All posts filed under: Nov2017

What Happens

In some American town, there’s a house with a sagging, garage-sale mattress inside a bedroom.  On the mattress there’s a girl drinking a milkshake she bought from a lousy diner down the street.  It’s thick and strawberry-flavored, like some children’s toothpaste.  The windows are painted shut and the AC broke and the girl feels like she could sweat off her body.  There’s an electric fan in one of the unopened boxes in the hall, but the girl doesn’t know which box, so she doesn’t look.  A colony of ladybugs emerges from a crack in the ceiling, seeking asylum from the heat.  They won’t find it here.  The girl holds the cold Styrofoam cup to her forehead.  Only fifty-two more days of summer left.   Across the road – now a sparkling, squishy mess of hot tar stripes – there’s a blue box house.  Its yard looks more like a meadow.  No one’s cut it for years.  Dandelions and saplings and full beds of poison ivy spill over one another, vying for sunlight or relaxing into …

Stepping into the Weft: Where does the Artist Fit?

It’s dawn. Moments ago, it was so dark my face stared back at me in the glass of the window, and the fire was roaring to warm this place from near-freezing so that my fingers could write. Now, the fire is banked to a glow and the pines outside are gray lines out of an almost-orange ground, their needles almost-green. Here there is a river, and a decrepit bridge that connects this place to the town. The town is not much more than a hardware shop, grocery store and café. It’s one of those vibrant tiny places that you don’t want to question the existence of too much. Here, between the Wenatchee River and Natapoc ridge, artists live and gather. Two summers ago, at the start of the exploration of my Question, I came here to the Grunewald Guild as a studio management intern to explore what life in a community of artists might be like. Now I work there as a member of its staff. During that first summer, I sat down with 11 …