Two Artists
in 1,200 Square Feet
The decoy
duck. This is the first thing I remember seeing as I entered the faux two
bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment. Everything seemed extremely decoyish—the
cardboard cutout of a lit fire inside the real fireplace, the flowers, in
bunches, in a tacky vase that no doubt was plastic, the cat made of porcelain
and painted on poorly—it was all there to convince me that this was it—this was
the apartment for us.
I pictured me
in one room (the more spacious, of course) typing away at a desked computer with
pencils and pens stuck haphazardly in my hair. And I could see him, now my
husband, then my fiancée, playing a keyboard, a guitar, a piccolo, whatever
instrument he wanted as his head bobbed up and down. Two artists could
cohabitate in an enormous two-bedroom apartment while each mastering their
respective crafts. Or, so I thought.
With a new
job, we were able to upgrade to the two-bedroom apartment (see above diagram for
the actual floor plan of our apartment). A rarity, a myth, unimaginable, a
unicorn, a Loch Ness monster, a Bigfoot.
My office
space/writing nook is in the left hand corner of the bedroom that my husband and
I share. Our newly purchased, plushy, divine king sized bed (with the tags still
left on because I have always been afraid to rip them and be jailed) behind me.
My small, black Compaq monitor, my computer with the clear case and rainbow fan
that lights up when turned on, and my HP LaserJet 1012 that I bought this summer
and has yet to need a new toner. Pens, pencils, highlighters, Crayola markers in
a perforated steel cup, and pages and pages of poems cover the black of the
desk.
The living
room separates the two bedrooms, separates the husband and wife, and separates
the artist/musician and the poet.
On the other
side of the apartment, in the spare bedroom, is a desk with paints and pencils
and pens and keyboards on stands, guitars on the floor, headphone cords, snakes
across the faux wood desk. A tapestry of Bob Marley watches over the artist and
reminds him of when he had dreadlocks. And Marley only reminds his wife that
this is how artists work—sloppily. She cannot see the floor.
And it works.
Somehow the two artists are in close quarters but are able to do their own good
work. Some days I can hear his latest creation, a guitar riff floating through
the living room and into the bedroom. Some days I get jealous and pound a poem
out because I am driven to because I know that it will be any second before he
sticks his curly head in the doorway and says, “Come listen to this.” And I want
to have something to offer after I hear the song. I want to bring something to
this.
Then, there
are days where I just sit and listen. No typing, no thinking, just waiting. I
wait for the paint fumes, the dust of the charcoal, the spit of the speakers,
anything. I am not sure if he waits for these things too. Does he wait for the
chattering of the keys, a music all its own? Does he wait for the whir of the
printer? The rainbow fan?
And we make
half-hearted promises to each other—one more song, one more line, one more coat
of paint. And we meet in the middle; we come together in the living room and
talk about anything but art, music, or writing. Those things are reserved for
the “other” rooms in the apartment. We take off our artist hat, our musician
hat, our writer hat and just be a husband and a wife—until the next morning when
the train downtown wakes us up and off we go, back to our good
work.
Yet, as I
write this in my chilly second story apartment, there are nudgings swirling
about, my elbows raw from “what-comes-after-the-wedding”—the cookie cutter house
on the cookie cutter lane. But, I can’t help but think the closeness that I
might be giving up, the guitars and keyboards and drums that I won’t be able to
hear, the pungent paint smell, the clap of the headphones as he pulls them off
his head to tell me he has written a new song. So, I eat the gingerbread of a
house they all hope I will succumb to, and all the while I know they will bake
plenty more for me to maybe one day live in.
When not
riding the train, drinking Diet Snapple Peach Tea, or watching her Marine
Aquarium screensaver (hoping to god one day the damn starfish will attach itself
to her screen): She writes and has been for seventeen years.
You will
impress her if you know: Her poetry can be found in Wicked Alice, Sein
und Werden, Clean Sheets, Poems Neiderngasse, SubtleTea, Lily, can we have our
ball back?, Verse Libre Quarterly, plainsongs, and other fine publications.
If she looks
familiar: She has performed her poetry all over the country and has a 3-1 slam
record. She has also hosted numerous open mics--including a Barnes and Noble's
Open Mic for four years.
If she seems
like she has a rock star quality: That may be because she has recorded a spoken
word album in a bona fide studio and secretly refers to herself in third person
as "Jenny, the Rawker."
How she pays
her bills: She is currently an English instructor at an undisclosed university
How she will
one day pay bigger bills: She has just begun work on her MFA at a different
undisclosed university.
The most
amazing thing she has seen: 3 humpback whales on the coast of Lahaina, Maui.
Why she would
consider growing a uni-brow: As homage to Frida Kahlo (whom she is convinced she
was in another life)
Why she
started writing: She started out wanting to be the muse, and somehow ended up
becoming the poet instead.
What she does
when people butcher her last name: Rolls her big brown eyes in disgust and
horror
What she
considers her most prized possession: A framed painting a colleague bought her
from Frida Kahlo's Casa Azul
If you want
to be her friend: Talk to her about okra, lipsticks, and Elizabeth Taylor. And,
if she asks you, tell her you, too, think it is wretched when people eat oatmeal
with milk and sugar.
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