ART AND LOVE

sitting on it. We see no detail, just flat, twodimensional, solid black objects against the off-white paint of the wall. Given my taste in art, I should have hated it, but instead I found that I was somehow attracted by it — and that surprised me. When it comes to art, I want reality, near photographic detail, and frankly, ornamentation. That is who I am — not this blank, black shadow on a wall. As I puzzled over this attraction I was feeling, I remembered experiencing this same dissonance somewhere in my past. It was about music.

My taste in music has always baffled me. I am in a beach mood when listening to Buffett, a cowboy mood when I play country and western, and a scholarly mood when I play classical music. A split personality perhaps, but I wouldn’t give up access to any of the three. I’m not sure of the direction of the cause and effect here. Do I pick that music because of the mood I am in, or do I get in that mood because of the music I’m hearing? Either way, some part of me identifies with the music. Like Baroque art and architecture, the music I like touches who I am —at an intimate level. Good art—be it painting, sculpture, music or architecture—lets us see a reflection of ourselves in another person’s work. That is why we are attracted to it.

I think about the dogs I’ve been closest to in my life. I always knew what they were thinking and they knew my thoughts even more completely. Sitting quietly on a couch, when a thought of a walk in the woods occurred to me, the dogs would always jump up, ready to go— and I hadn’t yet moved a muscle. It seemed there wasn’t much separation between the two things, the dog and the man.

Whether it be dogs I lived with or the horses I worked with at an equine rescue, when I saw the ones I was really closest to, I could always see in them a reflection of myself. I could see the same confidences, the same insecurities and the same feelings of affection that were so much a part of me. I saw, and more importantly felt, myself in them.

I think this might be a universal trait in humans and perhaps it explains why mothers, and especially grandmothers, are so crazy about the little ones. They see themselves in something, someone, that is “not me.” The same seems to hold true for lovers. If I can’t see any bit of myself in you, how can we ever become close? The more of me I see in you, the more we can understand and open up to each other.

Perhaps I like the mural in Sinton for the same reason. Somewhere in it I recognize a part of myself—maybe it is the cowboy part of me that listens to country and western music. I definitely recognize something there, even if it is at a subconscious level. When I look at the mural, I can see myself, sitting right there alongside those cowboys on that fence, wearing a hat, boots and chaps–in essence, I see me in that picture. It is no longer a mural; it is a part of who I am. It is me on that wall.

But it is not just art that operates this way. Interestingly, the same concept seems to hold true for love. When we look at the people we love (and here I include dogs and horses, of course), I’m not sure we see them, as much as we see a reflection of ourselves in them.

I guess when you stop to think about it, art and love are really the same thing — the process of seeing yourself in something, or someone, that is not you.

Sometimes, we can even see our own souls in the eyes of our soulmates.