Friday, June 14, 2013

Bathroom Monologue: No More Starlight



She can't paint. She can't imagine what she'd paint. She can't imagine which side to start from, what stroke or shade to apply, or what to feel. All that's making her heart rattle is other people's feelings, hypothetical reactions to creations she's too afraid to try. The world is prying the roof off her house and reaching in to strangle her imagination.

There is only one thing to do on foggy nights like this.

She visits the door of her one-room apartment. It is closed. She opens it as deliberately as you can open a door. She closes it as deliberately as –
-          not as deliberately as you could,
-          not as deliberately as Pierre-August Renoir could,
-          not as deliberately as Corinne Vionnet could,
-          not as deliberately as the unmatchable and far too young Amy Shackleton could,
– her Freshman art teacher could, but explicitly and precisely as deliberately as she could. This makes the world go away so quickly that she leaves the drapes open.

Leaves losing shades into a singular dark green, and then to utter silhouette. They waver against the overcast sky, some clouds thickening, grey on grey violence hiding where the moon might be rising. No starlight to bother her, and soon no grey-on-grey, only a thing that feels black. Her windowpanes become plastic white outlines on a ceaseless void.

There is no lamplight. There is no starlight. No cars backfire, no distant bridges cajole, and there are no stars in the sky because they are all too far away to reach her. To reach here. The world goes away. Her apartment doesn't rest on it; she lives on her own asteroid hurtling through a private bit of space. Would Renoir have liked The Next Generation?

Space abides no sound. It abides no neighbors, no debtors, no family angry at her for things she never wanted or intended to do with her adulthood. Her little apartment and perfect studio is so far away from any celestial body that gravity has to give up, and with it, the weight of all things social drifts and evaporates. A physiological metaphor plays across her shoulders and she feels that lift that's supposed to be cliché and that is actually so welcome it stirs tears. She dabs at them with a paintbrush, because then –
-          then she can stalk up to the canvas and look it in the eyes she's yet to birth.
-          then she can work without thinking of the verb.
-          then she can sleep the way the verb out to work.
– then she can open the door and face the world. She paints the knob first. It'll be avocado green.

22 comments:

  1. One is so tortured by their art.... I like the idea of her painting a door knob that will open up the way to her.

    I had to read this sentence three times,"the weight of all things social drifts and evaporates." it might just be me but i wonder if a comma after social would help.....

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  2. each paragraph felt disconnected from its peers, but when I allowed myself to imagine each as different focal points of a painting it really worked for me. The paragraph I really, really liked was the one dealing in all the different colours, moving metaphorically from one hue on the palette to the next. That was really effective stream of consciousness writing to my mind

    marc nash

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  3. Loved some of the rhythm and sounds, though some other parts were jarring. Maybe that was the point- getting the anxiety of creation in there. i wondered if removing 'then', repeated 4 times, and starting each line with 'she' might work better, but wasn't sure. is it supposed to flow smoothly, after all? A treat of a language dish though.

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  4. I really liked the way your artist couldn't work with all the doubts and uncertainties running through her mind and then went about shutting the rest of the world out - like those corridors in films where you see the lights clunk off one by one, the darkness getting closer to the main character all the time. (I thought the jumps between paragraphs worked well for this reason.) Until it's just her and the darkness and the stillness that goes with that, and she's free to start work. I love that she begins by painting the doorknob, to help her enter the creative space (and also get back into the real world later?)

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  5. The creative process, indeed! "The weight of all things social drifts and evaporates" was my favorite line. All those expectations of The Others can certainly keep a creative person out of that space where they do the real work. And I think that's the part The Others refuse to understand: a labor of love is often hard labor.

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  6. My favorite part was how something cliche can stir you to tears. It's all about perspective, isn't it?

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  7. She needed a clean mind even more than that clean canvas.

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  8. Lovely work. My favorite line is, "she can stalk up to the canvas and look it in the eyes she's yet to birth."

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  9. It's difficult to satisfy creative urges today. Too many distractions, commitments and responsibilities. It's impossible for me to work during the day so there has been some late nights. The only problem with that is not getting enough sleep but I guess that's all I'm willing to sacrifice right now. I think Renoir would have liked The Next Generation.

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  10. It's always a struggle, isn't it?

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  11. "The world is prying the roof off her house..." That line resonates with me. I tend to be overwhelmed by people and sensory input sometimes. A blank sheet of paper or computer screen feels like that scary blank canvas when I sit down to write and can't extract a story filament from the ball of yarn (and lint) in my brain.

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  12. In my head, she decided to paint the doorknob of the physical door into the apartment rather than paint on the canvas...

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  13. Ah, the life of the struggling creative genius... I like how you captured it in words.

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  14. Wow. Very emotional piece, for me the reader, I mean. I relate SO MUCH to the struggle at the beginning, though my process looks very different from hers.

    And i have to comment on the language and the images you crafted- so beautiful.

    Loved this.

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  15. I love the idea of shutting the door to all the outside voices. I'm going to have to try that imagery next time I start to write.

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  16. I like to have quiet when I'm writing, but not that much. :)

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  17. A brilliant way to express such pain and discomfort.
    Adam B @revhappiness

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  18. wow. Pretty amazing. I sympathize with the artist.

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  19. This reminded me of a self portrait by Dorthea Tanning, one of my favourite artists. http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/93232.html

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