Rebecca Coleman

9 July 2003

A Personal Connection with a Stranger

I went to Brigham Young University’s Museum of Art this afternoon to find the perfect work of art to write about.  As I walked to the entrance of the museum I went past the abstract sculpture Juno.  Oh my, I thought, this may be a more difficult task than I had anticipated.  I slowly walked through the museum, looking at the paintings and sculptures, wondering which I should choose for my subject.  Should I choose one that I didn’t like?  Perhaps that would force me to look deeper into it, and I would gain an appreciation for it.  Or should I find the one I like most?

I looked at every picture in the museum, making a few mental notes of either “no way” or “maybe, if I don’t find anything else.”  My thoughts during this time were semi-interested in what I was seeing, but not very decisive.  “Here is one of strong new trees, growing among giant fallen trees.  That’s neat, maybe I’ll come back to it.  Oh, I like this Impressionistic one of the trees and snow.  I’ll probably do that.  Here is the abstract section.  Uh…nope.”

I eventually came to the last alcove of paintings, slowly looking over each one.  The last one I saw drew all of my attention.  I knew this painting.  I gazed at it for several minutes.  This is the one.  It’s still my favorite.  My first term at this school I had come across this work—a piece by Maynard Dixon, entitled The Forgotten Man—and through it had learned to love art in a new way.  I had been drawn both by the color scheme of the painting, as well as the story it created in my imagination.  Now, over three years later I encountered this work again with all the joy and disappointment, education and experience I have gained since, and I find I love it even more, and see more in it than I did as a green young student.

I find myself looking on a saddening scene: a man sitting on a curb, face downward, eyes closed, looking dejected and miserable.  There are several people walking past behind him, but only their legs and shoes are visible.  This reminded me of the “dog’s point of view” that Disney’s film Lady and the Tramp used, which adds more meaning for me of this man’s status in society.  As the descriptive placard next to the picture tells, Dixon painted a series of pictures during the Great Depression, dealing with “human isolation and alienation.” They were based on the many scenes he beheld throughout the western United States during that time.  This particular picture was painted in 1934, right at the bottom of the Depression.

The painting is asymmetrical, with the subject placed to the left, the line of his back marking the center of the canvas.  Next to him, in the upper left corner, is a fire hydrant.  The clothing of the people in the background of the upper left is all very dark—purples, midnight blues, and blacks—while the people walking in the top right are in lighter browns and tans.  There is a lot going on in the left half of the canvas.  The bottom right portion of the picture is virtually empty.  The ground is very light, providing a balancing contrast to the opposite corner.  The majority of the painting is done with variations of tan and brown, creating a dull bleak effect.  But the man on the curb is wearing a blue blazer, which, though powdered with tan dust, still catches the eye.  The shadows of his face are highlighted with the same blue, reflecting his mood.  The lines of this man are very dark and bold, whereas nothing else in the picture is outlined in this way.  This causes his figure to stand out even more from the rest of the images.

The fire hydrant in the upper left is tan with a blue top, echoing the clothing of the picture’s central character.  His image is again echoed in the brown puddle with blue highlights in the lower right corner, creating a diagonal “tic-tac-toe” of this particular theme.  Isn’t this poor soul of any more worth than a fire hydrant, or a puddle in the street?  He must wonder, as he receives the same amount of attention from busy passersby as the other two.

I noticed that he isn’t wearing a hat, as hats were the custom for men during that time.  But still, there is nothing exceptionally poor looking about his simple attire, besides its being covered in dust.  In fact his own tan pants and shoes don’t look much different from those of the man walking past just behind him.  Then what makes the two so different, I wonder?  Why is this man so drained of life and hope, while the other walks upright with the rest of the crowd, heedless of the cur at his feet?  Then again, perhaps there is no difference.   Maybe this faceless quasi-figure in the background is another forgotten man, walking on to the next block where he too will collapse on the curb in despair.

The face of the nameless man on the curb is downward, shrouded in shadow, his eyebrows dark and sad, as are the lashes of his closed eyes.  I moved very close to the painting, half expecting to see faint tears of a defeated spirit on his cheeks, but there were none.  I suddenly became aware of my own facial expression, as I had been observing this scene.  My eyebrows were pulled forward, very much like those of this forgotten man, revealing a kind of sadness.  The artist had succeeded in making me feel sympathy.  The picture became more to me than a two dimensional object made of canvas and oil.  It had become a living being to me, and I was feeling sorry for him.  From the first time I saw this picture I found myself wanting to know about this man.  I have actually thought about it several times over the years.  I wanted to know his name, and to know why he was so downtrodden.

Today I stood there looking at him for a long time, taking note of every detail.  One of his knees is bent with his foot pulled in close, and the other leg is outstretched.  His hands… oh, his hands.  My heart sank a little.  I hadn’t really noticed what they were doing before.  They were hanging down—lifeless, drained of energy and deprived of purpose.  Just at the time I took specific notice of his hands, I thought of the words of a scripture: “Succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees” (D&C 81:5).  How I wished I could talk to this man with no name.  I wanted to lift up his hands, and share with him some message of hope.  I wanted to sit on the curb next to him, and chase away the terrible loneliness.  I wanted to see him smile.  I imagine that he has a very handsome and pleasant smile, and that seeing it would somehow make me happy.

I began to see that everything about this picture isn’t completely dreary.  It is true that the color blue is commonly known to symbolize sadness and depression.  But beneath the dulling coat of dust is a lovely bright blue, like a clear deep sky on a perfect summer afternoon.  The man’s hair also is almost contrary to his emotional state.  It is blond, and the artist highlighted it with green and orange, the only occurrences of these two colors in the entire painting.  I was glad he wasn’t wearing a hat to hide his resplendent crown.

Bent over, with his head down, all this tragic man can see of himself is darkened in shadow.  If only he could see the hopeful light the sun casts on his shoulders, and the radiant brilliance ablaze on his head.  I would think such a vision would renew in him a spark of hope for the future.  I wish I could show him this, to lift his hands and strengthen his knees, as the scripture says.  To tell him, don’t give up now, don’t you quit!

Why does this painting affect me so?  Because of the many times in my own life I have needed to hear these very words.  Because of the times I myself have felt like “the forgotten woman.”  At those moments I can remember that bright ray of light shining into the gloom, and the balance of opposites that life always possesses.  Perhaps to recall the Lord’s promise in the next verse of the Doctrine and Covenants: “And if thou art faithful unto the end thou shalt have a crown of immortality, and eternal life in the mansions which I have prepared in the house of my Father” (81:6).  This passage will forever be connected to this painting in my mind.  And they will forever be a part of me.