It's a Matter of Hide and Seek

Look at what he did: a man bent over until he is four-legged again. His body is patched - a little cow-print, a little harlequin, a target right on his ass. His hands have become front hooves. And because he went down there, the world changed scale.

The butterfly in front of him is suddenly as big as his head. The ant on the ground is as big as a dog. The mosquito behind him is the size of an eagle. When you are on four legs, you live in the insect world. Everything is close, immediate, huge.

When you stand on two, you live in the horizon world. You see the sun and the moon - like the swirled sun in the top left of this painting.

So here's the little myth I read in it:

God made us walk on two so we would have a choice.

On four legs, your head is forced down. You have to look at the ground. You can't carry anything because your hands are busy being feet. You can't look far because your eyes are near the grass.

On two legs, your hands are free. You can carry, make, build, hold someone else. Your head is lifted - you can look at the sky, at the future, at another person's face straight on. That's the gift.

But the painting is the second half of the story: the man who chooses to bend back down. Not because he has to, but because he wants to understand. And the moment he does, the small things become enormous again. The ant has a story. The butterfly matters.

We say we became bipedal to see over tall grass, to save energy, to free our hands for tools. In the spiritual language the painting uses, it's the same idea: God put us upright so we could look up, and left us flexible so we could still bow down.

We walk on two so we can reach for the heavens. We can still touch the earth when we want to remember where we came from.

What do you see in the target on his back? To me it's like he's saying - when you stand up all the time, you become a target, you become visible. When you're on all fours, you're hidden in the grass.