Ruins of Meroe

No Strings Attached 9 November 2007

The title comes from an artwork of a friend, or a used-to-be-friend, depending on where you look. I cannot help but exclaim, in the frenzied silence of a library research room, and a girl or two looks at me. I could care less; reality is so loosely bound that I sometimes forget the endearing quality of time and space.

Despite myself I wonder, and a small lump forms in my throat (why do feelings always have to be physical, is it not enough that it confuses our silent dreams?), as I look, marvel and envy (all packaged into one) at the smoothness of his still shots, at his ability to capture the soul of a broken violin, to retell the life of a battered basketball. Maybe it all depends on who is looking, and maybe it doesn`t help that I feel for him, despite myself, despite all these years, that little string of connection to a time when we both were young, and that exquisite memory of a discovery that we both could draw; and the image of the 2nd grade poster making contest keeps dissolving in my mind.

There was a time when we both could draw, and I know that deep down I am scared of many things; I am scared of losing my art, my only identity I have kept all these turbulent years of adolescence. Art is my only heaven; the scenes that I recreate with nothing but my pen and my mind; the ability to give birth to a universe that only I can see, have given me comfort and an outlet of expression that politics, debate, family or academic honors will never give.

I am scared of many things, among them facing him and admitting that I have fallen so far behind.

So I sit before the computer and admire him, and feel happy for him, that he have the talent to capture the single moment when an object`s soul is expressed; that single moment for which photography exists to convey the history of things. (And I know, deep down, the moment I saw his new shots, that he will make photography his living; I read that story somewhere before. ) But he is so good and I tremble with excitement at what he will become, for ever since I was young I remembered envying him and rooting for him (all in one package), and then I was older and I know that he was one of the few people I truly loved, because I dreamt for him when he does not want to, but I am not so cruel as to impose my dream.

He was the same package all through out. The friend who was introduced to me by my mother, on the first grade, on the first day of school. The fat childhood friend whose connection with me is a string of memories that begins with a banana cue and a little piece of art.

No, he is not my personal star (though he does come close to, but never mind). Like his broken violin, so obviously new, (hah, he is not a perfect artist, afterall) between him and me, there are no strings, only permanently wispy smokes attached. [But I care for him and would (snobbishly) believe myself to be among the few people who understands what he has been through, how far he has gone ahead, because I saw his potential back when we were young and drawing doodles on our hands. ] I saw what he could be (though I would not so confidently say that I saw him for what he is). That is my blessing and my curse; I can love the image of the ideal.

I look at my sketchbook, my sketches, their beauty (I am not a bad artist) and take in their lack of color, the lack of an experiment with another substance or style. But I trace the development of my style and the widening of my vision in my mind, and I conclude that I am not half-bad, that I am truly an artist because I can create something out of nothing, as I have created an entire universe of half-living adults in my mind.

The white stillness captures my attention, beconks me to wonder, and I wonder, wonder, when I will ever escape the stage of the not-quite-perfect, not-quite-still art.