accidental perfection
Last night in bed, I spent several minutes staring at one panel of the graphic novel Blankets by Craig Thompson. For the purposes of my story, it doesn't really matter which panel it was--but if you're interested, it was the one which depicts the main character/narrator masturbating to a letter his would-be girlfriend from church camp sent. It is disturbing and sexual without being graphic, thematically due to the guilt he experiences after/during the act.
But that's not the point.
What had me staring was my inability to figure out what had me staring at it. The image was of a doubled-over, nude body, his left leg curving down slightly to complement the angry ink-stains which curved over the next image (likewise, a nude, but not explicit, male body). The book is upsetting all by itself, with intimations of abuse, difficult first love, and religious guilt. But this one image confused me somehow; it was rife with contradiction. I tried to explain it to Mr. Daroga, who had urged me to read it because it upset him so much he needed someone to share it.
What I tried to explain was that this image arrested me because I "couldn't understand how he had drawn it so perfectly." This, obviously, makes no sense, since anything he drew in this instance would be the right thing; but it was as if I saw the image as a constant element Thompson had teased out of the blank paper. It was not so much that he'd drawn it as he'd hewn the finished image from the ink. I couldn't see it as a collection of lines but rather an organic whole, and therefore I couldn't imagine how one would ever make all the little decisions that went into drawing it.
Even the next morning, I'm not making sense. I'm not sure it'd help to show you the picture, either, because I'm not sure it's about that particular image. What I'm trying to talk about is our experience of the "perfect" thing, the thing that hits you so hard that you can't accept that it was constructed from disparate elements. Maybe it's a song, or a painting, or a novel (or even a sentence). Maybe it's even a movie, though that's an especially difficult one since there are so many hands at work.
But have you ever encountered this perfect thing, whose existence seems impossible? What was it?
But that's not the point.
What had me staring was my inability to figure out what had me staring at it. The image was of a doubled-over, nude body, his left leg curving down slightly to complement the angry ink-stains which curved over the next image (likewise, a nude, but not explicit, male body). The book is upsetting all by itself, with intimations of abuse, difficult first love, and religious guilt. But this one image confused me somehow; it was rife with contradiction. I tried to explain it to Mr. Daroga, who had urged me to read it because it upset him so much he needed someone to share it.
What I tried to explain was that this image arrested me because I "couldn't understand how he had drawn it so perfectly." This, obviously, makes no sense, since anything he drew in this instance would be the right thing; but it was as if I saw the image as a constant element Thompson had teased out of the blank paper. It was not so much that he'd drawn it as he'd hewn the finished image from the ink. I couldn't see it as a collection of lines but rather an organic whole, and therefore I couldn't imagine how one would ever make all the little decisions that went into drawing it.
Even the next morning, I'm not making sense. I'm not sure it'd help to show you the picture, either, because I'm not sure it's about that particular image. What I'm trying to talk about is our experience of the "perfect" thing, the thing that hits you so hard that you can't accept that it was constructed from disparate elements. Maybe it's a song, or a painting, or a novel (or even a sentence). Maybe it's even a movie, though that's an especially difficult one since there are so many hands at work.
But have you ever encountered this perfect thing, whose existence seems impossible? What was it?