Life, Love, and The Kiss: Lessons from a Painting Across the Years

I was 15 years old when I first laid eyes on Gustav Klimt’s painting, The Kiss. Our class had been studying 20th-century painters, and a grainy image of it flashed up on the screen. We were supposed to memorize the style, the brush strokes, the turmoil of Klimt’s life at the time.

But all I could see was love.

True, all-encompassing love. An intimate, devoted relationship between two people. It was everything I wanted at that age—and everything I was truly terrified of.

The man’s protective arms cradled the woman, his lips nuzzling against her cheek. She leaned into his embrace, and I leaned into the fantasy of it. This was what love should look like: perfect, gentle, safe.

At fifteen, I had never known love like that. In fact, I didn’t even know how to talk to boys, let alone love them. I’d had one “relationship”—if you could even call it that. We were freshmen, and coupling up was just what people did. So, when our teenage ringleader announced that a sk8er boy and I should date… we did. We’d kiss between classes, his tongue thick with a waxy coating of Slim Jims and Trolli jelly beans. After the bell rang, I’d suck my cheeks together, trying to get rid of the taste.

I looked at The Kiss and knew I wanted something different. I wanted romance and trust, a love as pure as a daydream, where we’d kiss in fields of red, green, and yellow with gold flowers in my hair. The only problem was I didn’t know how to talk to boys. They were disgusting, sexual, and mysterious. I preferred the safety of my intricate fantasies over the awkward reality of high school relationships.

…

By the time I reached 19, my idea of love had shifted. I bought a poster of The Kiss to hang in my college dorm, pinning it above my bed, next to a nearly naked Marilyn Monroe. They were my icons—symbols of freedom and sensuality. I no longer saw the painting as a pure image of romance. It had become something else: lust, desire.

When I studied the woman’s face now, it wasn’t love I saw. It was pleasure. She was basking in the feeling of being touched, of being wanted. And the man? He seemed to be reaching for more, taking what he desired. Boys had never sought me out like that before, but I was learning the power of my body and what it could do—how it could make people happy, how it could please.

The Kiss had evolved. It was no longer an innocent fantasy. It was a symbol of exploration, of freedom and color, of raw youth and dangerous possibilities.

…

The third time I considered The Kiss was after my longest relationship had ended. I was 25, newly single, and supposed to be moving in with my partner—but I backed out. Something inside me had changed, and as I packed up my apartment, I found the crumpled poster of The Kiss at the bottom of a bin.

It looked entirely different now.

The golden glow had dimmed. The air around the couple appeared dark, ominous, like splatters of dried blood on a bed sheet. The man’s grip no longer seemed loving—it felt possessive. His hands around her neck were desperate, claiming something that wasn’t his to take. The woman’s face, once serene, now looked tense, like she was forcing a smile, planning her escape.

It wasn’t love I saw. It wasn’t even lust. It was control, submission, fear.

She was trapped, tangled in the vines of society that had pinned her in place, unable to move. I recognized the look in her eyes—the same look I had when I couldn’t breathe under the weight of someone else’s needs, when I couldn’t find a way to speak my truth.

I didn’t want to be touched by him, and neither did she.

…

It doesn’t matter to me that the painting was considered blasphemous in the 1900s or that Klimt might have inserted himself into the image. I’ve no desire to fly to Austria to see it in person. What matters is what The Kiss has taught me about life and love.

I’m almost 30 now, and I’ve changed along with The Kiss. It’s no longer a fantasy on a pedestal. It’s not a goal or an aspiration. It’s a metaphor.

When I look at the painting today, I see the complexities of relationships. I see secrets. I see dominance and submission, love and fear, safety and uncertainty. I see a young girl’s naivety, the nervous smiles and shady situations of youth. I see my past—both the beauty and the failures. I see my present—love, comfort, and trust. And I see my future—unknown, yet filled with hope.

In another decade, I’ll likely look at The Kiss again. Who knows what new truths it will reveal from within its golden, oil-based strokes?

But for now, it’s taught me enough.