I saw one of Helen Frankenthaler’s paintings a while back, and while I was captured by the painting itself, it was its history that inspired this contemplation. There’s a lot of yellow paint draped over a large, untreated canvas, the inconsistency of the texture causing the paint to bleed in volatile ways. A subtle blue perimeter and a column of orange covered the side and bottom edges. The painting is dated ’67-’76. Apparently it hung in her studio, unreleased to the world, for ten years because she never felt like it was complete. Finally, in 1976 she added an imperfect rectangle of red at the top of the ten-foot canvass. This, she felt, completed her work. At first glance, it seems curious that something so small and peripheral could give her such a feeling of fulfillment and completion with regards to the painting, but if you step back ten feet from the artwork, blot out the red portion with your hand, you immediately recognize its significance and see how something so small and seemingly unrelated to the core of the painting can play such a vital role in pulling all the shades together and giving the painting meaning.
It reminds me of the little stories we like to tell over and over as if they’ve gone into syndication. There’s usually nothing too sexy about these stories, but we love to tell them much more than people like to listen to them. What makes these stories especially interesting (and sometimes irritating) is the way people try to find any opening to insert them into conversation. For example, I have a friend who’s a tennis coach who loves to tell the story of the day he accidentally explained something backwards to one of his students and how that student completely bought into it and said it was the best advice they’d ever received. If that coach and I were talking about education in an America, he’d tell the story. If we talked about politicians who flip-flopped, he’d tell the story. If we talked about women, he’d tell the story. Now that I reflect back, I realize there was a reason he told the story. Our interactions with others and the way we perceive them are the nuts and bolts of our lives. Moments that may seem insignificant are often the ones that provide the most clarity and insight into a person’s life. It’s easy to dismiss these side stories as peripheral and meaningless, but what is in between the lines or what peeks over the top of the canvass are often more significant than what is easier to see. What is also true is that these stories are often allegorical. There is a reason we speak in allegory. It’s the reason we have religion. It penetrates a person’s essence in a way that mundane facts and details cannot. It’s the red rectangle that punctuates the story of our life.