The set design, perhaps, for a low-budget 1950s sci-fi film where Medusa goes sunbathing while Frankenstein's monster kicks sand in Swamp Thing's face? Or maybe the view down Godzilla's throat as he is sucking on a lemon-flavored cough drop?
No, it's actually a gloomy painting by Edvard Munch called 'Summer Evening by the Beach.' Of course, this being Munch, you suspect his screaming self-portrait will soon surface from the murky depths, neither waving nor drowning, but suffering some other sort of existential aquatic crisis; perhaps a jellyfish sting, or stubbing his toe on a submerged pebble, or even the accidental gulping of briny water.
Judging by the mounds of slimy seaweed washed up on Munch's excessively rocky "beach," however, I would suggest a serpentine tendril of current-born seaweed coiling itself around his leg is a more likely cause for screaming. After all, experiencing such an unexpected and unpleasant sensation is usually the reason for my anxiety when taking a dip; that and the freezing temperature of the Atlantic ocean in New England, which could also be another factor in Munch's case, I suppose, assuming he's depicting a very Northern shoreline.
But who gives a empty oyster shell about Edvard Munch's ancient insecurities when my very own post-Coronavirus summer has arrived? Won't the beach seem more technicolor tropical paradise and less gloomy post-nuclear wasteland now? Well, I guess it will be if I can see past the rowdy mob of zombie vacationers unleashed by the cessation of Covid lockdowns. Here comes the invasion of transistor radios blaring cacophonous tunes, Olympic-size bivouacs, mishit volleyballs, rampaging jet skis, windswept umbrellas, and the rest of modern beachgoer's irrepressible equipment. Now that's truly enough to make anyone scream.
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