A personal essay first published by Headland in issue 16, November 2021 and included in a forthcoming anthology ‘Loving Arrangements: Stories about Modern Living and Loving’ to be published by Rutgers University Press in June/July 2026.
I edge close enough to read the larger-than-life speech bubble: “I DON’T CARE! I’D RATHER SINK THAN CALL BRAD FOR HELP!”
A beautiful brunette is alone in a swirl of monochromatic waves, eyes closed, tears falling; only her face, chin-length bob, and one hand remain above water. Her presumably blonde, brawny boyfriend is—presumably—somewhere nearby. Perhaps the boat has capsized, or maybe she leapt overboard in a theatrical gesture after a break-up.
I’m at the MoMA New York exhibition in Melbourne, reunited with my old school-friends, Yvonne and Evelyn, when Roy Lichtenstein’s 1963 pop-art painting Drowning Girl captures my attention.
The obvious melodrama makes me smile. I mean, well really, is she going to let herself drown out of some sort of misplaced pride? But the appeal of the painting goes deeper than that.
Growing up in the 1960s, my parents banned trashy slang-filled comics. But still my girlfriends and I managed—secretly, in our bedrooms—to become engrossed in the emotional roller-coaster realm of First Love, Romantic Story and Secret Hearts.
In the story from Secret Hearts #83 on which the painting is based, the girl is struggling to find love; all her attempts to win a man seem doomed. Tony Abruzzo’s original illustration shows the boyfriend in the water, holding onto the capsized boat. His name is Mal, not Brad. The drowning girl’s thought bubble actually starts with “I don’t care if I have a cramp!”
The romance comics followed a common narrative: the heroine falls in love, her hopes are dashed, she suffers agonies of self-doubt and remorse until the situation is resolved and she’s restored to the strong embrace and smouldering kisses of the hero.
My friends and I immersed ourselves in the longings, hopes, and dreams of true love. We were enraptured, enthralled for hours in a world of promise for our futures: winning a man, falling in love, and living happily ever after.
I’m not sure we ever recovered.
Take Yvonne. She always wears pink and acts helpless if there’s a suitcase to be lifted onto a bus in Paris or a train in Venice. Yet she’s fit and strong, a tax lawyer with a sharp brain, who knows exactly what she wants. She still flirts with any man who comes her way. She’s always loyal to the man of the moment—but there have been quite a few.
Evelyn got her romance-comic ending. Forty years later, she’s still married to her tall, dark, handsome high-school sweetheart. It looks like a happy marriage, though how can you know for sure.
As for me, I scrutinise my playlist of all-time favourite songs and see a catalogue of longing:
Where were you when I needed you?
Do I still figure in your life?
You’ve lost that loving feeling
Bye bye love, bye bye happiness
I can’t stop loving you
I’m a fool to want you
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream
That yearning has always been there – even before the split with my husband of more than forty years which came as both a surprise and a relief – he must have been feeling as fed up as I was. I can scarcely imagine living with anyone again after the luxury of living alone. At the start, I went about my days with an underlying hum of ‘Life is good’. Surely the elation, the buoyancy, couldn’t last. Surely I’d be overcome by waves of desolation.
But no. Just a few ripples of lonesomeness in an otherwise smooth sea. Yet I still yearn for the impossible, the perfect partner with whom to share walks, concerts and book fairs, and to hold me in his arms. Those bitter-sweet songs still resonate as late at night I drink red wine and savour dark-chocolate salted caramels.
Lichtenstein’s painting encapsulates it all: the histrionics, the absurdities and the romantic notions. I imagine the drowning girl is still in love with Brad. She needs him. Yet she’s determined not to need him—even if the consequences are devastating. Actually, she’s counting on him to come to her rescue. But if he doesn’t, well, she won’t drown either.
Fragments of an ordinary life 