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What "The Kiss" has taught me about life and love
I was 15 years old when I first laid eyes on Gustav Klimt’s painting, “The Kiss.” Our class had been studying painters of the 20th century and a grainy image flashed up on the makeshift screen. We were supposed to memorize the style, the brush strokes, the turmoil of Klimt’s life at the time of its creation.
But when I tuned into the painting all I could see was love.
True, all encompassing love. An intimate, devoted relationship between two people. It was everything I wanted at that age and everything I was truly terrified of.
I noted the man’s protective arms around his woman, holding her dainty body close to his. He cradled her neck and nuzzled his lips against the softness of her blushing cheeks. The ideal damsel. The exemplary gentleman. My archetype of what a relationship should be.
At fifteen, I’d only had one “relationship." We’d been brand new into our freshman year and everyone who was anyone started coupling up. Our teenage ringleader announced that a sk8er boy and I should date… so we did. We’d kiss between classes, his tongue thick with a waxy coating of Slim Jims and Trolli jelly beans. Long after the bell rang, I’d suck my cheeks together in an attempt to abort the lingering aftertaste. We’d huddle next to each other at lunch, pursed mouths and sweaty palms. I’d hide my wiry braces behind a ham sandwich and he’d kick a support beam while making lewd gestures across the quad. After two and a half long weeks, I’d break up with him over a handwritten note and we’d never speak to each other again.
I looked at “The Kiss” and knew I wanted a love just like it. I wanted a real man.
I wanted romance and trust and kissing in a field of red and green and yellow with my toes curling in the dirt. I wanted inlays of gold flowers in my hair and draped across my bare ankles. The only problem… I didn’t know how to talk to the male species. I worried that I’d never be comfortable enough to relax in front of a male. How could I take myself off of the pedestal that I’d climbed up onto? Boys were mysterious, disgusting and sexual. I wasn’t interested in touching boys over their pants behind the art building. I longed for the intimacy I saw in the painting, but I preferred my intricate daydreams to the reality of actually interacting with boys.
I was 19 years old when I bought a poster of “The Kiss” to hang in my college dorm room. I taped it over my bed next to an image of a nearly naked Marilyn Monroe. My life goals. My inspiration. I was young, wild, and free to stay out past midnight with anyone of my choosing.
I’d been ‘saving myself’ for a true romance like the ones I’d fantasized about in high school. But that dream never came. Eventually my virginity seemed less like a precious gift and more like an embarrassment. Like I’d been caught playing with dolls long after elementary school. I graduated without ever having been in a relationship, save for those two and half weeks of minced meat breath and bad kissing in the hallways. I lost my virginity at a party the night before I left for college. I burned my daydreams of damsels in distress and knights fighting to save me.
When I looked at the painting at 19, I didn’t see romance anymore… I saw sex. Lust. Desire.
I studied the woman’s face, basking in the pleasure of being touched and desired. I observed the man, enthralled by her body and reaching down to take more of her. Boys had never sought me out before. They’d never been so blunt with what they wanted from me. I was learning about my body and how it could make other people happy. How it could please other people with intense grooming and posing.
The painting had evolved into a symbol of sensuality and exploration. It was freedom and color and dangerous raw youth.
The third time I considered “The Kiss” was in the months after my longest relationship. I was supposed to move in with my partner, but I backed out in the days leading up to it. Something had changed inside of me. Or maybe it was just ready to finally let itself out. I was 25. Newly single. I was confused and afraid and determined to disappear into city life. I’d been distracting myself with piles of keep, toss, and donate when I came across the crumpled poster of the painting tucked away at the bottom of a bin.
It was completely different from the painting I’d adored at ages 15 and 19.
The air surrounding the couple appeared dark and dangerous. Splatters of fluid stained the background like dried blood on a bed sheet. Like mud on a black tiled floor. Like a thousand red flags.
The woman craned her head away as a man clutched her desperately. His fists around her neck claimed something that wasn’t his. I heard her thoughts screaming to get off. I sensed her hands pushing him away, skin crawling from bearing the weight of his touch. Fingers tense and ready to dig nails into flesh should he make any sudden movements. A trained smile etched across her lips to shield her from danger. She's on the edge of a cliff and she's about to fall. Or be pushed. Or jump.
It was no longer a painting of two souls intertwined in love. It wasn’t an image of post coital pleasure… She was placating him. She was disgusted by his needs and his roughness and his masculinity. She was planning an escape but the vines of society had tangled around her legs and pinned her there — unable to move in fear of what the viewers might think if they knew the truth. I didn’t want to be touched by him and neither did she.
It doesn’t matter to me that the painting was considered blasphemous in the 1900s. I don’t care if Klimt inserted himself into the image with one of his many muses. So far, I’ve no desire to fly to Austria and see it face to face. What matters is all that it’s taught me about life and love. I’m almost 30 now. I’ve changed along with “The Kiss” as time has passed by. I’ve had associations with many different types of people. I’ve had strong connections and I’ve had failures. I’ve hurt people and I’ve been broken. The painting isn’t on a pedestal in my room or in my mind any longer. It isn’t a goal or a reminder or a fantasy.
It’s a metaphor.
When I look at the painting today I see the complexities of relationships. I see secrets. I see dominance and submission. I see my past. A young girl’s naivety. I see shady situations and innocence and nervous smiles. Questions that don’t have easy answers. I see my present — love and safety and comfort. I see the uncertainty of my future. I see hope and pain and pretending.
And it’s only been 15 years, there’s no telling what might be unearthed from within its oil based strokes in another decade.