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About the Picture
We are our own worst enemies. We decide upon the innate value of our identity and then hunt down the truth that is this identity.
Only this game remains; we project in the manner of a pompous bird, false ideals like peacock feathers. Our vanity thrives
on the chase for self-expression, but it is a lie. It is a deception of the saddest kind; for all our charm, our beautifully
kept wardrobes, our fake-diplomacy, our placating contracts; like a garden blooming in the South of France, we are dry and
barren, providing the cover for a snake in the grass: "But of all faults of soul the gravest is one inborn in most men,
one which all excuse in themselves and none therefore attempts to avoid - that conveyed in the maxim that 'everyone is naturally
his own friend,' and that it is only right and proper that he should be so, whereas in truth, this same violent attachment
to self is the constant source of misdeeds in every one of us." (Plato: Laws V)
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