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.
