Looking at her hurt. The way her eyes rolled up, searching
for a purpose, the way her dull, blue dress made her skin shine
through, giving her a ghostly presence. I had never seen a woman
so beautiful be so haunting. Her cheeks were rosy, but not the
kind that promised good health and a blushing grin. The kind
that had been battered, scraped, pressed against with the sole
purpose of inflicting pain.
     I wanted to touch her. Glide my fingers over the airy
ruffles of that dull, blue dress that seemed to float above the
floor like a cloud. Feel her cinnamon curls, pulled back tightly
enough to reveal her soft complexion. She reminded me of my 5th
grade teacher, Ms.Benson, who would always pat down her tailored
skirts, trying to brush away the uncleanliness of the world. Her
attention never seemed to be on the 11 year old children she was
meant to take care of.
     This woman had been through hell. I could see it in the way
she interlocked her fingers through the dark beads of her
rosary, letting the cross weave in and out of her fingertips.
She clutched it so tightly I could only imagine the imprint it
left in her skin.
     It was time to move on. Once the connection between
unspoken emotions is bound together, it’s always time to move
on. My eyes shift to the blank, white walls, searching for
indulgence. I probably won’t find what I’m looking for, though
it’s not that nothing can be found.
     I look out of his bedroom window only to gaze at what must
be the first sight he saw when he woke up each morning and the
Lonely Landscapes, 9-10, p.1
last sight he saw when he laid his heavy head down to rest. It’s
the lily pads that keep me coming back. Even the slightest
movement from the life hiding beneath the cold seal of water
breaks through to the surface, radiating out, piercing through
the still, shallow pond. Water lilies bob up and down to the
vibrations, the disturbances. If the hunger for visual
delicacies is stronger than the drive for social enthusiasm,
Giverny, France is the place to be.
     I can imagine him perched at his windowsill taking in the
beauty of what must have taken years to accomplish. Flowers dug
their roots into every inch of dirt, trees wept through their
branches forming the stream below. I don’t believe I’ve ever
seen a water lily in real life, but I can only imagine how sweet
they would smell if I could only cup one’s soft petals around
the ridge of my nose.
     I must have dozed off. The thick, gooey surface began to
creep its way through my mind, building a box around me. I’ve
never been much of a fan of impressionism, though the history
behind each piece pushes to the outermost layer, starring the
observer straight in the face. The contrast of colors leaves its
footprints in one’s imagination, but never quite feeds the
hunger of one’s fantasies.
     It was time to find something more out of the ordinary.
More silhouettes embodying the image of a once lively person and
fading landscapes chipping away their individuality won’t do me
any good.
     I search the walls again, walking across the cold marble
floors.
Lonely Landscapes, 9-10, p.2
Lonely Landscapes, 9-10, p.3 I peek around slim, white corners, feeling the dense
support structure holding this building in tact.
     I spotted it from across the hall almost as if we were
destined to discover each other’s presence. I could feel a sort
of faint tug on my chest as if it was dragging me in like a fish
being reeled towards its predator’s grip. The layout of their
body made it hard to depict if they were a man or a woman. Their
body’s outline appeared jagged and misplaced. Just looking at
the way each body part sectioned off into its own individualized
image, like a puzzle with all the wrong pieces, made my stomach
turn. As I stepped closer the more familiar they became. I did
not know this person, this thing, but it continued to pull at
the strings of my memories and tracing back the unpaved roads of
my mind.
     Mutilation, that’s the word.
     The way their body appear contorted reminded me only of the
set of memories I had tried so hard to forget.
     Swim season was filled with disfigurements. The way our
bodies morphed to the sport was difficult to comprehend right
away. Girls’ bodies grew sharp edges and thick masses that
coincided with their stroke. Hipbones poked through skintight
bathing suits as weight began to melt off and muscle began to
weave around our bones. Every girl was different. I remember
coming into the locker room each morning seeing how contrasting
the rate of development each girl had inherited. Some stood
nearly still, wrapping towels around themselves like cocoons,
hiding their pointed edges and frail bodies that stood straight
up and down. Others peeled away their damp, musty suits off like
Lonely Landscapes, 9-10, p.4 band-aids, revealing their rounded surfaces. Being young
requires the stages of disproportion, as does any---
“I never really liked Picasso’s work.” a man’s voices echoed
from over my shoulder.
After two years of coming to the Detroit Institute of Art, every
Sunday, alone, this was the first time anyone has ever had the
audacity to interrupt my solitude.
“I completely disagree.” I replied, still shaken by surprise.
“His work represents objects from all perspectives, all at once.
It’s brilliant really.”
“Cubism isn’t brilliant. It represents the mutilation of the
human body into fragments; it eats away at the natural beauty of
an object. Art is about aesthetics and appealing to an
audience.”
“Art is not about appeal or beauty, it’s quite the opposite. A
“good” artist will focus on the unpleasant aspects of their
audience’s ideas and use the reaction of distaste to fuel change
or awareness. All art should be made for a reason, don’t you
think?”
“Sure, you could say that makes things a little more
interesting, but art began as a way of capturing the natural
beauty of the world, not tearing up public opinion simply to
create an uproar of ideas.”
“But the only way to induce change is to make a scene. Paintings
of landscapes have no deeper meaning.”
“I guess.”
There’s silence for a while. I can feel the heat from his body
radiating outwards onto mine. He was so close to me his heavy
breathes brushed over the back of my neck, creating a domino
effect of hairs piercing upwards. As the air flowed in and out
of his lungs more rapidly, so did my steps leading the way
through the nearest cool, empty hallway. I immediately saw the
sign labeled “Eighteenth Century American Artwork”.
Lonely Landscapes, 9-10, p.5