"See You on the Other Side," a painting by the late Matthew Wong

 

                                       "See You on the Other Side" by Matthew Wong

1.

In a recent edition of the New Yorker, Raffi Khatchadourian wrote a profile on the painter Matthew Wong, with the subtitle, "How a self-taught artist become one of the most celebrated painters of his generation." Opposite the first page was a full-page reproduction of the above painting. My eyes bulged; I was transfixed, "This painter is the new van Gogh" I delightedly exclaimed." (The influence of Matisse is obvious as well, but the spirit of the painting brings van Gogh to mind. 

The painting evokes a state of extreme isolation. It portrays a desperate hope, a hope that, without wishful thinking, is not to be realized in this life nor in the next. Let us examine this painting.

.

Like Matisse, the use of color is primary. The painting is two-dimensional; the beholder has to supply depth by context--that is, it is obvious that the 'other side' is farther away than the brown area in the foreground.

Matisse uses the same technique; color is not decorative, the use of color is all. 

There is a great beauty here. The symmetry of the objects, such as the brilliant red bird in the foreground balancing the green mountain on the other side; the choice and balance of colors is very aesthetically pleasing to the eye. But  this beauty is deceiving; there is no warm Matisse-like celebration of life here. We now turn to a description of the subject of the painting, one of near-complete desolation. 

There is a central figure in the painting, the 'protagonist,' standing on a hill, with his back to the onlooker. With his arms, the source of action, immobile at his side, he seems to be looking at a little hut on the others side. This faded blue figure--the color of nobility-- is the only figure in the painting that seems to be situated in shade. Hardly visible, the hut has an open door. Other than the protagonist, there is no fellow human being in the painting, which is as devoid of life as the depths of empty space.

Don't be fooled by the red bird. In this interpretation, it is representative of the protagonist's imagination, the protagonist's spirit, the protagonist's soul. The fictive bird can fly over the abyss, but the protagonist always remains locked inside his body, on the ground. It is a representation of wishful thinking with imagination's brilliant wings.

The 'sea' that separates this side from the other is white, which, like ice, reflects all light into space. It is an abyss; it is completely unknown territory.  No heaven here.  The protagonist seems to have no choice other than to jump into the abyss, as a way to end he pain of his existence. 

The protagonist stands with his back facing away from a brown hill. It is brown, the color of decay. Perhaps it represents earthly life, with which the protagonist has no contact. It is interesting that the hill is decorated with a Matisse-like pattern of branches and leaves. The leaves are white, the color of the abyss, perhaps indicating that we don't even know what leaves truly are. All phenomena are thus 'controlled hallucinations'--our best guess of what is really there. Wong seems to be telling us that we will never know Kant's 'Thing in Itself,' and he is right. What is under our noses is just as mysterious as the abyss, empty space.

I interpret the little hut, the almost nothing on the other side which the protagonist imagines will bring salvation, to be a product of wishful thinking. In any case, the green vegetation on the other side seems to be roaring down the mountain like a huge waterfall, which will soon overwhelm the hut and  sweep it away.

The other side is thus completely impersonal.

In the upper left is the deep blue of a Lethe-like lake. Above it is a gray sky, with an interstitial pattern that reminds me of the dance of electrons. Nature is thus impersonal, and completely indifferent to the fate of her creatures, which have evolved according to her mysterious laws. The 'almost' nothing, hope-hut is really nothing at all.

It seems that the only way out for the protagonist, the only way to end his extreme existential pain, is to jump into the abyss, to enter 'the bourne from which no traveler retuned.' It seems to be the entrance to total oblivion.

Wong jumped into that oblivion at the age of thirty-five. What could have helped him?

2,

A very difficult question. Matthew Wong suffered from severe social isolation. He was later diagnosed as being autistic. The pain of his troubles is evident in his paintings. He painted obsessively; not painting is pain, he once said. Without the respite of hard work, demons possessed him. Later on, when he became more successful, ambition--an attempt to prove he was a human being by means of being a superior artist--eventually failed.

We humans, who have remained psychologically and physically stable over the past 100,000 years, evolved in groups. We achieve and maintain our sense of identity through interaction with others.

Such a severe inability to connect as Matthew's was is indeed very hard to treat. Simone Weil stated that for someone lost in a ditch the only way out is for someone to jump in the ditch, come down to the sufferer's level, and help him out. A long and arduous process! Who is willing to do that? 

Wong needed social interaction. He needed to find out that there were others in his situation. He needed to volunteer. He needed help.

What's so sad about suicide is that it is often impulsive, in other words, the desire to kill oneself is often temporary. I am convinced that suicide is often not so much a wish for death but the most desperate attempt to put an end to one's mental suffering. The  saddest aspect of all if that one doesn't get a second chance. Who knows what Wong's life would have been like in the future, with a little help from his friends and with a lot of help from his doctors? Maybe not perfect, but quite possibly bearable.

At age 35, Matthew Wong climbed to the roof of his studio and jumped. I wish I had been there to stop him. I close with a poem I wrote in his memory.

In Memoriam: Matthew Wong (1984-2019)

 

Happiness isn’t what ambition does.

The highest rung upon want’s ladder

Brought him to the dark side of the moon.

Climbed a jagged crater, jumped.

 

Not painting is pain, he said. When he

Slowed down, demons arose, bubbled  

By the worst devil of all, reputation.

Matthew Wong was only thirty-five;

 

I wish I had been there to stop him,

Life is over soon enough. Happy, still

Miserably happy, nearly eighty-year-old

Ambition advises a slow demise.

If you're thinking of harming yourself, please don't. Get help. The 24 hour suicide hotline is 800-273-8255. Choose life, please!

The Face of Depression

1.

By now, most of you have heard of the Christmas  morning bombing in Nashville.

This is the face of Anthony Warner, a 63-year-old I.T. specialist, who (seemingly) out of the blue blew himself up in his RV in downtown Nashville on Christmas morning, causing extensive damage but no loss of life other than his own.

I would like you to look carefully at his face. It is the face of depression. The mouth shows no expression; not even a hint of a smile. The eyes look directly at the camera with  a combination of defiance and despair. This man obviously didn't want to be photographed; he wanted to be left alone. His general appearance indicates a lack of concern regarding how he presents himself to others. He has obviously not seen a barber in a long time; lack of personal styling of his hair reveals a man who has "let himself go." His clothes are casual-sloppy and seem to be chosen at random. This is the face of a loner; this is the face of a man who has given up.

Look at that face again. He looks so defiant; he looks so angry! The anger appears to be chronic and internalized. How dare you take my picture, it seems to be saying.

This is the face of a man whose needs haven't been met for a long, long time. It is the mien of someone who has given up all hope, Leave me alone, it seems to be. saying--or else. "Else" came on Christmas morning.

How do I know all this? Am I using his face as a Rorschach test? I think not. It is too, too common.

It was once the face of my father, who died miserably in 1967. It is the face of several patients I had encountered as a practicing physician. It has also been, now and then, my face as well.

The contrast between Mr. Warner's face and this face is striking. The face above is that of the renowned physicist, Michio Kaku, the author of several books and researcher in the field of string theory. Warner's and Kaku's are indeed both human faces; both men have long hair, but there the similarities end. Dr. Kaku's hair is long like Mr. Warner's, but unlike the latter's the former's is well groomed. Dr. Kaku's face exudes confidence and the desire to communicate as well. It seems to be saying, "I have something interesting to say, please listen; you have something to say as well, I am listening." The contrast between the two mouths is equally revealing. Mr. Warner's seems to be saying, "I hate myself and I hate you; leave me alone!" Dr. Kaku's seems to say, "Life is good, and I'm delighted to be alive. One face elicits compassion and pity; the other, admiration.

2.

I was convinced it was suicide from the beginning. Emerging facts corroborated my opinion. He parked his booby-trapped RV in downtown Nashville.  The sound system played over and over a famous song from the sixties, "Downtown."  The opening lyric is as follows: "When you're alone and life is making you lonely/ you can always go downtown."  It's basically an upbeat song, but I think the major key turns minor in Mr. Warner's interpretation. Mr. Warner, an obviously intelligent man, was an I.T. specialist; he traveled from business to business, fixing computer problems. He did not have regular colleagues.

Mr. Warner said something to a casual acquaintance that is very significant. He informed him that something was about to happen, after which everybody would know Warner's name. The acquaintance believed that he was talking about good news! 

This is significant. It reveals that Mr. Warner suffered because he was unknown and failed to make his mark in the world. Mr. Warner, in short, felt worthless, a terrible burden to bear. Mr. Warner's state of mind is the dark side of our highly competitive culture. He probably thought a lot of himself as well. The path of great expectations and self-hate sometimes leads to the abyss, as it did in his case.

The recording that blasted  from the RV before the bomb exploded informed those within range of hearing to clear the area. He gave the public ample warning. The immediate vicinity was indeed evacuated, the result of which was that no one died except Mr. Warner himself.

I would imagine that many distorted by self-hate would want to bring the world down with them. That Mr. Warner desired no harm to others speaks in his favor. Deep down there, I think, he was good person.

Poor thing! I think the statement he was trying to make was, "Notice me! I'm somebody, too!" How sad. It is well known that depression distorts thinking and sometimes paralyzes sense.

I heard many pundits on TV state that Mr. Warner should be classified as a white, domestic terrorist. This doesn't help; this doesn't help at all.

Mr. Warner, as an aging white man, belongs to a very high risk group for suicide, second only to that of Indigenous Americans. The fact that he gave away his possessions before he blew himself up indicates a man with a suicide plan. 

He caused a lot of damage, still, I think, one should have compassion. Putting that compassion into action would help the thousands of Warners who exist in the USA get some much-needed help.

I think Mr. Warner was wearing the face of despair for a long time. How many people said, "What's the matter?" or "I think you need some help?" A little nudge; the butterfly effect could have significantly changed his affect, and prevented tragedy.

Yes, Mr. Warner failed himself, but we also failed him. Many of us strive to do our best to help; do you?

Rilke, Roethke, Lessetier: Three Poems About Alcohol

1.
My mentor in poetry, the renowned Philippine poet Jose Garcia Villa, once told me about his visit to a famous painter--I forget who--(This was over forty years ago.) A guest at the painter's remarked about a "delightful" painting on the wall--"How happy those bright colors look," the guest effused. "It's a good example of how art can lift one's spirits!" "Oh, that one," the painter replied, "I painted that during the time I was contemplating suicide."

This, I think, is a good example of why we should not assume that every work of art is autobiographical. An artist is like a mansion; a mansion has many rooms. The belief that art is merely confessional is especially pernicious in respect to poetry, since poetry is a very intimate medium. Many readers, who probably had written bad confessional poetry when young, forget that good poetry is good fiction. Poetry, I believe, should be autobiographical in the broadest sense, that is, having to do with inner and outer aspects of being human. No, I'm not advocating essays in verse--in poetry, language is always primary. This does not mean that meaning is not important.

In this essay I will discuss three poems about alcholism. They are the best poems about this affliction that I know. I'm not sure that any of them are autobiograpical; the best one is by Rilke, who certainly did not have a drinking problem. Substance abuse has been a problem for centuries; these poems address the issue in different ways and are, in their respective ways, profound. First of all, though, as poems must, they delight us as poems. Both form and content will be discussed, as is appropriate when writing criticism.

Let's start with Rilke.

2. Das Lied des Trinkers

Es war nicht in mir. Es ging aus und ein.
Ich wollte es halten. Da hielt es der Wein.
(Ich weiss nicht mehr, was es war.)
Dann hielt er mir jenes und hielt mir dies
bis ich mich ganz auf ihn verliess.
Ich Narr.

Jetzt bin ich in seinem Spiel und er streut
mich veraectlich und verliert mich noch heut
an dieses Vieh, an den Tod.
Wenn der mich, schmutzige Karte, gewinnt,
so kratzt er mit seinem grauen Grind
und wirft mich fort in den Kot.

Prose translation:

It wasn't in me. It came and it went.
I wanted to keep it. Wine did that.
(I don't know any more what it was.)
Then wine held this and wine held that
until I became wine's tool--
what a fool!

Now I'm part of his card game. He deals me out
with disdain and just might lose me tonight
to that beast, Death.
If that one wins me, a filthy card,
he'll scratch a gray scab with me
then throw me off into muck.

Needless to say, the German is vastly superior to the English version; since I do not assume much, if any, knowledge of German among readers of this article, I won't descant on the poem's verbal virtues. The impressive understament of the poem--always a plus in poetry--and the psychological depth is apparent even in translation. (One should recall that Lou Andras Solome, Rilke's longtime friend and sometime lover, introduced him to Frued, literally and figuratively.) A lot is said in this short poem. The pre-addict did not feel good, did not feel normal. He or she is like a lizard, cold-blooded, at the mercy of the elements, lacking means to provide himself with inner warmth. An intolerable situation that finds temporary relief by getting drunk. Remember the medieval sculptures on certain European cathedrals in which a handsome prince--the devil--proffers a delicious apple? Look at the back of the statue and you see writhing serpents. In this case, the prince offers a chalice full of wine. How beautifully Rilke sums up the entire sitiuation in the last line of the first stanza! But, as this line informs, it is too late. Now wine is in complete control. In the second stanza, it becomes apparent that wine is a buddy of death. They are now two Bruegel monsters playing cards. The protagonist has lost his humanity; he now is nothing but a dirty thing, a soiled card. Death scratches a scab with the card that was once a human being, and throws it into a pile of filth.

I know of no other poem that depicts the horror of addiction better than this one. The last lines in German have an extremely powerful impact; they are truly chilling. The rhythm and the words of these lines form an incomparable expression of a human being having become a thing in the hands of an indifferent beast, oblivion.

3. MY PAPA'S WALTZ

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unform itself.

The hand that held my wrist
We battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

--Theodore Roethke

I like to think of the poem as one written by the drunkard of Rilke's poem, when he was at the point in his life depicted by the last line of the first stanza--alcohol has taken over his life and has begun to poison his family. This poem is also a great example of understatement, making the horror all the more harrowing. The father has a wound on his hand, perhaps from falling while drunk. He is unaware that the buckle of his belt is scraping his son's ear--something that a father should indeed be aware of! The belt suggests abuse, perhaps even sexual abuse, since the boy's head is at the father's waist. Violence is suggested by his keeping time--presumably roughly--on his son's head. The poor child is being forced to dance with a father just about out of control--a frightening prospect. We assume that a grown man is recalling a scene from his childhood--we also assume that the man is scarred by such events--who wouldn't be? This, of course, is only suggested--why else would the man recall this? (Well, it's more than suggested: the boy hangs on like "death" indicating how emotionally wounded he is.) What I would like to bring to attention, however, is line three of the second stanza. All the other lines are in iambic rhythm--the regular rhythm suggests the unfortunate dance. But the stress on "my" and the on the first syllable of "countenance" make this line stand out. Even though the mother is only mentioned in this and the subsequent line, the stress of the "mother-line" gives her great importance. And it is a negative one: she disapproves of the father's action, but is unwilling or unable--perhaps he would then abuse her--to intervene. She is a so-called "enabler"--beautifully expressed by stressing her importance with a new rhythm, and stressing her inablity to help her son. Roethke does this so subtly--the rhythm change here is a true masterstroke! If you were raised in a alcoholic family, as I was, you know very well what this poem relates: helplessness and terror. The poem is a little masterpiece.

3. THE DRUNKARD

I came off the bottle screaming;
until it became my sole friend
decades later, hope kept me weaned
with pure lies. Now that youth

is long past, I face facts:
my only fear is life itself;
weaning a baby from whiskey, again, again,
my sole acts of bravery.

(My father's cruel binges taught me
cowardice
may have nothing to do with fulfillment or God
but it's safe.)

As a child, I pictured heaven
as my own room where I
curl beneath the thickest blankets
with heroes on TV forever and

that's what I got and it's hell.

--Robert Lessetier

I find this poem to be very moving. I like to think that the child in Roethke's poem has grown up and has become an alcoholic himself. It is well known that children of alcoholics tend to withdraw and have difficulty making friends--childhood damage that remains for life, an affliction, I might add, that is very familiar to me. The protagonist of this poem uses alcohol in a different way from Rilke's protagonist, who begins to use the drug because he feels something important is missing in his life, and uses alcohol in an attempt to retrieve it. He is probably a first-generation alcoholic. It is differennt in this poem. The poor man here is using alcohol to remove the anxiety caused by his traumatic upbringing. And, like Rilke's addict, alcohol takes over his life and destroys any chance of his becoming a mature adult. I love the emphasis on "cowardice"--the only word in line two of stanza two. The protagonist blames himself and judges himself harshly. What he only wants is peace and to be left alone--he has withdrawn from everything since everything provokes anxiety. This is of course no way to live and inevitably leads to a wasted, unhappy life. The end of the poem is quite effective--Be careful what you wish for, lest you obtain it! He is caught in a vise--one side prevents him from engaging in life and the other side crushes with the realization of how devastating the resultant loneliness is. A very true-to-life and effective portrait of the ravages of alcohol on children and the adults they become.

I find all three poems to be noteworthy portrayals of the horrors of alcoholism-- very effective both in what they reveal and how they reveal it. I hope you enjoyed this essay; I enjoyed writing it for you. After writing about these poems, however, I think I will skip my usual evening glass of wine and have some green tea!