...the Other Side of Love
"Would you know my name, if I saw you in Heaven?"
"I hear the ancient footsteps...
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea | Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
Bob Dylan | Every Grain of Sand
I'm no literary critic and am probably less able to appreciate imagery. Never mind. These little inadequacies have not stopped me opening my mouth and airing my views before, especially when personal preference or prejudice motivates them. So, I ask myself, why should I stop now?
The portrait by Aicha Hockx, posted by Frank Paynter and reproduced in the entry below this one, caught my immediate attention, drawing me into its story. I do not know whether it's a 'good' portrait or a 'bad' portrait but, through its use of simple stereotypes it is, as ray puts it in a comment on Frank's blog, a beautiful photograph.
Ostensibly a photograph of a girl in a quiet, somewhat submissive pose, it has great power. Drawing on the story of the Garden through its simple use of a fruit the girl cradles in hands she clasps beneath her belly, the solitary figure captured in its frame seems to offer a pertinently feminine perspective on conventional notions of the Eden myth. The Eve portrayed here carries a great sadness, for it is a woman I see rather than a girl, a woman of immense dignity and natural grace. Positioned right of centre, thrown from the shadows, her partner is conspicuously absent from her side and she is left holding the fruit of that which has gone before. There is none of the joy, tension, or excitement of expectant motherhood. Lacking animation, all framed by the camera, i.e. the mother, the symbolic child and the absent father are somehow dead.
The harsh lights of interrogation rather than the radiance of God focus on the mother. No light shines from above. Instead, marrying two myths, she hangs crucified on the angle of her straight shoulders, the tilt of her lowered head, and the narrowing of her thighs.
There is a sense of betrayal in the open space in front of and to the right of our modern madonna and sister. Her downcast face and the sad expression crossing her mouth enhance her abandonment. Expected punishment lurks in the shadows hiding the eyes and the vulnerability of her female form. Her body's exposure and its defenceless-ness are absolute. The elegance of her long, thin arms renders her thin cotton dress inadequate and the adult frippery attached to her dress's shoulder straps mock her youth. She is no farm girl. She is every woman and every inch a woman, carrying in her worldly posture an implicit, somewhat self-conscious acknowledgement of undefined guilt.
Looking down on those accusing her, she sees no child. She sees shame and degradation. Hers is an existential crucifixion.
The cast of her head threw me. Her blonde hair shining, she hides her face in a darkness unsuited to shyness. Shy people hide themselves. The guilty hide their eyes. Her awareness of her predicament is evident in the slight tilt of her head towards her right shoulder. It is a move towards comfort. Were her hair longer, I am sure she would hide behind it. Although we cannot see her, she is obviously a beautiful girl. The highlights on the nose and mouth and the exposed ear suggest it. Her refined simplicity of form and effortless [albeit self-conscious] poise confirm it.
It is a simple photograph. I am not sure the photographer intended to convey what I see. It does not matter.
Never could learn to drink that blood and call it wine | Never could learn to look at your face and call it mine.
Bob Dylan | Someone's Got a Hold of My Heart
She could not have foreseen my using her photograph in conjunction with Bob Dylan's song to express my love for my wife. I could have chosen another song, but the sense imbued by the lyrics and performance of If You See, Her Say Hello expresses my feelings exactly.
There is a story behind this dissection. A couple of bloggers who know me expressed concern for my wife's health and, for their caring, I am most grateful. I did not intend alarming anybody. The girl in the photograph looks remarkably similar to my wife, 20-25 years ago. She was 18 when she came to Cape Town, having spent most of her life in boarding schools in Zimbabwe and Malawi. She had, as the kids now call them, issues, and fell in easily with our drink and dope lifestyle of motivational lassitude and productive torpor. Yeah, she was wild. Who wasn't? And she felt abandoned. Who didn't? I fell in love with her immediately and love her now as I did then.
Evidence of substance abuse and self-injury must have been evident to those wielding the DSM-III manuals at the institutions we would occasionally visit for rest and recuperation from our arduous lifestyle, but they didn't let us in on their little secret. The medical profession was clueless 20 years ago. It hasn't learnt anything since then, but that's another story. The nut of it is that my feelings of alienation were a part of growing up. My wife's feelings of abandonment were pathological.
It's not easy for people with strong feelings of abandonment to feel others' love for them. They believe themselves unworthy of it. To reinforce their negative self-image, they end up rejecting it. They start believing nobody loves them. Anybody who says he or she does becomes an out-and-out liar. Ultimately, love becomes something to be proven, tested, tried and, finally, abused. Not allowing themselves to feel love, they cannot give love beyond their limited experience of it. This 'shortage' of love gives rise to feelings of abandonment in others. And that's where I was when I chanced on Aicha Hockx's photograph on Frank's site, recognising my wife as the subject of her work.
I felt sorry for myself, and Bob Dylan's words, devoid of blame, recrimination or sentimentality, were a perfect fit. My sense of abandonment is momentary because I think I have an inkling of what causes it. Others are not so fortunate. The Bible has it that Christ, on the cross, gave voice to the ultimate expression of human pain. He asked, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" This is my wife's pain. I can do nothing to lessen it. All I can do is continue to love her. Bar the occasional ugliness, it's easy enough. I cannot imagine the pain of those who feel loveless or unworthy of love for protracted periods. Nor can I believe they appreciate the pain their inability to see themselves as lovable causes others.
That said, any inconvenience I might suffer will fade like the morning mist when my wife, resurrected, returns to an acceptance of her beautiful self. Yeah. I'd like to see the girl in the photograph smile.
Let it grow, let it grow, | Let it blossom, let it flow. | In the sun, the rain, the snow, | Love is lovely, let it grow.
Eric Clapton | Let It Grow
