Lonely Works of Art

Dearest Rachel –

I’d relate my dreams to you from last night, but even at this relatively early hour (as I need to finish dressing and head off to the Bible study), the only image I can remember from last night was that of you, sitting across from me at some outdoor cafe, sucking on an ice lolly.

Most of what I remember (if you can even call it remembering), was waking up with an earworm in my head that had nothing to do with that visual. Indeed, I’m trying even now to figure out if there’s a connection between the two, or if I should just give up save myself the wasted effort. It’s an old song – which makes it that much more out of place, since I’ve been listening to much more recent stuff, in an effort to avoid running across some of “our” songs as I go through my algorithmic playlist. However, it seems that my mind isn’t about to let me off the hook, and insists on reminding me of stuff from back in the day, whether I want to hear it or not.

To be sure, it’s not one of “our” songs (thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose). Indeed, it’s not the sort of song that would be directed toward one’s intended, as it’s somewhat insulting, when you come down to it. Sure, you’re being compared to one of the greatest – or at least one of the most famous – works of art in history, and for a beautiful, if mysterious smile akin to that of Madame Giaconda. But it’s the mystery behind the smile that provokes the comparison; why is the singer speaking of this person’s smile, except to question the motives behind it? In the end, he concludes it’s fake; plastered on the face of the object of the song, concealing a lonesome emptiness behind it.

As I pondered all of this, it occurred to me that I might not be all that far removed from those descriptions. There are days when I find myself putting on a smile in order to go about the day in public sometimes. It’s something of a necessity to function in our society, after all. Unlike certain cultures (the Russians come to mind, and you’ll see why in a moment) who view a smile to be suspicious – what the heck do you have to be happy about, comrade? (or, if you insist, “с чего ты, товарищ, вообще такой счастливый?”) – we Westerners (or is it just Americans?) think of a smile as the default setting when dealing with other people. Sadness (or even a relatively neutral expression) is considered off-putting, in a land of supposedly boundless optimism such as ours – and even though that seems to be changing, it’s not as if many of us truly welcome the new age of misery and perpetual victimhood. We want to be happy, and so most of us insist on at least pretending to be.

But the fact of matter is, it’s challenging to maintain this façade for any length of time. Believe me, I know; I tried sitting for a portrait once, and maintaining a smile while the artist was sketching proved to be rather painful.

After half an hour, the muscles in my face were actually starting to ache. it explains why those old daguerreotypes from the 19th century all had people scowling at the camera, since they couldn’t hold that smile long enough for it to be captured. As unfortunate as it is to have to accept it, a smile, like the happiness it’s meant to convey, is a relatively fleeting thing.

Now, while it may be presumptuous of me to compare myself to the Mona Lisa, such thoughts allowed me to at least move on to another song – and after all, that’s how you get rid of earworms, isn’t it? Of course, whether this is an improvement or not could be debated, but you can certainly see in the third verse (after having to wade through some double, and even single, entendres) why my mind made the shift.

Granted, I would assume that, as the listener of the song, I would be invited to compare myself to the Vitruvian man, rather than the Mona Lisa…

…but at least I’m not the awful mess as conceived by Hans Bellmer just under a century ago, and referenced as the counterpoint to da Vinci’s masterwork:

So at least I’m closer to the better end of the spectrum. Still, it’s not as if my self-image would be completely solved by the mere application of a little rock and roll. Then again, it couldn’t hurt, and that’s all the Hippocratic Oath asks of anyone…

Be that as it may, honey, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.