Beautiful and repulsive, mysterious and menacing, I find jellyfish to be impossibly constructed and hard to fathom. Even Spongebob fears them. Beached, they look like some large ungodly snotter cast asunder for all to see, like the sad remnants of a rotting, over-ripened combination of mangos, shredded Victoria Secrets undergarments, and torn Safeway plastic bags.
However, just below the surface, gently bobbing in our oceans, these lingeriel leftovers appear to glide deliberatively with the grace of angels. When you look a little deeper into the subject you realize that these gelatinous globs are all individually, ever so slightly, different in color, shade, texture, construction and pattern, which amazes me given that they swarm in the millions like some briny, morphing mushroom pea soup. The variations are diminutive but discernable, and this is from a guy who still can’t tell Matt and Ben apart—my six-foot three twin first cousins once removed.
In this medium-sized oil treatment, the cautious diver is shown respectfully avoiding the deadly touch of the Mastigias papua—the Papauan Jellyfish, or as it is known commonly throughout the Indo-Pacific, the Golden Medusa. In an oblique nod to the artist’s hero and luminary, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, the aquanaut’s hair drifts chaotically in the ocean current, much like the serpent-laden head of the feared Gorgon, Medusa.