Bacchus.

Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and ecstasy, corresponds to the Greek Dionysus. He grew up far from Mount Olympus and taught humans how to cultivate wine. Accompanied by maenads, satyrs, and panthers, he traveled as far as India, where he celebrated triumphal processions.

Bacchus stood for wine, intoxication, liberation from social constraints, ecstasy, religious rapture, theater, transformation, and the dark side of nature. His debauched bacchanalia were temporarily banned in ancient Rome.

Jack sat stiffly in his white toga while the teachers lectured on taxes and artificial intelligence.

The banquet was immaculate, with silver trays, a dignified atmosphere, hushed conversations, and polite nods and smiles. Everything was perfectly arranged. Then an unassuming, approachable and beautiful slave girl carried in a jug. “Wine from France,” murmured the hostess. “A gift.”

Bacchus drank. The wine tasted of wild thyme and saffron, of sun-baked heat and forbidden dreams. 

Suddenly, the teachers began to laugh deep and loud. The once respectable, married, and dignified matrons began to dance so wildly that their hairstyles came undone. The philosopher, who was usually engrossed in manuscripts, picked up a flute. The author, usually devoted to carefully chosen words, took up the electric guitar, the actor chose the drums, the hairdresser took up the violin.

Bacchus felt the mask of the dutiful teachers slip away. He thought of his youth, the poems he never wrote, the love that remained unfulfilled, the days he never lived and the nights he spent alone. “Who are we,” he cried into the night, “when no one is watching or talking about us?”

In the shadow of the columns, a figure smiled, adorned with vine leaves.

Bacchus.

“You are what you hide. And sometimes it only takes a moment of freedom to remind you of that.”

The next morning, Bacchus could hardly remember the details. However, he announced his 		engagement to the slave girl and began listening to the teacher again.

All oil and oil pastel on paper.