Tired Angels

"The unseen is all around us."

(Still from Wings of Desire, directed by Wim Wenders, 1987.)

Hello, and thank you to my new subscribers. I cover a lot of ground each month here on Night and Day, and it’s all archived, so you can take your time anytime to dig in and enjoy the writing.

I’m guessing most of my readers have seen Wim Wenders’ 1987 masterpiece Wings of Desire, shot largely in glorious black and white by Henri Alekan and filmed on location in West Berlin before the wall came down. The film tells the story of two angels, Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sander), who invisibly traverse the streets, interiors, and skies of the city, observing the intimate lives of its populace, and, on occasion, transmitting feelings of comfort to those in distress. They’re not always successful. In one of the film’s most unsettling scenes, Cassiel attempts to comfort a distressed, yet strangely serene man seated high on the ledge of a tall building, who nevertheless jumps to his death. And at times, it seems the angels are desperately trying to experience what it might be like to exist in our physical plane. (Not surprisingly, the only humans who can see the angels are children, who are delighted with each encounter.)

The film features music performances by Crime and the City Solution and the equally photogenic Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, who help unite Damiel with Marion (Solveig Dommartin), a circus trapeze artist he’s fallen in love with.

Earlier this May, I traveled to New York City for a weekend of rehearsals and performances with Racoco Productions, a dance theater company I’ve collaborated with as a composer for many years. Returning to the city where I once lived is always invigorating and exhausting; New York was crucial to developing my skills as a composer, and with recording and mixing music. It’s a city where artists go to pay their dues.

My schedule over a long weekend was busy, but one afternoon, I found time to hop on the subway uptown to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see a once-in-a-lifetime exhibit of drawings and paintings by Raffaello di Giovanni Santi (1483–1520), better known as Raphael. In New York, while riding the subways, eye contact is discouraged. It’s a cultural thing. Not that people aren’t friendly; it’s just there’s such an overflow of humanity, you can’t really look and say, “Hi!” to everyone who crosses your path.

Riding a relatively crowded car, I was standing and hanging on and couldn’t help but look at each person around me, catching stray bits of conversation above the roar of the train, all while my own mind was racing. Thankfully, I wasn’t exactly in distress. But, as we all sped along, I couldn’t help but brood a bit about the future. (I find travel encourages introspection.) Without going into detail, the challenge of searching for and finding full-time work was weighing on me, and I was worried about what I would be doing after this trip, where I was blessed to collaborate with great musicians, watch such incredible dancers move to my music, and experience the pleasure of meeting audiences to discuss what they had seen and felt.

At some point, I looked downward and noticed a woman sitting and staring into space. She was probably not much older than me, with gray in her hair, which was pulled back, and wire-frame glasses. There was a bag between her feet containing what looked to me like frames for artwork, and I wondered if she had purchased some drawings or prints somewhere and was traveling home to hang them up. As soon as I thought that thought, she caught me looking at her, and smiled a sort of tired but friendly smile, which I tried to return without looking like a freak. Then I noticed the words on the tote carrying the frames: “Let Go! Be Happy!”, or something close to that sentiment. Whatever the wording was exactly, it was, for me, a very welcome and timely reminder.

Who was this mysterious woman? I wanted to know, but then again, I didn’t. Why spoil one of those rare moments when the physical plane vanishes momentarily to provide you with a glimpse into something both otherworldly and comforting?

I seem to remember the late great Greg Allman speaking about his years of substance abuse and health issues, and noting that he must have some “tired angels,” as in guardian angels, looking out for him. (Any Allman Brothers fans out there are free to correct me on this!) I definitely haven’t lived as hard as Allman, but I can relate to what he said about his angels being a little worn out from taking care of his ass.

While writing this, I was reminded of great scene in another one of my favorite films, The Year of Living Dangerously (1982), where Mel Gibson’s character, journalist Guy Hamilton, and photographer Billy Kwan (played by Linda Hunt) are walking to Billy’s home at night. Guy asks about the “weird” creaking sound he hears. Billy tells him, “It’s the bamboo,” but adds that there was indeed a spirit in the area, and that it had come into his home one night and spilled a bunch of developing fluid.

Guy: Do you really believe that stuff?

Billy: Absolutely, old man. The unseen world is all around us.”

Have you, dear reader, had such an experience, found yourself at the end of your rope, only to take a breath and feel your feet return to the ground? Have you ever looked up and caught a glimpse of a figure, winged or not, looking down at you as if to make sure you’re okay?

(Two cherubs as seen in the painting Sistine Madonna by Raphael.)