I was introduced to Guo at the age of twelve. My mother was hired into the Guo’s family as the housekeeper. Guo’s mother was a well-known classical vocalist; his father a respected college professor.
Guo was their only son, living a pampered life of princeling, destined for a
brilliant career of his choice.
I
remember him as a young man of great beauty, even though he often dressed in
casual rags, with face half hidden behind his shaggy thick hair. His
angular crisp face, his pale skin, and his willowy stature were blended
perfectly to inspire fantasy. Everything about him was deliberately
artistic: his works, his instrument, his outfit and his looks. I was
charmed instantly. And he kindly included me in his circle for a few
years. I followed him around like an adoring little brother, carrying his
camera bags, setting up tripods, trudging to remote places for good shots.
He wasn’t
a great student at math or science; but he had the rare talent for visual
arts. In the earlier days, he painted; later, he moved on to
photography. By the time I met him, he was a community-college student
already with a reputation as a budding art photographer.
He worked
slowly and deliberately. I didn’t see much of his production, but the few
I did made a huge impression on me. They were works of sentimentality,
whether black and white photographs of scenery or people, or paintings of
abstraction. The subject almost didn’t matter; the surrounding emitted
grey tranquility punctured with bloody redness. They were beautiful,
poetic, intriguing, and they told stories. You couldn’t help but wonder if the artist was a melancholy man looking for ways to communicate his explosive loneliness. Although you question if the photographs were somehow staged, the effect was undeniably powerful.
But in
real life, he wasn’t as thoughtful as his photographs. He had a sense of
entitlement that he should be treated differently because he was an
artist. He could be as gentle and charming as he could be cruel and
selfish. I felt sorry for the series of young women whose hearts he had
broken. They were his muse and nourishment, to be desired and discarded
at will. His appetite for them was so insatiable yet he tired of them so
easily. Such a flawed man could produce such great art – I just don’t
understand it.
Eventually
we parted ways, secretively because I could no longer suffer the knowledge of
his mistreatment of the very people who had loved him. The artist in him
somehow destroyed the lover or friend in him. That might explain the
allure of his loneliness.
