Desperately Seeking Gabriel

By Dr. Andrea Grunert 

I can hardly believe it: I am in an airplane on my way to New York. I try to leave behind me the unpleasant meetings with the defenders of the dogma, those scientists whose tunnel vision does not allow another method than their own and no place for imagination. Those self-confident, fortunate people who think they have discovered the truth and who do not accept anything else than this, their truth. I am tired after the battle against the windmills of narrow mindedness.

I am ready to go through the "New York" experience. Alternatively, having spent many hours working and writing on him without having discovered the truth, should I call it "seeking Gabriel"? Why can’t I stop calling myself into question by asking questions? Does this undertaking have a sense at all? Once again, his agent has forgotten to reply to my request for an interview. 

The personal assistant (how personal is her assistance?) agreed to have a coffee with me but no time is fixed; all remains vague. Of course, everybody told me that Gabriel is so busy. As usual, I have swallowed such information without saying a thing. I am such a nice girl. Will he be flattered when I, hopefully, hand over my newest work The Light Behind the Mask?

Or, will he be embarrassed? I have been told that he is a modest man. Isn’t writing a kind of taking possession of him? I spent the flight torn between the desire to do the interview and a certain malaise. You should not touch idols because some of the gold covering them could stick to your fingers. Nevertheless, I try to figure out when the plane will touch down at JFK for then I can make my phone call to his assistant. If the wish weren’t that strong, I wouldn’t be on that flight. However, who else has written such a long article about him in a book of academic interest?

LTU distributes red socks which remind me immediately of an article about Gabriel and Yoko Ono. The journalist reported on his visit in Ono’s flat where he had - according to Japanese custom - to pull off his shoes and a pair of red socks appeared. Is this an omen? Perhaps his assistant has informed him about my journey? At this moment, I am still believing it. I want to. Is it possible that our meeting could be a test? How many letters and e-mails have we exchanged over the last years? How many phone calls have been made? How many times have I tried in vain to get a reply from one of his various agents in the United States and in Ireland? 

My English friend once walked with him through the streets of London remembering him as a "nice man." When expressed by him this is the highest praise. Another friend of mine was sitting next to him in a theatre where he saw a play with the significant title Guantanamo. Sister M. knows his family and tells me that one of Gabriel’s sisters attended the school where she still teaches... 

Everybody except me seems to have a Gabriel-experience. How many people have I asked to help me to write more sophisticated letters? I have applied for the help of high diplomacy which supported my request in the person of an ambassador. The products of his plume are writings which should have softened hearts made of stone. Their elegant but offensive style should have appealed to his vanity and should have made his agents act immediately. But, what if they never reached the man? Other representatives of the diplomatic corps, however, advised me to look for another addressee. But, why be defeatist before having even started? 

I am not only sure of my German allies; I have the British on my side. An important cultural institution seems to be permanently busy helping make the historical meeting possible. To achieve this goal, its specialists in London and in Paris have deliberately taken many initiatives. But the letter which should have been handed over in Edinburgh
never reached him because he had left before the meeting could take place. This looks like a conspiracy. However, the well-known institution continues its efforts to interest film festival directors in a program of his films which I shall present.

I can be proud: my interest in him has great impact on my environment. Those who know me know him. For many of my friends and acquaintances his face has a name because of me. I am glad to have written quite a good article on him in the book Mask and Light; a title which appealed to me because of its poetic qualities. The editor has called my contribution "inside Gabriel." I had better not tell his assistant... .

The plane has arrived. My only wish is to get the hotel as fast as possible to make my phone call. I succeed, sweating and breathing heavily. As always, she is in a hurry and we agree to talk again on Thursday. I fail to tell her that I will see the play the next day and I am not able to mention the interview. 

Great! I am once again congratulating myself for my incapacity to handle such a situation properly and in successful terms. I am unable to manage it for the simple reason that I wish to be respectful towards the assistant. At this moment I cannot know that this phone call will be the beginning of a real marathon on the phone. At the end of my journey, no meeting will have taken place. 

We phoned each other several times almost every day. "You reached *** ...": the voice on her mailbox becomes a signifier of my journey. She raises hope, I swallow the bait but then she lets me starve. I am ready to play the game according to her rules, come what may. I am the terror of all the maids who cannot finish cleaning my room because I need to reach the assistant. And I am not hungry at all.

To hear her you would think that she works tirelessly. On Thursday, she must suddenly do very many unexpected things for Gabriel. It sounds as if she is his nurse. Is he that helpless? She gives this slightly ridiculous impression taking herself very seriously. Also his children who are not babies anymore but teenagers do not seem to be able to survive without her help. But, he is God! This is what you hear when you listen to one of his admirers. I have to reconsider what I am owed. He is the God of all three of us - the object of our desire.

In the meantime, I have seen him on the stage. I have even had the courage to leave a letter for him at the theatre. The seat in the first row was fantastic. One thing must have worked. So close, I could see his beautiful hands and was astonished by his slender thighs. "He lost weight.," was the first idea which sprang to mind. 

Ah!, these profane thoughts in face of the great art. His performance was magnificent. But am I surprised? I have described him that way. In the theater, I continued to fix his thighs their slenderness underlined by his top-boots which directed my gaze even more to this part of his body. 

Since the performance, there is silence. Two days have passed. I leave a second letter at the theater. I am still hoping to meet the assistant on Monday for lunch. I have the bad feeling that this meeting will be cancelled too.

On Saturday, I am almost unconsciously driven to the theatre. Instead of continuing on crowded Broadway and turning onto 5th Avenue (because my intention is to go to the MoMa), I find myself on my way back to 8th Avenue and, suddenly, on 53rd Street. There I see it: the stage door. Haven’t I vehemently refused the advice of a friend to wait at the stage door? I start to explore the location and its surroundings, but I decide to go to the museum first. 

There I roam restlessly, hardly able to appreciate the work of Odilon Redon. I look at my watch: it is half past noon. The performance starts at 2 p.m. I go back to the theatre. The fact that three or four people are apparently waiting for an autograph confirms my thoughts concerning the location. I join the small group for a short moment. The young actress who plays Sara Melody arrives in a cab. Ignoring us, she enters the theatre quickly. Nobody pays any attention to her.

The idea of cornering Gabriel does not appeal to me. I feel as if I am dying a thousand deaths. What shall I do when he arrives: shall I run away? Will I be petrified? He will pass by without taking any notice of me and I will be more frustrated than ever before. Once again, I go to the main entrance of the theatre, but I cannot see any familiar face. I go back to 53rd Street but this time I prefer to stay to the side. Closer to 8th Avenue, hidden behind a bucket with a plant in it, I observe the stage door and try to find out how fast I will be there when he steps out of the cab. 1:10 p.m., 1:40 p.m. I wonder how long I should stay. 

Since the cab with the actress arrived, no other car has stopped. Suddenly he comes around the corner, towards me. I hold on to my Odilon-Redon-booklet for support and give him a sign. He continues walking towards me, without any expression of refusal or anger. I talk to him, refer to my letters and understand that he has been informed about my request for the first time the evening before. Wearing a brownish chamois-leather jacket, he is an elegant silhouette. He looks transparent. I am not able to remember anything else to say. I stare at a tiny red spot below his lips. 

His assistant has to stomach the information concerning my encounter with him which seems to be a bad surprise to her.

On Tuesday evening, I go back to the stage door and wait patiently. I do not dare leave a second meeting to chance. One must learn from experience. This time I can hide behind the large envelope containing the book. The little game continues. I hope that I have been given Columbus’ role to whom the Catholic Kings finished to listen and not having been attributed the part of Vladimir or Estragon. I am not waiting for Godot: I have seen Gabriel as he has seen me. Hard to tell what he saw before him - a mixture of naiveté and George Bataille or a funny person?
 
 

Dr. Andrea Grunert lives in Hilden, Germany,and is lecturer in film studies at the University of Applied Sciences in Bochum, in the Ruhr area. A specialist in contemporary Irish, English and American cinema, her doctorate is on Clint Eastwood movies. Grunert can be reached at mail@a-grunert.de.