Prelude: The Soul Awakens
Truth is as absolute as it is subjective. The reality of our convictions may lead us toward certain choices, but even as we make those choices, we often know deep inside when we are lying to others… and to ourselves. The truth can hurt, and in our delusion, we may want to defy it. The truth can heal…if we accept it, if we accept the pain that comes with it to face the other side. And no matter what we may want, reality is what it is. “See things as they are and not as we want them to be,” to somewhat quote Renoir and Verso from Clair Obscur: Expedition 33.
Most people, non-followers especially, who stumble upon this opinion post already know about the game, and as such, you all know that it is, in truth, a work of art. It is so painfully European at its core, or rather, very non-American. It is an echo of the past we so adore, a modern transformation of classical tragedy into the most popular medium of our era. The premise of the game is a very meta outlook on art. The protagonists, members of the Dessendre family, are Painters; their art is alive, it lives on its own, and in being alive, it carries the soul of those who painted it.
In this sense, it truly resonated with me. I was moved by how, much like what I have written in the past, be it poems, prose, or ramblings, the art of Clair Obscur takes on an independence of its own, becoming more than what the Painter initially created. Often, I have felt that for us, the creators, poems are like living things too… just like a child is its own being, though it came from you. I have often gone back to read what I wrote years later and found myself surprised by my own writing. The words are the same, sure, but they feel… different. Are they truly mine? Did I write them? Those words feel like a world of their own, going on without me. And through them, maybe I will live on. It is in this same sense that Verso lives, though he died. A part of him lives on…literally…as the canvas he painted lives on.
Creation as Soulwork
And so, Painters and the enigmatic Writers from the world of Clair Obscur are the artists and poets of our world. I will not tire of repeating it: they pour pieces of their soul into their creations… and those creations live on. And in doing so, we are not forgotten. How long has it been since Da Vinci died? Since Corneille? And yet, we speak their names still. We recite their words, admire their art. They live on.
Verso lives on inside the Painted World in more ways than one. There is hope that I, as a writer, will also live on within my art. The world depicted in Clair Obscur goes through extremes permitted by the liberalities of artistic vision. Aline recreating Verso as a version similar to the outside world is an exaggeration that may never come to pass. But it is meant to be symbolic of how our families, a mother, needs her loved ones to live on, to give herself hope. Aline used this method to deal with her grief, losing her son, and the resulting shattering of their family. What happened to cause this? It is still a mystery that may, perhaps, be solved in another story within that universe.
If there is tension between Writers and Painters, I feel that there should instead be harmony. As a writer myself, I feel an echo of what the Painters have done. I suppose the Writers in that world hold the same power in a different form. Sometimes, the word or the art simply wants OUT. We express, if only in different ways. Our expression relieves us. We are free of the burden within us. In my own small pieces, I express what I feel, what I cannot say nor publish sometimes. In some way, the unsaid must be expressed, in whatever form. The art is made not for the entertainment of others, but for our own release.
This is where Clair Obscur most triumphs. It is clear (to anyone who plays, and even to those who do not play but at least take time to listen to the 33-minute musical piece “Nos Vies en Lumière”) this was a glorious expression of multiple forms of art. It was not made to check investor boxes. It was not made to cater to the whims of executive management. It was simply put out into the world because they could…because they wanted to. And it is the better for it.
The Tragic Heart of the Game
If I had to boil it down to just three emotional moments…three moments that shattered me, even more than the grand finale…they would be:
a. Gustave’s death
b. The fight and farewell to Renoir
c. The demise of the Paintress
I’ll say it clearly: I saw the end coming. The grand finale didn’t surprise me. But these three did.
The first, and most jarring, was the death of Gustave. Or rather, the annihilation of Gustave. I, like many, assumed he was our protagonist. JRPG convention, after all, tells us that the first character we control is the main character. Gustave had charm, depth, flaws, and strength. And then, he was utterly erased. It reminded me of the first time someone watched Game of Thrones without reading the books: Ned Stark’s execution. That moment when your brain realizes, “Oh. All bets are off.” That’s what happened with Gustave. That’s when I knew this wasn’t a “safe” story.
It’s also when I knew this game was unmistakably European.
Western, particularly American, storytelling tends to protect its protagonists. The hero overcomes, wins, defies fate. But in European tragedy, fate is rarely kind. The small man does not win. The child does not always grow up. Sometimes, the innocent fall, and that is that. It is bitter, it is human, and it is true. Tragedy is the most probable outcome. Even in the fantastical Painted World, this harsh principle holds.
Renoir’s final battle and his painted echo’s fall hit me next. This man, the real one, wants to end his wife’s grief by destroying the Painted World. But the Renoir we fight is also Renoir…his essence, his longing to keep the family whole. His painted self becomes Aline’s protector, even as the real Renoir fights to save what’s left outside. This inner conflict, this mirroring of desire and pain, broke me. Renoir vs. Renoir. Love versus love. A tragic symmetry.
Then there’s Aline, the Paintress. Her final moment is more than about loss, but it is about surrender. She built the Painted World to keep her son alive, to keep herself alive in his presence. She is fragile and fierce. She is terrible and tender. She has become the world’s soul, and in leaving it, she is undone. Her grief was the brush; her son, the canvas. And when she falls, a kind of silence settles.
Americans might call all this drama. But no…this is Tragédie. Real, aching, brutal tragedy. And that’s what makes it beautiful.
Poetry and the Painted World
The Painters built with color. I build with words. But both are mirrors for what the heart cannot say aloud.
Mirrors don’t show everything though…
Sometimes they shimmer and blur.
They hold back what would blind us if we saw it whole.
We keep writing and painting, hoping to catch a glimpes of what hides behind the surface of reality, within us and without.
“In Clair Obscur, the Painters pour their souls into color until the canvas itself becomes alive. I sometimes wonder if writers do the same with language. If every metaphor, every unfinished line, is a tiny echo of us trying to stay.
Just like the Painters, what we write brings life to a world that we experience through our mind’s eye. In some cases, it can be so distinctive and precise that we all see the same feel the emotions with the same intensity. One great example is what Peter Jackson did with the Lord of The Rings. Tolkien did a great job, so much so that when I saw the movies, it was as if Jackson read my mind and brought to life all that I imagined in almost the same way I saw it.
Personally, writing is an exhaust for my soul. I write my loneliness, my sadness, and even my secret love. Through writing as through painting or any form of art for that matter, we create a space that carries what cannot be said aloud. Love, anger, longing, despair, truth.
This is where poetry comes in as a potent medium for expression of the unspeakable. A Haiku is a great example of this, expression condensed into a pure supernova of meaning like the densest stars.
Like a dying star, the Haiku is weight and fire compressed into a single instant. Only the essence remains at it burns away everything unnecessary. An entire landscape, or whole paragraphs…in 17 syllables.
Brevity can wound…. A few syllables, and suddenly you’re holding the universe in your palm.
That is why I keep writing, here or there, and even in my mind where whole drafts drift into the ether once written.
Every poem,
every line,
is a way to make peace with what refuses to be forgotten.
In Spite of Everything
We refuse to let silence or void have the last word.
In every act of creation there is a quiet, yet fierce, defiance. The world turns, it does not need beauty or pain to keep turning. Still we never stop offering it, could our small gestures convince time to be kind? The answer does not matter.
In spite of everything, we create. Creation helps us to survive ourselves. It will not or may not save us…but we will live on.
Verso poured his time and soul into his canvas. Even after his unfortunate demise, he lives on within. His art persists, along with a piece of him. It never fades, and this is why his mother Aline could not let go. Like us, she cannot escape the darkness, hence she chose to reshape it by recreating her family inside of Verso’s world.
We do not throw our pain away, our joys, they are part of us and we endure.
Like in kintsugi we rebuild…where it sticks the pieces back together with golden seams, we mend what’s broken with light.
We celebrate who we’ve become and we define ourselves through this expression in our art.
In spite of everything, we shine on. Our light is fragile, but it is eternal. Made more beautiful by the darkness within which it blooms…
Epilogue: Forward Glance
The light, soft and patient, lives beside the dark.
Because in the end, I don’t think we truly ever conquer grief.
We learn to walk with it…
to let it illuminate what remains.
Nos vies en lumière… our lives in light…
Less like an ending,
more a gentle afterimage.
We may vanish,
but our echoes paint the sky.
Every act of creation leaves a trace, faint yet enduring.
The Painters poured their souls into color;
we pour ours into words, melodies, gestures.
When the hand that shaped them is gone,
something still moves within the work …
a shimmer, a breath.
Perhaps that is how we live on:
not in permanence, but in persistence,
like light bending around absence.
Aline knew this.
She tried to hold her son inside the painted world,
not out of madness but memory.
In doing so, she built a monument
to what love cannot surrender.
There’s something sacred in that desperation…
the refusal to let beauty die
simply because the body that made it has fallen silent.
Maybe all art is a form of reaching back…
an open hand extended across the blur of time.
Mirrors, poems, and brushstrokes …
they all reflect a little of the same light.
Each tries to remember what reality forgets.
We mend ourselves with color and sound,
we rebuild with gold and grief.
Even the cracks, once filled, catch the sun differently.
That’s why the broken things gleam.
The music of Clair Obscur lingers in my head…
that final theme, Nos vies en lumière.
It feels like forgiveness sung into being.
Not triumph, not closure,
but a quiet continuation.
The kind of melody that hums beneath your breathing
long after the speakers go silent.
Maybe that’s what it means to live in light:
to become resonance.
To accept that our stories will fade,
but the feeling they leave…
the tenderness, the awe…
will echo in someone else.
We may vanish, yes…
but our echoes paint the sky.
Zen Alpha Musings 