On Writing - my third write-in with the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery - Kurt Cobain

Since there are permission restrictions on the portrait, here's the LINK with a blurb.  Please take a moment to study it, look into Kurt Cobain's eyes and read its history. It was taken in 1993, a few months prior to Kurt Cobain's death.

As the last time, attendees were given a portrait with background story and twenty minutes to write. This time, we were restricted in POV from either Cobain, the photographer Mark Seliger, or from a fan. I chose to write from the photographer's point of view.

I wanted this photograph to be the first in a series, to chart Cobain's path forward into the future. I wish it wasn't so near to the end of his road. I wonder sometimes if I'd had any training in psychology, If I would have seen someone else behind his eyes, someone calling out for help. If that call had been evident, I  might have asked him to hang around longer while I made some calls. 

I 'd heard about Cobain's career of course, and Nirvana's singular rise drew me magnetically to him. I had to get his portrait captured. It's always an honor when the people I want to photograph say 'yes'. There's an intersection where we affirm each other's star status and elevate it higher than even we can reach.

Now that I've captured Kurt's moment of vulnerability forever, it lives on like Nirvana's music.

It's 2020 now -- 30 years after their breakout hit -- and he'll never be remembered as old or sickly or frail or vulnerable or past his prime. He became the teen spirit.

As for Cobain's pain, there are so many layers of irony, aren't there?

His physical pain could be treated, if only symptomatically, and painkillers are misnomers in the end. They don't ever kill the pain once and for all. They only make the pain hide -- sort of whack-a-mole style. Painkillers can, however, kill the man, but that's not what did Kurt in. It was the other pain, the invisible pain that only he could see in his mind and came out in his guitar. That kind of pain can be heard and felt by patients experiencing the same demon.

In that shared experience, the fan thinks Cobain has it all worked out -- just transmute the pain into music and voila, it's therapy enough to conquer another day.

No one held more sway over Cobain than that demon though. Talked him into a dark place and lied about how to get out.

If it was all there in that photograph, I had no way of knowing how to decipher the layers.

On Writing - My first write in with the Smithsonian Institution National Portrait Gallery

 October 27

I participated in a virtual write-in through the National Portrait Gallery, during which a portrait with a little background story were used as writing prompts. We were allotted 20 minutes to write.

This was the portrait (Andrew Carnegie) 

This is what I wrote:

"I've rendered your cheeks  ever so slightly rosier than they really are, Mr. Carnegie," she said, cleaning the last of her paintbrushes with turpentine. "I hope you don't mind."

Andrew stared at the portrait of himself. He let out a murmur of a grunt as he noticed the globe. 

"I did that so people can see your health and always remember you as such. For posterity."

"I see," said Andrew. "There's no hint of a train or commerce, though."

"Ah, but yes," said the artist, pointing the brush at the image of the scroll. "This here is your first certificate of stock. The one that began building your way out of poverty."

Andrew hinted a smile.

"Does that mean it pleases you?" asked the artist. 

He didn't want to let on whether it did or didn't. "Who would know what that is unless you or I tell them?"

"It's a secret, sir." The artist put her oil paints away and began tucking her easel into a case. "As for the train, no one will ever forget to associate the name Carnegie with steel. The world is at your feet. See the globe there?"

Carnegie tapped his foot and nodded. "It's mostly in darkness."

"That's the truth of the real world. If the masses follow your lead, the light will be theirs, enlightenment if you will."

Andrew frowned. He thought perhaps the artist was overdoing it in hopes of fetching a higher price, but he had settled on a price and it was strictly for the commission, not for his ego's gratification. He bent over to inspect the details of the portrait. "My hands seem a bit small, no?"

The artist gasped and then shrugged with a sly smile, as though she'd just thought of a plausible why. "Large hands belong only to greedy men, sir. I rendered your hands thusly to represent you take only what you have justly earned and no more."

Carnegie smiled, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket. "Well done. I must admit I like that, I like it because it's true." He pursed his lips. "You left out my dog."

The artist rubbed at her lapel. "Another portrait with less subtle meaning, perhaps? A family portrait and I'll be happy to include your dog."

Andrew started at the artist's handiwork. The painting isn't bad. Rosy cheeks, enlightenment, the beginnings of wealth creation -- these were all important to him after all. Could he credibly claim to be modest. He wanted to believe so.