Love is the greatest force on this planet. So why, in the 21st century, do we not view it as an intellectual subject? Why is this emotion that connects us all not studied at school, or university?
When it comes to the English language, we only have one word for love. (In Arabic, there are 11.) How can we possibly be expected to understand it, analyse it and articulate it? The answer, of course, is through art.
Whether we are young or old, finding our first love or reuniting with those from the past, trapped in infatuation or getting over a broken heart, wordless artworks show us the many ways love can be rendered. Art can transport us to youthful memories, hold up a mirror to our lives and remind us of love’s sacredness.
In the case of Frida Kahlo, art can get us to recognise that we are not the first to go through such treacherousness. The Mexican artist, hailed for her expressive self-portraits, spent her life in physical and emotional agony. As a child she had polio; in her teens she was involved in a bus crash that left her body shattered; as an adult she was in a tumultuous relationship with the artist Diego Rivera. But through transforming pain into beauty – painting tears like white crystals and bodies pierced like Saint Sebastian – she always understood that anything is worth the price of love.
Felix Gonzalez Torres’s “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers), 1987–90 is perhaps the simplest but most effective portrait of love in art history. It’s of two clocks, hung together above head height, and synchronised at the same time. But, just as with all loving relationships, one battery is destined to eventually stop and die first.
The Cuban-born artist once wrote to his own lover, Ross Laycock: “Don’t be afraid of the clocks, they are our time, the time has been so generous to us … We conquered fate by meeting at a certain time in a certain space.” But fate was also cruel to them both. In 1991, Laycock died from Aids-related complications; Gonzalez-Torres died five years later. This work is a reminder to confront the sacredness of time that we have with each other, and hold on to it while we can.
What would it be like to reconnect with a lover, decades later? In 2010, the performance artists, Marina Abramović and Ulay – who in the 1970s and 80s had been lovers, partners, a “two headed body” – reunited after 22 years apart. The last time they had been together was when they’d walked the Great Wall of China from opposite ends, intending to meet in the middle to marry. Instead, they broke up.
Decades passed, their lives changed irrevocably. But when Abramović staged The Artist Is Present at the Museum of Modern Art – sitting opposite exhibition goers for 750 hours – they found one another again, and were confronted by each other’s gaze. In a clip from the documentary, tears streamed from their eyes as they reflected on lives past, memories lost and a love that, despite being so deep, had remained silent for 22 years.
Love is also a foolish game, something that William Holman Hunt’s 1853 oil painting The Awakening Conscience can teach us about. It depicts a man trying to keep a younger woman down, and serves as a reminder for us to not waste time on those who try to keep us captive. The symbolism of her wearing rings on every finger but her wedding ring shows us that he wants her, but doesn’t want to be with her. Her expression is the exciting part: she has seen the light. My advice for those seeking a way out? A poem, Two Cures for Love, by Wendy Cope:
-
Don’t see him. Don’t phone or write a letter.
-
The easy way: get to know him better.
For those in love, how does the weather feel? What does the world look and taste like? How do your feet touch the ground; how do you walk through the streets? As Tracey Emin’s 2012 neon reads: It’s Different When You Are in Love.
Then there’s the joy of friendship, presented beautifully by Nan Goldin in Picnic on the Esplanade, Boston, 1973, showing the innocence of the young, wasting time by the riverbanks, surrendering to each other’s company. For a first love, turn to Malick Sidibe’s Nuit de Noël, 1963, which shows a couple dancing – on the verge of getting to know each other, figuring out each other’s steps. For self-love, it’s the girl on the right of Paula Rego’s The Dance, 1988, dancing stronger and larger than all of the rest.
What about long love? How does it feel to be wrapped up in someone so tightly, seemingly for eternity? Louise Bourgeois’s Couple, 2001 shows two lovers entwined, with conjoined hands and arms, and faces that gently press into each other. Suspended in the air, by an invisible string, they appear to be balancing (or counter-balancing) everything that comes with love – pleasures, pains, care, protection, and power dynamics, too. Their enveloping stance also reminds me how vastly we shape each other. It being made from fibre suggests love’s ability to be sewn back together. As Bourgeois said: “The needle is used to repair damage. It’s a claim to forgiveness.”
Whether you’re spending Valentine’s Day with a lover, or reflecting on those from the past, look to art for the answers. And let it show you the infinite expansiveness of this thing called love.
