I owe everything to Art
And other reasons I loathe it
Traumas — among other annihilating effects — spawn dismay towards things that under regular circumstances sprinkle joy.
Two years ago, a local photographer died in Nafplio seaport city of Greece by falling off a cliff. He was lying dead on a passage that connects the passerbyers with the grace of the strong summer Meltemi wind, the Argolic Gulf’s turquoise water and the opuntia cacti that flourish in the salty and humid air.
Ever since, for the people who know, there is something dark and not quite marvelous about this spot. And I am envious of the tourists who have no idea, and can freely relish the landscape. This path is my reminder of all these things that have ceased to exist in my life as a blessing and — unfortunately — I can only see them through the lens of my trauma.
Art is one of them.
Never ask to know the artist behind the Art
My father’s studio was always in our living room — even when he rented a separate space, sable brushes, a tin with stinky scarlet water, aquarelle rags, thin and thick pencils, glues were dispersed on the dining table. And a work in progress that we had to watch out not to trip over, or not to drop our dinner on was on the floor in front of the couch.
In his breaks from creating, my father was taking joy in cooking infused dishes, and the three women in the house never had to worry about this responsibility. The trade off was to be appreciative, because at any day he could decide not to cook anymore — it was a pleasure, and when it stopped being one, there wouldn’t be any other reason to continue doing it.
Here’s one ugly thing about my father: he only does the things that he likes. He doesn’t like funerals, so he has never been to one, including his father’s.
Artists need a guardian
I grew up with one truth: an artist is a sensitive intellect and more vulnerable than the five, eight, thirteen-years-old child that I was. My mom’s, my older sister’s and my goal, as gently orchestrated by my mother, was to keep my father away from all the unpleasant everyday realities: bills, money, exams stress, failure, fights among us, boyfriend problems, body aches and pains.
But that led to an inner battle with both my parents, and a perpetual feeling of unfairness. We were immigrants, and my mother had to deal with my father’s artistic ego on the top of the language, residential permit and fiscal burdens. She would come to me and my sister, and casually share adult matters. We ached to ease her pain, and handed our baby-sitting earned cash.
But at night I would snuggle in my sister’s bed, and we would condemn my mother’s behavior. The dynamics were faulty: she was treating him as her one and only child. If so, who were we?
Pretty soon in my life I became an independent introvert.
We aren’t common people
My father loved being surrounded by big groups of youth. Some of my girlfriends he was seeing as models that should be admired and invited to a dance, and the guys were a great company to soak his face with and talk about Art. His conversations were in fact long monologues that ended up like this:
“I wish I had someone when I was at your age to tell me all these things that I am telling you now.”
I don’t have a personal story, and my choices, my feelings, my believes are frivolous and insignificant. My life is the raucous bell that rings in my father’s head and signifies the things he hasn’t done and the places he hasn’t seen. But as the most fervent of his admirers, I wish I wasn’t coming on too strong in life like him. I wish I could turn my back to my living, and help him get through depression and comfort drinking.
But instead I will continue my life thinking that I never did enough.
Art is the answer but what was the question?
He wasn’t the best father in the world. My father didn’t know what grade I was in but he was always the one coming to parents’ meetings — because he was proud of me doing well despite his absence, and maybe very sorry to see how much he had missed on my journey.
I cannot help but think that my mother would have been better off with another husband. And when he was shooting us with mean words, he would say that he would have been better off without us. But as I have discussed before, there is not such thing as a model family.
For every missing fatherhood moment, I have a seminal art work to look at — a traumatized ideal. And I wish I was so lucky to only see the beautiful side of the creator, which is all radiated on his composition. But the stubbornness, the strictness and the blues of the man beyond the canvas always distract me. And as my father has said:
“It’s not important what we see in a painting but what it makes us think when we look at it.”
Away from home
I left home in 2007 and ever since I have lived in four different countries, where I studied, worked, made best friends, got married and detached myself from the artist. But as any traveler discovers at some point of their journey, your mind and soul always travel with you.
Still, my father is the genius that will take his behaviors to the extreme and my mother the defendant of all his blemishes. My sister and I are the work in progress of their destiny — their common story goes back 47 years ago and is worth a whole new post on first, devoted and burning loves.
I live with my traumas, and with time I have learned to masque them — not always successfully. But every now and then, I walk down the aisle of Art like a tourist.
