I fell in love with Macbeth while studying set design at the Academy of Fine Arts. For 30 years I dreamt of tackling it as an illustrator, now I finally have. Having no restrictions from assignments, I could only focus on what I consider to be the tragedy's heart, the conscious mind struggling with the unconscious. Desire, guilt, and madness.
Act II-Scene II: "Wash this blood clean from my hand"
When Macbeth sees Duncan's blood on his hands, it 'plucks out' his eyes. Not even the 'great Neptune's Ocean' will be able to wash it away, indeed his hands will change the green of the seas into red. His mind and his life proceed towards the abyss.
"The Witches"
Sincere and deceptive, feminine and masculine, fascinating and sinister, sensual and frightening, I feel them to be the manifestation of Macbeth's unconscious desire for power. Inspired for the pose by Egon Schiele's nudes (I adore him).
Act II-Scene II: “Had he not resembled my father…”
Right from the start Lady Macbeth appears harsh and ruthless. Constantly accusing her husband of being weak, pushing him towards the worst actions, declaring that she would kill her own son if she had sworn to do so.
And yet in this scene, she shows a small crack.
She fails to kill Duncan herself because in his sleep he reminds her of her father.
I portrayed her in that moment of uncertainty, with the eyes of someone who is afraid of showing her vulnerability.
And yet in this scene, she shows a small crack.
She fails to kill Duncan herself because in his sleep he reminds her of her father.
I portrayed her in that moment of uncertainty, with the eyes of someone who is afraid of showing her vulnerability.
“Full of scorpions is my mind."
Macbeth's mind is now out of control. He has the desired crown on his head but continues to be fearful and unhappy. He sees enemies everywhere and will not stop killing until he himself dies.
Act V - Scene I: “Will these hands ne’er be clean?”
Lady Macbeth sleepwalks around the castle, desperately trying to wash her hands. 'Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.' Her armour cracked; the thought of all those dead, hidden during the day, emerges from the unconscious and will drive her to suicide.