love out loud: the loss of relics
My recent trip to Europe marked two milestones in my life:
1) My first visit to Germany.
2) My first purchase of artwork.
Whilst strolling around the streets of Berlin with a friend, we came across an op shop owned by a rather disagreeable woman, a fact that could be forgiven when we realised the stock reflected her good taste. It was here, a place that my dismal sense of direction could never hope to lead me to again, that I came across two small paintings.
After gazing at them with adoration for some minutes, the unpleasant yet inevitable question of cost came into my mind (the logistics of taking them back to Australia rampantly giving way to the desire to buy both) and I looked over the pieces of wood they were mounted upon, searching for a pencil marking of their price. But on the back of one, I instead made a far more pleasing discovery. In small slanted writing was an inscription.
Mein Schatz, ich denke immer an Dich, und werde Dich ewig lieben! Dein, Wolfgang
(My darling, I will always think of you and will love you forever! Yours, Wolfgang)
A quick Google search later, and it appeared that it had been written by the painter.
With both resignation and a touch of wistfulness, I lamented the infrequency of such gifts. It’s not that I have never had artwork bestowed upon me, but rather that I suspect such relationship relics are becoming more uncommon (and the charming role that a self-portrait may take on during courtship is somewhat diminished when a partner explains that they wouldn’t have exerted effort on a drawing if it wasn’t for the fact that you hadn’t slept with them yet).
The requisite post-break-up clean-outs have revealed fewer tangible souvenirs following recent relationships than earlier ones; birthday messages have been sent via text instead of cards, low-resolution happy snaps have been uploaded onto facebook instead of being developed, printed and lovingly displayed, CDs have been burnt instead of borrowed, and retrieving a message from my email’s trash folder when I decide I want to keep it after all doesn’t show the same kind of dedication (or perhaps just pathetic fervour) as actually having to wade through a bin to recover something.
Maybe not having to revisit the emotional warfare inflicted by the perusal of reminders that you are no longer with someone is helpful to healing, and maybe it’s just that I’m a sucker for punishment that explains why I kind of miss looking over such belongings and remembering what was.
Deleting emails and removing photo tags simply doesn’t feel the same, and seeing Wolfgang’s words to his darling makes me hopelessly think that eventually we’ll all just be collecting belongings and inscriptions from the past that were meant for someone else.
