The Age of Aquarius. Touted by many as an age of spiritual, scientific and emotional enlightenment we have thus far been left wanting - just as much even by it's most enthusiastic cheer squads.
Depicted in the painting, the yearning masses flock near a synthetic angel - more machine and gadget than angel, and she offers a beaming of false images upon her supplicants.
But they delight in the bounty of blood that flows from the offered vessel: They revel the loss of life, violence, outrage. As if, she is the idol that indulges their cruelest fantasies. Her wings are not wings, but blades. Behind her grows the ferns nurtured by the blood she spills. She has no hands, and thus is without the ability to create and command of her own volition. She is corded, she is machinery. Cold, unfeeling. Her skin, an emulation - at casual glance it appears fair and unmarred, but closer examination shows it is porous, ventilated, and hard - like the casing of a machine.
And unbeknownst to the flock that celebrates the justifications of their own delusions, the very shadows behind their false idol are delighted to see them fall for such a game.