I plough on. ‘It’s funny, because studying law in the first place was a ploy to keep my options open. You hear stats like “less than 30 per cent of those studying combined law degrees go on to become lawyers”; that it’s a generalist degree that’ll set you up to do whatever you want. I worked hard to get this commercial law job because I was told it provided the best training, and that whatever I ended up doing, it would serve me well . . . but I haven’t really made any active choices yet. And I can’t see what’s next, except to follow the well-trodden path of junior to senior associate to partner.’
‘You’re only twenty-four,’ Hans says, not sounding at all put out by my anxious rambling. ‘You still could do anything. Even retrain, if you wanted to.’
‘I know. And everyone says that – that people of our generation will have eight careers in their lifetime. But it’s not that easy, to jump to the next thing and start from scratch. And the more you invest in one career path, the more your world narrows. You climb one mountain, and yes, things open up; you climb higher and higher and you get a better view. But the air also thins, it’s harder to breathe, and you can see all the other mountains you didn’t get to climb.’
Hans nods, looking intently at me. ‘I know that feeling,’ he says. ‘It’s not that you’re unhappy with how things are, but sometimes you long for something you can’t even identify. We have a word for it in German: Sehnsucht.’
‘Sehnsucht,’ I echo.
‘Yes, it means life longings, intense desire for alternative paths and states.’
As we talk, dusk dips into night. The sun sinks heavily below the horizon, and lamps are lit above the bars and along the stone concourse. Around us, parties come, drink, go and are replaced. There’s an intimacy to our date, fostered by the dim light, the alcohol, the closeness of our bodies. We trade stories and thoughts and I find myself thinking how easy it is. How pleasurable. How at first blush, Hans seems to have all the things I’m looking for.
The night ends with Hans walking me to the bus stop. There’s no kiss, but we linger. A peck on the cheek, a promise to meet again.
9
James and I wander through the cool, temperature-controlled halls of the lower level of the Art Gallery of New South Wales. It’s the opening weekend of the Frida exhibition. We’ve managed to beat the crowds so we meander at our own pace, stopping to peer at the artworks and occasionally to thumb through a visitors’ leaflet. James is visibly struggling. He arrived twenty minutes later than we’d agreed, looking like microwaved death with bloodshot eyes and an ashy complexion. ‘Big night?’ I’d asked warily. He’d told me a story about some girl he’d been hanging out with the previous night (‘such a loose cannon’) leaving her bag in the bathroom of the bar they were at. She’d gone back, recovered it and swore that a wad of cash had been stolen. She’d ended up confronting the girl who’d gone into the bathroom after her, causing a huge scene and getting them kicked out, ‘At which point, she realised the cash was in her jacket pocket.’ James told it in his usual colourful way, and I couldn’t help wondering if he got into these kinds of scrapes often. Maybe even thrived on it. ‘That doesn’t sound ideal,’ I’d commented, and he’d replied with a shrug and a smile. ‘Yeah, shit happens.’
James stops in front of an air vent and closes his eyes blissfully for a moment, like a dog with its head out the car window. I pick up a leaflet and read about Frida Kahlo’s difficult early life. My heart lurches as I try to imagine what it must have been like to be crippled by polio as a child, struck by a street trolley at the age of eighteen, forced to give up dreams of higher education.
We move on to examine a series of Frida’s self-portraits, paintings by her husband Diego Rivera, who always overshadowed her professionally, and photographs by her lover, the American Nickolas Muray. I quickly dismiss the Rivera paintings. Mainly clay-coloured landscapes with faceless figures bearing baskets of fruit, they leave me cold. I’m especially baffled by the one of a desert full of cacti with breasts. I know little about Rivera’s life, or what his paintings are meant to represent. All I know is that, juxtaposed against Frida’s paintings, his seem uninspired and clumsy.
Her self-portraits draw me in. Technically and emotionally, they are exquisite. She is depicted like a queen against lush foliage, surrounded by birds and monkeys, with crowns of braids or flowers; in one painting, her neck is wreathed with thorns. The rendering of her liquid-dark eyes and the set of her mouth convey a liminal state; steady and assured, yet crawling with physical and psychological pain.
We pause to study a black and white photograph of Frida and Diego. Frida is just a young girl, but she holds her chin fiercely aloft. He, twenty years her senior, is large and lumpen, with thick lips and hooded eyes. I read from the placard: ‘Her parents referred to them as “The elephant and the dove”.’ James peers in. ‘They also called him “a fat, fat Brueghel”. Wow, harsh. Though you’ve got to admit, they had a point.’ In the photograph, Frida’s hand rests on Diego’s rotund belly like a bizarre pregnancy announcement shot.
He turns to me. ‘If you were a painting style, what would you be?’
‘Hmm, I’d like to think I’d be something incredibly romantic and evocative, like a Titian or a Botticelli. But while I’ve got the pear-shape, I’m probably not the embodiment of seraphic grace; the casual nudity, flowing tresses and all that.’ I think for a moment. ‘Maybe one of those manicured Dutch paintings. Some common domestic scene, rendered in painstaking detail. Woman with a Pat of Butter, or something. You?’
‘Maybe a Caravaggio,’ he says. Of course – intense and dramatic.
‘He’s an incredible artist, one of my favourites. Bit of a crazy life, though,’ I comment. ‘Didn’t he castrate a guy?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ James says. ‘Castrated and killed a guy, got put under house arrest for writing offensive poems about another painter, was hospitalised for literally falling on his own sword, had to flee Rome for Naples . . . you can’t say he wouldn’t make an interesting dinner guest.’
‘Didn’t he also get arrested for throwing a plate of artichokes in someone’s face?’
‘Well that’s just a good Friday night,’ James jokes.
We wander on and read about Frida and Diego’s tumultuous relationship – his rampant affairs (including with her younger sister Cristina), her discreet but many affairs (including with Trotsky), their divorce and remarriage.
We stop to marvel at a painting titled ‘Self-Portrait as a Tehuana (Diego on My Mind)’. It shows Frida in traditional Tehuantepec garb; her entire head and torso swathed in luminous cream fabric, her face framed with lace like an exotic flower. Emblazoned on her forehead is a small portrait of Diego. While he gazes self-assuredly out at the viewer, Frida’s gaze is off to one side. It has a disquieting effect – as if she’s worrying about keeping him, or about the power he has over her. The inevitable peril of all-consuming love, perhaps.
Scrawled in large text beside the frame is a quote by Frida: There have been two great accidents in my life. One was the trolley, and the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.
My breath catches in my throat. ‘That’s insane. I mean, I get that you can feel struck by attraction in the same way that you might be struck by a street trolley, but she makes it sound inevitable. Like she had no say in the matter . . . like she was completely in the hands of fate. He sounds like a monster.’
‘I don’t know,’ says James. ‘Maybe they were meant to be together. I mean, yeah, probably reconciling with him after he slept with her sister was taking it a bit far, but they obviously thought they were the love of each other’s lives. And look at the art that came out of their relationship . . . it’s no wonder they felt cosmically intertwined.’
We pass a painting of Frida as a mystical earth mother atop a mountain universe, ‘The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Myself, Diego, and Señor Xólotl’. She cradles Diego, depicted as a nude, frog-like baby with a third eye, tenderly.
&
nbsp; I shake my head. ‘I don’t get it at all. I understand that people can become dependent on each other, and I can’t even begin to understand what Frida Kahlo went through . . . but to put up with volatility for the sake of art? For the sake of love?’
James shrugs. ‘I think a lot of people would think it’s worth it. I mean, what’s the point of life without passion?’ This strikes me as sophomoric, but before I can respond, we get caught in the eddy of a tour group. Somehow, my bag gets tangled up in an elderly man’s headphone cords, and I spend a good minute extricating myself and apologising profusely while James looks on, chuckling.
When we’re done with the exhibition, we leave the gallery and head across the road to The Domain, the grassy expanse that stretches east of the CBD, often used for outdoor festivals and events. We find a spot under the dappled shade of a Moreton Bay fig, sweep away the rubble of twigs and tanbark and settle down.
Still stuck on our different reactions to Frida and Diego’s relationship, I turn to look at him. ‘Aren’t you the one who said that there’s no magic in creativity? That it’s just about putting ideas together in a new way? If that’s the case, why do we accept that artists have to have turbulent lives in order to make things?’ I don’t mean it to, but it comes out as a challenge.
He allows my question to sink in. ‘Well, I think people can be inspired by more sedate things – the colours of autumn, a washerwoman at work, familial love.’ There’s a touch of derision in his voice. ‘But some people seek out more intense inspiration: pain, violence, electrifying love . . . and often, that’s where great art lives.’
I frown. ‘I want to feel things keenly, but not that keenly. Doesn’t life offer up enough drama without seeking it out? I’ll take the serene life, thanks.’
James laughs. ‘Sometimes I think I will never understand you, Romy.’ He shakes his head. ‘So is this the attitude you’re bringing to your dating spree? A quest for dullness?’
I shoot him a look of mock indignation. A few days ago I’d have been embarrassed by the question; I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t taken by him, didn’t want to impress him. But now, having thought deeply about the three traits I want, and having established that James doesn’t meet those criteria (he might be agreeable, but he’s definitely not low novelty-seeking or, I’d wager, high on the emotional stability scale), my guard is down. He’s no longer a romantic prospect, and among friends, this is an open topic for banter.
‘It’s not a spree,’ I say. ‘It’s a –’
‘Project?’ he supplies.
I pause for a second, then laugh in admission. ‘Actually, kind of. Unlike people who are searching for their soulmates or muses or whatever, I’m looking for something more . . . substantial.’ I give him the briefest overview of optimal stopping theory and the three traits approach.
‘That seems very . . . logical,’ he says.
I know he’s teasing me, but I keep going. ‘I just think it makes a lot of sense. To actively look for someone at the time the maths indicates you have the highest chance of getting the best outcome. And to think critically about your partner selection criteria, rather than just deciding you want “tall, dark and handsome”, and exhausting the statistically possible good traits.’
‘So, you’d date a guy who was shorter than you?’
‘Hey, I didn’t say I was better than my social conditioning.’ I hold up my palms. ‘I’m not superficial, just a little ficial.’ The Michael Scott joke that keeps on giving.
James laughs, and I revel in it – it’s a warm, infectious chuckle; the kind I imagine people would work hard for.
‘But seriously, yes, I would date a shorter guy if he was right for me in all the ways that matter.’
‘Hey, power to you,’ he says. ‘I will continue to broadcast my six foot three stature on my Tinder profile.’
‘Please tell me you don’t,’ I cringe.
‘Hey, if it works it works. You have your dating strategy, I’ve got mine.’
10
For our second date, I’ve invited Hans to The Moth, a live storytelling event at the Oxford Art Factory. The theme of the evening is ‘Experimentation’; storytellers are to prepare a five-minute story about a time they decided to try a new activity or test a new idea and, maybe, ended up playing with fire.
Stamped and ticketed, we make our way downstairs to the dingy event space – a large concrete basement filled out with a stage, a bar, and tonight, row upon row of fold-out metal chairs. We grab a couple of overpriced beers and slide apologetically past those already seated to settle in the middle of a row. The overhead lights cast a dull red glow and we wait, all attention focused on the stage. It’s not long before the evening’s host – a young woman with an easy manner and a Pixar princess face – strides out, welcomes us and starts her introductory spiel. She tells us that there will be ten performers tonight, plucked at random from those who dropped their name into the velvet bag at the beginning of the night. They are to tell a story that explores the evening’s theme in any way they choose, and a panel of judges – she gestures to three people seated at the front of the room, including a well-known newspaper columnist – will decide the winner. The performers are not professional storytellers, she reiterates, in an apparent bid for the audience to be kind. Already I can identify one novice who has thrown his hat into the ring; the giveaway being the nervously bouncing knees at the end of our row.
The first name is drawn, the lights dim and the lone spotlight intensifies as the first storyteller of the night clops up onto the stage. Not a seasoned performer, but a confident one, she leans in too close (lips brushing microphone) and begins to tell us about the first time she tried acid. A visual artist, it was an attempt to reignite her creative juices, she explains, and yet somehow in the heat of the trip she ended up breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s family home, possessed by an overwhelming urge to put up Christmas decorations. ‘It was,’ she adds, ‘mid-August at the time.’ When her ex-boyfriend arrived home and found her sitting in a pile of tinsel and fairy lights, the remnants of an entire lemon meringue pie on her face and the floor, he was furious and she was mortified. ‘But I had a moment of clarity, realising that he was the source of my pain. I saw that life is basically one big acid trip – sometimes you have to do crazy shit to express yourself, and it’s better to trip alone than be badly accompanied.’
She bows with a flourish and we applaud; hesitantly at first, and then with more conviction. I look over at Hans. He’s smiling and clapping, but his brows are raised a fraction. Maybe, like me, he’s trying to work out if this girl really did have an epiphany. Or if she has simply taken control of a narrative that otherwise ends with a sad girl making a mess in her ex-boyfriend’s home.
Next, we hear a cringe-worthy story from a wiry woman in her forties about a Brazilian waxing gone wrong. ‘. . . and then the beautician got ambitious and laid down two strips of wax on either side. She ripped one off, I howled in pain, and instinctively clamped my legs together. Causing the wax to basically glue me shut . . .’
There are self-deprecating descriptions of mishap and humiliation, and stories of things gone badly awry. ‘Who here knows what retinal detachment is?’ asks one storyteller, face partially obscured by an eye patch. ‘One in 4.7 billion,’ another tells us. ‘Those are the odds of conceiving sextuplets naturally.’
The second half opens with a young guy who tells us about his first year of uni. Fresh to Brisbane, he pretended to be Nigerian royalty at the first college party he attended, as a joke. ‘I can do the accent because of all the time I’ve spent with my Nigerian grandfather,’ he says. ‘Better than Will Smith in Concussion, anyway.’ Somehow, what started as a joke became a year-long charade. ‘I really got into it. Everyone was so interested in me, and so welcoming. I had celebrity status. And I felt this bizarre responsibility to be a good ambassador. I started wearing more colourful, traditional Nigerian clothing. And being friendlier, more outgoing.’ His newfound persona became diff
icult to quit, even after he met a girl he really did not want to lie to. ‘And when it all crumbled, a year later, I don’t think I’ve ever been sadder. Not just because I lost a lot of friends, but because it felt like a part of me had died. I guess I just liked myself better in that guise; as that exuberant, fictionalised guy.’
‘I get that,’ I whisper to Hans. ‘Not wanting to let go of the constructed version of yourself.’
‘Huh?’ he mouths back. The storyteller has wrapped up, and my voice is overtaken by applause.
‘Never mind,’ I say, shaking my head and joining in the clapping. I regard the storyteller, now bowing, with empathy. It seems to me that pretending to be the person everyone wants you to be is easier than grappling with the messiness underneath.
When the show ends, Hans and I make our way to a bar in a nearby side street. I’m awash with a mixture of emotions after listening to the unfiltered tales of joy and angst and discovery. ‘Humans are weird,’ I announce to Hans. ‘They do weird things for weird reasons.’
He nods in agreement. ‘And like to try to make sense of the weirdness.’
‘So,’ I say once we’re sitting down and furnished with drinks. ‘Stories of experimentation.’ I look to Hans expectantly.
‘I don’t know. I’m not really one for taking risks. Certainly I’ve never taken acid, or been bungee-jumping,’ he says. He takes a slow sip of his Old-Fashioned. ‘I suppose that coming to Australia is a bit of an experiment for me. Over the last few years I’ve wondered if I could live outside of Germany, or Europe, long-term. This secondment is a good way to put out a tentacle.’
Love, in Theory Page 9
