WANDERER ABOVE THE SEA OF FOG

THE FIRST TIME I SAW CASPAR DAVID FRIEDRICH’S WANDERER ABOVE THE SEA OF FOG WAS IN BERLIN, 2006. IT WASN’T IN A GALLERY. IT WAS ON A GIANT POSTER, SPREAD ACROSS THE GLASS ROOF OF THE CENTRAL STATION. I REMEMBER LOOKING UP AND FEELING AS IF THE IMAGE WAS LOOKING BACK AT ME. THE LONE FIGURE, STANDING HIGH ABOVE THE MIST, DIDN’T SEEM TO BELONG TO ANY ONE PLACE OR TIME. HE COULD HAVE BEEN ANYONE. HE COULD HAVE BEEN ME.

I DIDN’T KNOW YET WHAT THE PAINTING MEANT OR WHERE IT CAME FROM. BUT EVEN THEN, IT HAD ALREADY TAKEN ROOT. LATER, I LEARNED ABOUT THE ROMANTIC MOVEMENT, ABOUT THE CELEBRATION OF NATURE AND THE UNKNOWN. BUT FACTS HAVE NEVER BEEN THE HEART OF IT FOR ME. IT’S ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT THAT FIRST FEELING—THE QUIET SHOCK OF RECOGNITION.

SINCE THEN, THE IMAGE HAS STAYED WITH ME. SOMETIMES IT FEELS LIKE AN INVITATION TO GO OUT INTO THE WORLD. SOMETIMES IT’S A REMINDER TO STEP BACK, TO LET THE NOISE DISSOLVE AND LISTEN FOR SOMETHING ELSE. WHEN I LOOK AT IT, I’M REMINDED THAT SMALLNESS ISN’T INSIGNIFICANCE, AND THAT THE MYSTERIES OUT THERE AREN’T MEANT TO BE SOLVED, ONLY MET.

A POSTCARD-SIZED COPY SITS ON THE WINDOWSILL IN MY ATELIER. IT HAS BEEN THERE FOR YEARS. SOMETIMES I THINK IT WATCHES OVER MY WORK. SOMETIMES I THINK IT’S JUST WAITING FOR ME TO CLOSE THE LAPTOP, PICK UP MY CAMERA, AND FOLLOW IT INTO THE FOG.