The Solitude of the Soul

I am a huge fan of whiling away countless hours in art museums.  It is akin to crossing through a portal of time, place, and mind not unlike the wardrobe door in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.  The only separation between your present hustle and bustle beat-the-clock reality and this anodyne utopia of quiet reflection is a set of glass doors and a small admission fee; a fairly inexpensive palliative measure in the grand scheme of mental treatments. J

I can’t really say which galleries captivate me most.  All have magical qualities that seem to bring back to life the bygone eras in which they were created.  It’s as if the photos, sculptures, artifacts, and paintings whisper to each viewer a little piece of knowledge the creator wished to immortalize like secrets, fantasies, convictions, fears, hopes, loves, and power.  I love antiquities and any art that represents the nature of the way humans relate to one another.  I am particularly drawn to the ironic and recurring theme of the dangerous power of women in Medieval art.  Though women were effectively suppressed, owned, and treated like property, the artists sent subliminal messages that by and large, it was known that we were NOT the weaker sex.  It would only take us centuries to get that message out. J 

One thing that is fairly consistent is that when I visit a museum or gallery, there is generally one piece that hits me like a ton of bricks; likely triggered by the mindset with which I walked in at that moment on that day.  Chemistry and timing is everything.  I’m reluctant to tell you that sometimes it moves me to tears.  I’m not insane; just uber sensitive to aesthetics.

In June, I was able to visit the Art Institute in Chicago, which is incomprehensibly phenomenal in its collections.  It resides in a building originally constructed for the International Parliament of Religions for the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893 (which in and of itself is another fascinating topic, but we shall save that for another day. J)  I stumbled upon this gorgeous, literally larger than life-sized sculpture that was so beautiful and so filled with meaning, it stopped me in my tracks.  At the end of this article, I have included more photos taken from 360 degrees around it.

It was created by an American sculptor named Lorado Taft and is entitled “The Solitude of the Soul.”  Four figures, men and women, are united only by touch.  Their faces are turned away from each other.   Its description reads, “However closely we may be thrown together by circumstance…we are unknown to each other.  We grope; we cling to each other, but our eyes are hollow.”  I was suddenly emotionally unhinged by this bittersweet reality.  We come into the world solo and exit it the same way; touching other lives along the journey; making our mark on the era in which we live, maybe longer in the case of people like Steve Jobs; our minds like unique worlds unto themselves;  and no matter how close to another’s life we get, there are things we will simply never know about them.  Even in the age of Twitter, Facebook, and over-communication ad nauseum (guilty as charged), there are feelings and unspoken realities in our minds that only we can perceive as evidenced by the fact that it is still possible to feel terribly alone in a crowded room.  (...also guilty as charged.)

It made me think of my favorite Jackson Browne song:  For a Dancer.

Just do the steps that you've been shown
By everyone you've ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another's steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you'll do alone