Last week I saw The Devil Wears Prada. First, let me say that Meryl Streep played an amazing very mean person. I myself would have quit the admin position in the first five minutes. Though it is easily labeled a chick-flick because the story revolves around girls, it has a great lesson for both genders: relationships are more important than getting caught up in the success trap. Anne Hathaway’s character abandons her family, her boyfriend, and her best friends to please her boss and become successful, even though she would probably not even recognize her goal as climbing the proverbial ladder but just trying to survive. Here’s where I come in. While I would not overtly concede that my goal is to become a corporate success, I love to be appreciated and recognized. But whenever I work toward anything, whether writing, music, being loved, more than sacrificially loving the Lord my God and my neighbor, I am wrong.
Pollock. Oh, Pollock. Love the man’s paintings. Sad, sad life. A man so desperately trying to be loved and acknowledged, so recklessly chasing fame and fortune. He uses everyone in his life without ever truly loving. His wife puts aside her own work in order to promote his. She is forgiving; she is patient. And yet, he pushes her away when his work is eclipsed by another artist’s. His benefactor (Peggy Guggenheim, no less): he conspicuously chases her money. Even their love scene displays his selfishness. His critic-friend: when this critic writes well of another, Pollock lashes out. His mistress: he does not love her, but only loves that she makes him feel young and wanted when the world has moved on to another circus ring.
Again, I ask myself: is this me? I am a drama queen, I admit. Do I seek attention for myself to the detriment of loving others? Do I love others because they make me feel loved? Do I choose friends based on what they can do for me?
Pollock. Oh, Pollock. Love the man’s paintings. Sad, sad life. A man so desperately trying to be loved and acknowledged, so recklessly chasing fame and fortune. He uses everyone in his life without ever truly loving. His wife puts aside her own work in order to promote his. She is forgiving; she is patient. And yet, he pushes her away when his work is eclipsed by another artist’s. His benefactor (Peggy Guggenheim, no less): he conspicuously chases her money. Even their love scene displays his selfishness. His critic-friend: when this critic writes well of another, Pollock lashes out. His mistress: he does not love her, but only loves that she makes him feel young and wanted when the world has moved on to another circus ring.
Again, I ask myself: is this me? I am a drama queen, I admit. Do I seek attention for myself to the detriment of loving others? Do I love others because they make me feel loved? Do I choose friends based on what they can do for me?
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