکی از کارهای رامبرانت مرگیه که داسش رو حمل میکنه و اسکلتی انسان همراه و یا بدون داس نماد انجمن جراحان بوده. و بخاطر ژرفنمایی خاصی که داره این حس به شما القا میشه که تمام این کالبدشکافی فقط برای شماست و بینندهی اصلی شمایید. داس اون وسیلهایه که زندگی انسان رو میگیره و توجه این انجمن روی همین فانی بودن انسانه. اینکه چقدر راحت میتونید با داسی که توی سرتونه یا داسی که توی دست مرگه زندگیتون رو از دست بدید.
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Forwarded from 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 (•°𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘)
If not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, you could easily mistake her as a corpse. staying there, splayed on the cold stone steps, limbs unmoving, eyes unfocused. maybe she was dead after all. except, she could still feel the ache deep in her heart. if death was oblivion, then she wasn't on the other side yet. for she was still all too aware, still present, still in pain.
if she was dead, then why was a shallow breath still stubbornly moving through her lungs, refusing to stop in its track?
if she was dead, then why did pain still pulse through her veins, refusing to let her just be?
if she was dead, then why were tears still welling up in her eyes, like a spring in the deep heat of the summer refusing to dry?
if she was dead, then why wasn't she bleeding? why wasn't she painting this despicable beautiful place red with her blood?
something in the very center of her being hurt. not the kind of all consuming violent pain that makes your brain shut down and choose unconsciousness. not the kind that flows through you like a roaring river.
it was a dull sort of pain, sitting there almost silently, hugging its knees close and staring ahead with eyes empty of all life. not a pain sharp like a dagger cutting through tender flesh in a clean swift stroke, but like a thousand small needles stabbing at your nerves at all times, setting you on fire but not letting you burn and turn into ash.
she blinked slowly, taking note of a large crack on the ceiling. her shoulders were numb from the biting cold of the ground sipping into her skin and bones. everything around her was still and quiet, like even the world around her had finally abandoned her, leaving her to her own devices.
a black dog passed her by, sniffing at her curiously, trying to make sense of her immobile body with his animalistic senses.
she waited, to be once again left alone, alone in her pain, alone in her unending misery.
if she was dead, then why was a shallow breath still stubbornly moving through her lungs, refusing to stop in its track?
if she was dead, then why did pain still pulse through her veins, refusing to let her just be?
if she was dead, then why were tears still welling up in her eyes, like a spring in the deep heat of the summer refusing to dry?
if she was dead, then why wasn't she bleeding? why wasn't she painting this despicable beautiful place red with her blood?
something in the very center of her being hurt. not the kind of all consuming violent pain that makes your brain shut down and choose unconsciousness. not the kind that flows through you like a roaring river.
it was a dull sort of pain, sitting there almost silently, hugging its knees close and staring ahead with eyes empty of all life. not a pain sharp like a dagger cutting through tender flesh in a clean swift stroke, but like a thousand small needles stabbing at your nerves at all times, setting you on fire but not letting you burn and turn into ash.
she blinked slowly, taking note of a large crack on the ceiling. her shoulders were numb from the biting cold of the ground sipping into her skin and bones. everything around her was still and quiet, like even the world around her had finally abandoned her, leaving her to her own devices.
a black dog passed her by, sniffing at her curiously, trying to make sense of her immobile body with his animalistic senses.
she waited, to be once again left alone, alone in her pain, alone in her unending misery.
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بیاین درمورد این صحبت کنیم که چیزی که شبنم نوشته چقدر... ایرانیه! و اینکه اگه یه انگلیسی زبان بخونش احتمالا باور نمیکنه که شبنم زبان مادریش انگلیسی نیست.
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