The Chudnovsky Brothers
Waning. 40 percent full.
He stood in the doorway, hands against the frame, felt the grooves in the wood, lumps of paint, felt the way air sucked from room to room.
"Stand here. It's better from here."
He pulled his hands from the frame like they were wedged between the door and the wall and stumbled towards her. The air that filled his face was old, composed of tiny interconnected particles of dust that flickered in the sunlight. She rested her hands on her hips just below the inch of skin between the top of her jeans and her pink tank top. He stood next to the window, looking into the neighbors curtained bathroom, sheer white curtains and musty light from the overcast sky only barely filling the room. He breathed in.
It was ugly. He had hoped it wouldn't be ugly, hoped that ten minutes from now he would be able to go home and sit in his rocking chair and read the paper. But instead it was obnoxiously ugly, plastered with golden peacock wallpaper and brown shag carpet.
"The realtor said it had good bones. And it's the only one so far we can really afford."
He put his hand on her back. That was the thing to do.
He never understood the whole "good bones" phrase. Do some people have "good bones" and some people have "bad bones"? Wouldn't good bones be relative to what kind of bones a person was looking for: tall sturdy femurs (sharp edges) or rounded skulls (or arches) and all of the blood and lymph and cartilage stuffed in corners between dry wall and wooden frames and fluffy pink insulation.
He wondered if he had good bones.
He decided he would describe her bones as "good."
Waxing. 10 percent full.
They painted a closet together. It was a test run for this brick red paint he was convinced would liven up the mundane beige that filled the room. There was only a little light in the closet (artificial 40 watt lightbulb light) and the color wasn't going to look the same in any room with a window. But they painted the closet all the same, breathed in the same fumes, bumped heads and paint brushes against renegade wire clothes hangers. Flung the door nearly off its hinges to let in more light.
He slid down the closet wall. "It's not right. The color is too dark. I can't tell what it will look like when it dries. When it gets old."
"We can have them mix it again." She secretly liked watching them mix paint at the hardware store. Starting with some version of white (shiny or muffled, creamy or blindingly untainted) and adding droplets of pigments that swirled into the paint with wooden sticks like cream in coffee.
Waxing. 5 percent full.
And she was sitting cross legged in the grass in a honey colored straw-hat that shaded her eyes and he could see little red grass imprints on her thighs that had been left by her previous position. And he was walking his pug and wanted very much to touch those thighs. But his sweaty legs kept walking and he squinted into the sun.
Later he drank a beer on his porch. The power lines segmented bits of pink and orange sky, with black bumps of crows and pigeons. He tore the crossword puzzle folded it into a box like a lantern and attached it to a brown crusted nail jutting from the porch. He read the opinion section first, followed by the arts and entertainment section. He spent 10 minutes staring at one of the recently restored unicorn tapestries, each representing the 5 senses (and a final one, "to my only desire"). He spent particular time with the piece representing sight, in which the unicorn's hooves are placed on the woman's knees and the unicorn, with his dangling beard, stares proudly at his own reflection in the mirror the lady is holding.
He stood and walked to the bathroom.
The TV mumbled in the background.
"We can't break it down into a sufficient number of megapixels."
"It will still be too large. Too complex. Like galaxies of thread. Big circles of planets and animals, but no details."
Unidentifiable stuttering. Coughing.
"The camera won't work. It won't photograph the stitching, the fibers, the threads. It will only blend the colors together. We can't rebuild her. Not anymore."
The TV spouted sounds of cracking twigs and boots kicking through leaves.
He stood in the doorway, hands against the frame, felt the grooves in the wood, lumps of paint, felt the way air sucked from room to room.
"Stand here. It's better from here."
He pulled his hands from the frame like they were wedged between the door and the wall and stumbled towards her. The air that filled his face was old, composed of tiny interconnected particles of dust that flickered in the sunlight. She rested her hands on her hips just below the inch of skin between the top of her jeans and her pink tank top. He stood next to the window, looking into the neighbors curtained bathroom, sheer white curtains and musty light from the overcast sky only barely filling the room. He breathed in.
It was ugly. He had hoped it wouldn't be ugly, hoped that ten minutes from now he would be able to go home and sit in his rocking chair and read the paper. But instead it was obnoxiously ugly, plastered with golden peacock wallpaper and brown shag carpet.
"The realtor said it had good bones. And it's the only one so far we can really afford."
He put his hand on her back. That was the thing to do.
He never understood the whole "good bones" phrase. Do some people have "good bones" and some people have "bad bones"? Wouldn't good bones be relative to what kind of bones a person was looking for: tall sturdy femurs (sharp edges) or rounded skulls (or arches) and all of the blood and lymph and cartilage stuffed in corners between dry wall and wooden frames and fluffy pink insulation.
He wondered if he had good bones.
He decided he would describe her bones as "good."
Waxing. 10 percent full.
They painted a closet together. It was a test run for this brick red paint he was convinced would liven up the mundane beige that filled the room. There was only a little light in the closet (artificial 40 watt lightbulb light) and the color wasn't going to look the same in any room with a window. But they painted the closet all the same, breathed in the same fumes, bumped heads and paint brushes against renegade wire clothes hangers. Flung the door nearly off its hinges to let in more light.
He slid down the closet wall. "It's not right. The color is too dark. I can't tell what it will look like when it dries. When it gets old."
"We can have them mix it again." She secretly liked watching them mix paint at the hardware store. Starting with some version of white (shiny or muffled, creamy or blindingly untainted) and adding droplets of pigments that swirled into the paint with wooden sticks like cream in coffee.
Waxing. 5 percent full.
And she was sitting cross legged in the grass in a honey colored straw-hat that shaded her eyes and he could see little red grass imprints on her thighs that had been left by her previous position. And he was walking his pug and wanted very much to touch those thighs. But his sweaty legs kept walking and he squinted into the sun.
Later he drank a beer on his porch. The power lines segmented bits of pink and orange sky, with black bumps of crows and pigeons. He tore the crossword puzzle folded it into a box like a lantern and attached it to a brown crusted nail jutting from the porch. He read the opinion section first, followed by the arts and entertainment section. He spent 10 minutes staring at one of the recently restored unicorn tapestries, each representing the 5 senses (and a final one, "to my only desire"). He spent particular time with the piece representing sight, in which the unicorn's hooves are placed on the woman's knees and the unicorn, with his dangling beard, stares proudly at his own reflection in the mirror the lady is holding.
He stood and walked to the bathroom.
The TV mumbled in the background.
"We can't break it down into a sufficient number of megapixels."
"It will still be too large. Too complex. Like galaxies of thread. Big circles of planets and animals, but no details."
Unidentifiable stuttering. Coughing.
"The camera won't work. It won't photograph the stitching, the fibers, the threads. It will only blend the colors together. We can't rebuild her. Not anymore."
The TV spouted sounds of cracking twigs and boots kicking through leaves.
posted by n s tessman at 7/25/2007 09:39:00 PM
6 Comments:
agapesthenia gravis?
brad, you may need to clarify.
One of the Chudnovsky Brothers has a condition called myasthenia gravis which is a kind of sporadic weakness in the muscles, i think. His strength waxes and wanes.
I guess my question was a bit too economic, I'm just wondering if I'm reading the allusion/comparison in Nell's piece correctly to be that relationships or the "agape" that binds them can sporadically wax and wane in the same way.
Maybe I wasn't even trying to ask but more just say, "Really cool Nell, good job." I liked it.
Brad... nice connection. Although I knew about the Chudnovsky brother's disease, I didn't make the weakness/strength connection, but it definitely applies pretty well. When the Chudnovsky Brothers worked on the digital reconstruction of the tapestry (using a super computer that they built themselves and ones and zeros to recreate the image) the image came up mismatched, like sections of the cloth had been shifted in the process-sort of like a wave ebbing and flowing, or the moon waxing and waning. The cloth was actually just relaxing and stretching out as they were taking the picture exposure of the tapestry. But yup, the point was at least partially the connection between the movement (and the disjointedness) of the digitized tapestry and the movement in the relationship. I'm not done with it yet--not sure what I want to do next. The Chudnovsky Brothers are going to deconstruct a painting, brushstroke by brushstroke next. Crazy fellows!
wow
i like your connection a bit more than mine, it somehow makes me feel better about the relationship.
the complexity of your story is . . . tapestry-like.
shiiit
Nell... I didn't chime in yet... but it's very good.
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