Finding Friendships in the Frame
When human relationships become too complicated and unreliable, I turn to my two dimensional friends for support.
This began after my grandfather died. He’d lived a long, full life of 90 years, loved his wife of 66 years, and created an extended family of nearly 30 strong. I was devastated, as we all are when we find ourselves in these inevitable situations. I was living in New York City when I got the call. I took the day off and headed to the MoMa. I wanted to find a painting I could assign to my grandfather to create a way for me to visit him whenever I needed advice, guidance, or just needed a hug of sorts.
And there on the wall it lived, Klimt’s Hope, II. Although a matriarchal depiction of strong lineage, it immediately reminded me of my grandfather. It was him. I sat for a couple of hours that first day and reflected upon the life that he and my grandmother had given us all; the example they had set for us with such a healthy and richly loving marriage. I felt the never-ending support that had been infused into my spirit because of him.
Image Credit: Flickr/Gandalf's Gallery/Hope II
Since then, I’ve made an effort to get to know more paintings. It’s starts with a casual encounter upon first meeting. A nod to the character or figure featured in it; a kind of “How do you do?” or “How was your day?” or “Boy, your arm must be tired from carrying that basket of medieval fruit.” Following the traditional exchange of pleasantries evolves a more familiar and neighborly acknowledgment of lines and shapes, colors and textures, an appreciation for the gauzed canvas that houses the brush strokes. Then only if we’re on good terms (and if the museum has a low entrance fee), I’ll pop in for a morning coffee or see them after a particularly troubling day. Their consistency, their reliability, and their beauty are comforting.
Similar to when you run into an old friend in the least expected of places, you can have off-chance encounters with your paintings. You might receive a postcard in the mail from a person who stands as a sore reminder of your past; a mostly hellacious relationship but with some redeeming elements of sweetly gnarled memories and then appropriately, you bump into the mess and chaos of Jackson Pollack on the other side of the handwritten note; the one that you’d turn to when your mind just felt a mess.
Image Credit: MoMa, New York City: Christina's World
I’ve even run into friends at the dentist’s office and become suddenly overcome by who is perched on the wall. My friend, Christina, whom I’ve spent a lot of time with, has perhaps been the most fickle friendship of all. Each time we chat, I leave our visit with such a different but tender understanding of what she might be experiencing. I’m sometimes hopeful for her, sometimes melancholy, sorrowful, and often times so truly scared for her that I leave walking on an emotional tightrope as we conclude our visits.
However, if you’re lucky you might experience the rarest of run-ins with these friends. A wink from someone long gone but also still so near. In fact, this happened to me last week in the Concorde metro station, underground, in transit from one train line to another. I saw him. I caught eyes with my grandfather. Just as the whoosh of warm subway car wind rustled my hair up in the air, dancing for a second or two before it fell flat, plainly against my shoulders once again. But there he was, peeking out amidst a sea of commuters, just waiting for me to notice him.
He’s around. They’re all around. Plant them in certain things and you’ll see the buds bloom when you least expect it.
Image Credit: Beth Grannis
