(1941)The premise- Mrs. Jill Baker is bored with her marriage. In the face of passion's deterioration, she notices her husband's ticks and as a psychological manifestation, she develops a fit of hiccups that come and go. She decides to meet with a psychiatrist to cure this curious malady.
One day, while the psychiatrist is late, she meets an eccentric pianist named Alexander Sebastien. After a conversation, during which a man with too many opinions shares them with someone who has never had to form her own, Mrs. Baker grows increasingly intrigued and allows Alexander to ingratiate her into his artistic and musical world. They go to art galleries together, she begins reading literature and poetry, and begins to play the piano- introducing some color into her otherwise bland world of business dinners, watching her figure, and conversations that go "what's new?" "nothing." "good."
During their first museum visit, he shows her a surrealist painting of many symbols and says it's a portrait of a man. In fact, the painting is titled "Alexander Sebastien"- Mrs. Baker has never seen such a thing, it's clean she's never exercised multi-dimensional, abstract thinking in her home decorated with only straight laced portraits and still life paintings. She probes him, asking what the various symbols mean. There are eyes, a clock that says 12:15, a squiggly line, among many. The most obvious is a trail of musical notes, from which she discovers he is a musician. The rest he neglects to explore thoroughly, though he mentions his biggest concern is the squiggly line- it is the reason he elected to go to therapy. We can infer that it was the obstacle to his last relationship, which was with the painter of the portrait.
I found this the most interesting, but the film concentrated on subtle comedic dialogue and didn't give enough context for a psychological evaluation of its characters. I was fine with this, having just this summer, cultivated the skill to turn off my over-thinking/analysis when necessary.
However, today, Nick showed me the illustration
he did of me, bathed in purple, lost in some strange land that seems mysteriously threatening in its intricacies.
Haunting forest converges with a body of water (fresh water, was the response when I asked. Upon viewing the illustration, my mind surged with a million questions, searching for meaning. Some, the artist had no response, and some, surprisingly specific answers). Within this body of water, a wall emerges, half finished, or perhaps part of a deteriorating pyramid (this structure begs the question akin to 'is the glass half empty or half full') decorated with red tinted cactuses. Clouds and shadows loom in the background in uncomfortably joined, and phallic clusters. A cloud of red smoke erupt from an apathetic face on the ground, laced with tormented faces and finishing with small heart shaped moths (or is it, moth- like hearts?). This creepy imagery resides in the same land as psychedelic mushrooms, silly drooling clown faces, cans of tuna, a little monkey in a tree, and a wet hamburger with eyes with what resembles a toothless wide grin. The ambiguity of this fantasy land creates an uncomfortable dissonance like a Catherine Breillat film. It's hard to pin point exactly what is disturbing, as nothing can be described as being overtly so. It's effective, because our brains work hard on deciphering dissonant stimulus in order to eradicate the dissonant aspect as it is uncomfortable for our psyches. Thus, we spend time pondering obsessively.
Having been acquainted with Nick during the summer, I had seen him doodling in my apartment, on my note pads, on my old receipts and papers. I recognized the cactuses, the hamburger, and the smiley faces, having seen the same ones littered in my field of vision in the past. Unknowingly, I had been observing Nick's creative process, ignorant to their eventual compilation. As I started to recount the many times I had seen these creatures, I realized that the same ones, albeit in an unfinished, and more casual form, resided on my wall. On the back of a bill, drawn in only black ink, was a doodle that Nick drew one day of a decapitated, cat like, and ultimately, very silly man running on small platforms only big enough for one foot each. A cat head with the same gaping grin stands on the ground with only awkwardly protruding feet as its sole appendages. A wider platform props up the hamburger man. Cactuses wave from the distance on the far right. Underneath the hamburger is a squiggly line, descending downward like stairs.
These little characters are like me. They first travel along various pictures before finally settling on their rightful home. Just like what I'm doing, seeing if I fit in different places, settings, with different people, before I find the right one.
I recalled when Nick showed me his doodle, he pointed to the squiggly first. Though I don't remember exactly what he said about it, he did mention how much the squiggly had been cropping up in his doodles, and that he liked it a lot. I also recall myself jokingly referring to it as resembling intestines or a noodle.
And there it was, the same squiggly that sent Alexander to the psychiatrist, was on my wall.
What did this mean? It must be something important if I had consciously been drawn to depictions of this mysterious squiggly in the past few days. We only notice symbols of importance if they are trying to tell us something- the message made more urgent that this symbol reappeared in just a few days. Furthermore, I had borrowed a book on Carl Jung's theories on Symbols in the human mind. I was convinced that my unconscious wanted me to uncover something that had been deep in the pool of denial or repression. As I attacked Nick with my why's, he replied that there was no reason behind the design itself, and much like the creative process of a musician who plays a riff that he's particularly drawn to, Nick just drew it one day and became attached to it. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe the universe chooses certain people to pass on symbols to whoever needs them. Maybe it's all just subjective.
Symbols.. symbols.. the world always speaks to me in symbols. When I first went to college, I struggled with a sense of loneliness that I never experienced before, because I was entirely on my own for the first time. Even though I knew a lot of people and spent a lot of time with others, I always felt withdrawn, and alone behind my mask of extraversion. One particular day when I was finally really, truly, physically alone for the first time since I had arrived, I had the urge to explore my desk. With all my pens and pencils already inside, I discovered something I had missed the countless times before when I opened my drawer to arrange my belongings inside: scrawled cursive manuscript that read, "Hey, it's okay to be alone sometimes." From experiences like that, I know that I unconscious only allows me to pay attention to symbols when it's relevant and needs to be addressed.
Before I got to know Nick, I was already familiar with his work. I felt there was so much latent symbolism in all of his works, though being a stranger, I had no solid foundation of analysis. I wanted to get to know him better so that I could understand him through his work, and so I could understand his work through him. However, having been presented with an illustration of me, I once again found myself baffled. Now his work became much too personal, so personal that I, once again, could not analyze it. I came up with the theory that although I am more aware of my psychology than most people, I still don't have full access to information that's been repressed, my complexes that I'm in denial of. Due to this, my psyche obscures information that touches on what I'm not ready to know or aware of in myself because it would be too traumatic and harmful to uncover. Therefore, I found that some of the symbols, though pertinent, were intangible to me.
But this.. it has to mean something. It just has to.
While I'm writing this, I still have no idea. I'm attempting to use my writing as a method to reach catharsis. So let's take a look at Alexander.
Enigmatic, neurotic, negative, talented. He seduced a bored, simple minded woman with his artistic sensibilities, his particularities and preferences (for instance, he could only play the piano when a vase he found distasteful was hidden from view). He was an individual, but his allure died down as his behavior became normalized and eventually annoying to Mrs. Baker. After falling in love with her, he became blinded by his love for her and missed obvious signs and manipulation. He started to believe the best in everyone, having let his cynical guard down due to being happily in love and began unravelling himself. With just a few words from others, he did all the hard work for those that wanted him gone and destroyed himself.
He refused to fight. Whenever Mr. Baker got physically aggressive, he would say, I won't fight, I won't fight. He never fought back, allowing others to see him as a coward, when he was really just trying to be strong. He didn't fight when Mr. Baker fought him for Mrs. Baker either, and didn't fight to keep her either. Perhaps he surrendered before the fight even began. He led to his own demise as he weakened and crumbled at the feet of those who wanted him to.
As I'm writing this, I feel scared and anxious, as if my unconscious is warning me to back away from this subject because I'm touching on something I'm not ready to handle.
---
and now I realize the source of my own defeat. though it's too private to share on such a public medium, i feel that all of our psychological wounds suspend us in that time and place we experienced past hurts and until we realize and acknowledge them, they will stubbornly hold us in a place of emotional immaturity until we're consciously mature enough to work through them. i see why, for all these years, i squiggled downward naturally.
if the squiggly takes on the meaning of a disgestive tract, which is what i read into it the first time i encountered it, the important thing to note is that it's disconnected, meaning the person who it belongs to is disemboweled. Without the intestines, a person consumes fresh food, but nothing is worked through in the body- the nutrients cannot be digested, no progress can be made, the purpose is defeated.
i have the raw talent, but i refuse to do the work. i am a disemboweled human in many senses. i had a dream last night that my deepest regret was that i didn't continue dancing. in my life, i've been one to try something, be very good at it, and tire of it when it gets hard and discontinue it. a crucial part of my development, which i've realized very recently, is my need to develop healthy self discipline habits and continue and persevere when things get tough. i'm not going to get anywhere not being able to do that.
that was the same problem with Alexander. he stopped playing the piano and it was clear he doubted himself in the area he was most talented in.
there's more to be found in this symbol. but for now, i must get some rest.
