The Old Guitarist

Standing on his balcony facing south, he looked over the rolling hills dotted with homes and lined with trees, breathing in the fresh air coming in off the ocean. Birds were chirping all around him, and he could hear the faint sounds of light traffic coming from beyond his view. Despite the desperate times caused by the coronavirus pandemic, he was determined to not let the doom and despair felt by so many let him slip back into his old patterns of feeling anxiety. He was determined to just be in the moment, and then to think about what he hoped to accomplish once things had settled.

Yet, lingering in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind were thoughts of hopelessness and despondence. They were vividly present in his most emotionally-arrested moments because that's just human nature. He couldn't escape the images of forlorn people grasping for relief; the images of every single imaginable individual from every walk of life searching for a glimpse of hope in an otherwise depressing sea of media, news, and social media post. And then he decided to go spend time with a friend. The longing to be social too strong to resist, the idea of having to travel through back roads and hills to see said friend too enticing. He just wanted to enjoy some momentary human contact in order to reestablish a level of normalcy that—though not that far away—seemed unreachable in such a dire time.

As his friend and him chatted about various topics ranging from present life, to the virus, to philosophical ideals, to travel destinations, to overcoming the current troubling times, he was reminded of a love he once had that he sorely missed. A love that only comes once in a lifetime, and was gone just as quickly as it had previously sparked a revelation of newly unknown emotions. When his friend suggested that he was better off alone and not having to deal with the oft bitterly looked upon negatives of being in a close relationship, he scoffed and said that he'd rather have those negatives because of the overwhelming positives that come from a loving relationship. As he traveled back home after his short time with his friend, he thought about relationship. He contemplated how none are perfect and that many are flawed, but he also thought about how, in a time when most everyone is being encouraged to shelter in place, he felt especially lonely because his past love had moved on, and he was now left as solitary as the moon. Perhaps seen from a distance by some, likely ignored by more than can be counted, he felt as if he was beyond enveloped by seclusion.

The Old Guitarist is an oil-on-panel painting by Pablo Picasso (1881-1973). It's a vivid depiction of an elderly, blind, and haggard musician wearing tattered clothing while weakly hunched over his guitar playing in the streets of Barcelona (source). At the time, Picasso was in the midst of what he referred to as his "Blue Period", choosing only to use monochromatic bluish tones in his paintings. Also influencing his style were the facts that he was not leading a very healthy lifestyle, and a close, personal friend had recently committed suicide. In the midst of Picasso's desperation and irreparable state-of-mind, he painted what is now considered to be one of the most poignant pieces of art to ever grace our society. Picasso managed to capture pure despair.

Immediately standing out is the skeleton-like body which is feebly propping up the man attempting to find solace in music both for himself and others. He's frail, ailing, and poor, but he's also clearly attempting to bring joy to those in ear-shot during what must be the most troublesome time of his entire life. With his mouth agape, his shoulder exposed to the elements, and his feet ravaged and bare, he infirmly sits up against a corner in order to strum tunes hoping the emanating sounds can distract any passersby from harsh reality.

And that is the moral of this wearily-told story. Even in the darkest of times—even when you cannot seem to find hope—there, just outside of the darkness that you feel has overwhelmed you, is light. Hope and determination and inspiration and much-needed distraction and "the fire under your butt" that you need is right there. This old guitarist sought to bring some light into a dark world, and if he were real, I'm sure he would have. Such is true for you even in the midst of the most tenebrous depths of this frustrating, tiresome, and annoying COVID-19 outbreak. Prop yourself up wherever you can, reach for a talent that you have, and shine some light on the others around you no matter where you are and no matter how exhausted you feel.

I miss the love of my life so very much. So much so that, believe or not, in this time of shelter-in-place—as alone as can be—I am able to find hope in realizing once again what my true feelings are, and in regaining a seemingly unattainable optimism that maybe, if I'm blessed enough, I can reclaim what I once had and so dearly, dearly miss.

Apparatus and Hand

When I was a child, I used to have a vivid recurring dream. I grew up in a nice home in Redlands, California, which was on the corner Franklin Ave. and Garden St.. We had a half-circle driveway which entered and exited on the two different streets. Across Franklin was an orange grove where we, as kids, would run around and play pretend. It was the middle-America life for us back then, even though we were on the West Coast.

This dream happened a few times when I was very young, if I recall correctly. It would begin with me standing in the front yard of our house, and I would hear pounding footsteps. (I would later discover the footsteps were from me hearing my own heartbeat as I slept.) My chest would compound and fear would rise as I would turn to gaze up Franklin Ave. I somehow knew something was coming from that direction and so its pace quickened. Sure enough, cresting the hill and streaming down the street was a creature about 4 feet tall. The best way for me to describe this creature would be to say it looked like a small Snuffleupagus draped in a white bed sheet, and covered with old, antique plastic play telephones. Dozens of telephones. This thing would zoom to the front of our house, and for some strange reason, I'd get on its back and go for a ride around the corner. That's pretty much when the nightmarish feelings would awaken me.

I can't say what spawned this dream so many times. Even now, some 40 or so years later, I can still picture it, but am at a loss as to why I had it. The only odd revelation was that it seemed to be directly linked to my heartbeat. And as enigmatic as it was, I now find myself wanting to examine it's meaning. Bear with me as this is completely spontaneous and purposefully not thought out.

My suspicion is that this dream was manifest from a combination of deep seeded desires. A) I loved adventure as a kid and getting on something as strange as the telephone monster seems fitting. Bear in mind, this was during a time when mothers and school teachers would iterate how important it was not to get into (or onto, in this case) a strange vehicle. B) My mother used to tell friends that when I was about 3 years old, I'd point to the TV screen as we watched I Love Lucy and say that that was what I wanted to do when I grew up. So, perhaps my desire for immediate and constant attention is represented by the phones covering the telephone monster's body.

Enter Apparatus and Hand . . .

Apparatus and Hand, by Salvador Dalí, is a pre-Surrealism painting which was completed in 1927. It's oil on panel, and it was Dalí's first work after returning from military service when he was 23 years old. According to experts, it was during this period that Freud's publications about psychopathology and dream interpretation were popular with Dalí, and so this piece was inspired by Freud's writings. Seemingly, the "apparatus" figure is representative of Dalí, while the grotesque hand is representative of his mind. Around him are visions of what truly beleaguers his thoughts, and thus implies what influences him to some degree.

This artwork was one of the first paintings to strike me when I was much younger and in college. At the time, I was busy being an actor when I wasn't bogged down by being a student. Art in this form wasn't really a passion for me then, but I suspect this piece is what triggered it for me. Since then, I've spent quite a lot of time studying the details, contemplating their meaning, and almost finding something unseen in previous viewings each time I looked at it. I knew the history of this piece was available online, but I never really wanted to know about it. Art, for me, is something I allow to speak to me as is and without context. If I don't know the historical context, then I don't want to know it because I'd rather art have its own uninfluenced voice. (You can see this effect quite well in my previous post, L'Ange du Foyer.)

I strategically used the term "enigmatic" above because that's what this painting has been for me for a very long time. It wasn't until about a month ago that I discussed it with a co-worker. You see, I had received a very heart-warming comment in my L'Ange du Foyer post which started the conversation. When we dove into picking this piece apart and analyzed its details, we both came pretty close to what experts have since determined with regard to its meaning. Yet, for over 20 years, it's been an enigma and a source of incredible imagination. Apparatus and Hand has been a very slow metronome where each beat reminded me to stop thinking about the here and now, to stop thinking about tomorrow and the next day, and to take a moment to contemplate the surreal. To stop and let my imagination run around and have some fun.

And so, I've returned to writing. Not just because this piece has been an intimate part of my life for two decades, but also because of that comment. If what I type here can make someone see their life in a new, encouraging light, then why should I deprive them of that? I have a gift, and so I've chosen to continue to use it.