Jen spent the first three months of the New Year in her mother’s basement. They’d furnished it with a daybed, a table, a kitchen counter and row of cupboards. The other half they converted into a studio. She wanted only her kiln, her wheel, and her tools from the Lakeshore house. She didn’t want to speak to Saint. Her mother was the reluctant go-between.
Jen didn’t take calls at all until March. Like the ground around her, she felt she needed to thaw. So she stayed in the basement and mashed her fists into vats of clay while the phone issued its futile invitation to rejoin the world. Jen cannot recall a simpler, more peaceful time in her life.
She’d get up at dawn each morning and put the coffee on. She’d begin her day on the wheel, centering, centering until she’d regained her light touch. She’d pull bowls and vases and plates, satisfaction flooding her every time the balance was deemed perfect and she’d tighten the wire in her two hands, ready to garrote the new form from the wheel. She’d stack the morning’s work with other green ware in various stages of hardening. Then she’d fire up the kiln for the first round of bisque. While that lot fired, she’d move over to her glazing center, where the previous day’s work sat on the cooling rack. She’d hold the fired pieces in her hands and search herself for the images to emerge. Gestures, suggestions of stroke. She experimented with crackle, with distressed finishes. Next, this lot would be ready to fire. By 2 p.m., she’d be finished her “work” for the day. Pottery will always sell. Sculpture is a less utilitarian art.
Sculpture, for Jen, was time to play. Play with ideas, forms. Major pieces. Pulling life from the lifeless. The maquettes were so large, she’d have to fire them in sections and move them to the garage for assembly en miniature. Soon, she’d invested in an acetylene torch and began to regularly haunt junkyards, looking for parts. The world she was creating broke out of the confines of a kiln. Soon, the only clay parts were those that represented the organic, mixed with iron and salvage objects. Futuristic forms would morph from the mixtures. Sometimes even she was surprised by what they had to say: A human head in a salvaged television box, computer chips and tubes flowing from the orifices. A child trapped in a giant computer, pneumatic tubes from the 50s wheezing while minute lasers arced together to create movement. Soon, she’d picked up a 4-channel recording deck and breathed ambient sounds into her sculpture installations. The garage reached its limit when she created the hospital bed that cradled the short circuiting robot and babies in tubes. Finally, she’d outgrown her mother’s home.
Jen’s wordless work kept her occupied each day until midnight. By sleeping only when tired, she packed years of artistic expression into a few months. It became obsession-like in quality. She did not question the urge. She honored it. She was traveling down a vast tunnel, hurtling toward some kind of light she knew would save her, catapult her from the dark dreary sameness of life. Slowly, she could feel the excitement build. There was something just around the corner, she was sure.
Then it was spring. The smell of new life mesmerized her, warming earth, pushing chutes impatient for sun. One day when the phone rang, she answered it, surprised by the impulse to do so. Usually, she just let it ring, and turned down the ringer.
“Is this Jen?” the timorous Tinkerbelle voice asked.
“Yes, it is,” she said, bemused by her inability to place the voice.
“This is Lou. Lou Bitman. We met at, ah, you know, up at 3East.”
“Lou! It’s great to hear from you. How are you doing?” Jen asked, genuinely glad to hear from another survivor. It was a club, of sorts.
Lou was charming, if fragile, somehow eliciting protection from people, but she was also smart, wry, devoid of innocence despite her youthful looks and mannerisms. She’d attempted suicide in her home while her children slept. Her husband’s response was to leave her and take the kids. She was only allowed supervised visitation as a result of her desperate act. Turned out he’d been having an affair. His mistress was only too happy to play house. Now they were a happy revisionist family, without her. It made recovery especially tough for Lou.
“You know, um, not great, but better here than up there,” Lou said, laughing nervously.
“I hear you,” Jen said. “When did you come home?”
“I’ve been home for a while. But I didn’t know where you lived. In fact, I only found out because I saw your mom at the post office. She said I should come over some time, but I thought I should see if you felt like company.”
“I haven’t till now, but I’d love to have you over. When do you go back to work?” Jen asked.
“Well, that depends. Right now, my med benefits run until at least August without having to claim permanent disability. Some days I’d like to go back, other times I don’t feel ready.”
“I know what you mean. I’m not going back to my job at all. I’m quitting when the benefits are up. I’ve been potting and sculpting again, and I love it. In fact, I’m going to find a way to do it all the time,” Jen said, realizing this was the first time she’d voiced her emerging plans to anyone. Her usual friends attempted strained visits and were driven off the by paucity of responses, the nebulous nature of Jen’s interpretation of what would come next.
“That’s great. I’d love to see your stuff. How’s tomorrow for coffee?”
“That’d be great – how about 2 p.m. – that’s when I usually finish,” Jen said, and gave her the address.
Friendships are born in the strangest places, and sometimes at the strangest times. Lou became Jen’s closest confidant that year as they slowly trudged the distance from the shame and stigma of the psych ward. Jen could talk to her about things that her other friends just didn’t understand. They’d watch each other’s backs, especially around men. In Lou’s case, pretty as she was, there was no shortage of dominant men looking for someone just like her to orbit. But that was her downfall. Her husband had been that way – immaculate, particular, controlling. Then he left her with nothing, contaminated her children, scorned the very weakness in her of which he’d been the master crafter. They’d go out to bars, but were careful not to drink too much. In Lou’s case, it was the meds. In Jen’s, it was the fear. So they danced a lot and drank coffee and talked. It was a soothing friendship.
Lou’s husband had let her keep their home. When she asked Jen to move in, Jen hesitated. Living with Saint hadn’t been so great; she was reluctant to live with a friend again. But the idea of moving out of her mom’s was appealing. By that time, the Haven Art Gallery was selling Jen’s pottery faster than she could make it. It seemed she could pot full time and make more than enough to survive. She began to envision a warehouse loft and studio, where there’d be plenty of room for her sculptures and shipping doors to accommodate their size.
By June, Jen had found the perfect space – a recovering blond brick warehouse bordering the river district that featured steel beamed 14’ ceilings and endless light. The space was raw but the zoning was mixed, so she could install ventilation and create a fabrication center at one end of the unit, while framing in the opposite end and finishing it to urban loft standards. To make it cozy, she dropped a wireframe from the beams and wove fabric through for a textured ceiling. She scoured second hand shops and garage sales and outfitted her loft with an eclectic mix of hand-me-downs. By autumn, Jen had a truly beautiful space.
One day she was hauling a new batch of vases to the Haven when a woman with dark hair and a flowing skirt walked up to her, gently taking an oversized vase from her hand.
“You must be Jen Jones,” the woman said.
“How did you know,” Jen said, taken aback.
“Because you’re carrying your trademark beautifully-glazed vases that we sell like hotcakes,” she said.
Jen was puzzled, because she’d thought Sandy was the owner of the gallery, and thought she knew all of the employees.
“I’m Alby Winters,” she said, reaching out her hand to shake Jen’s newly free one.
“Hi. Nice to meet you,” she said.
“I’m the “silent” partner,” she whispered.
“Ohhh. Why silent?” Jen asked.
“Because I’m an art therapist. If my clients knew I co-owned the gallery, they’d bug me to sell their work all the time. Then I’d have to give them a brutal market assessment that would depress them. And they come see me because they’re depressed in the first place,” she explained.
“But that sounds like an excellent evil plan for your therapy business! Besides, why are you telling me your secret,” Jen grinned. “I’m depressed too. I started all this after a little sojourn at L’Hotel de 3East.” Jen was surprised at herself that she’d just came out and said it. She supposed she was just sick of pussyfooting around.
“Because even if you’re crazy, you sell. And I want more,” Alby said, shifting the vase to pull keys from her bag for the side entrance to the gallery storeroom.
As the door swung open, Jen was surprised to see long pallet racks laden with three times the pottery and artwork you might ever actually see present in the gallery. Each area was segmented off with uprights that created multiple miniature bays on the pallet rack shelves with a name and ID number. Each artist crib was almost full to the brim with objects and paintings, except Jen’s which was suspiciously spare.
“Wow, you should just open THIS space to the public – it’s huge,” Jen marveled.
Alby laughed. “Do you think your work would sell as well if I put out five similar vases instead of one at a time? Scarcity is what gives handmade work its cache! Although in your case, I will note your section is empty! We’ve gotten a ton of online orders for your mug and bowl and plate sets, and it’s as if it’s gone viral. I shipped six sets to New York last week. That’s kind of unheard of. What can we do about that, m’am?”
“I’m pumping it out as fast as I can till 2 p.m. every day. I really can’t make any more,” Jen said.
“What happens at 2 p.m. Do you turn into a pumpkin,” Alby grinned.
“No, I turn into a sculptress,” Jen quipped, still trying to drink in the cacophony of colors, textures and shapes on the long walls of the storeroom.
“Really? Can I see your stuff?” Alby asked.
Jen turned to Alby and saw she was serious. Suddenly, she felt shy. Not worthy of this generous, smart woman’s confidence.
“Um, it’s not ready yet.”
“Artists ALWAYS say that. Come on, let me see it. I know a lot of people in the art world, you know. I might be able to broker for you,” Alby said.
“When the time’s right,” Jen replied, baffled by her sudden fear gripping her stomach. She felt as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath, as if her heart skipped a beat. It was crazy. This was what she’d told herself she wanted so badly. Much of the work was finished to the point where she risked reworking it to death if she touched it again. But there was something so private, so personal about it, that she just couldn’t bare the thought of sharing it yet.
“You drive a hard bargain. Let’s have dinner tonight,” Alby said. “I’d like to get to know you.”
And with that, Jen had found her second friend since her Saint-induced suicide attempt and social relegation. Little did she know that there was a career in the offing and a distant husband on the horizon who was even then preparing to destroy it.
Two years later, Jen was standing in the foyer of her stunning and now gentrified warehouse loft, trembling with a sick rage. Everything had gone beautifully. This was supposed to be her night. The opening, the interviews, the response from guests and savants alike. It was her homecoming.
“Jones’ work captures the restless angst of post-modern pastiche yet delivers a carefully controlled message about our dark future in a consumerist and tech-mongering society. Her installation leaves the viewer wondering where we draw the line between the organic and mechanical, what is real, what is human, what is machine. It puts one in mind of our Brave New World, where people “come love their oppression.” She is coy in her delivery, as the titles belie: Room 104, Brave New WUrld, Poetry in Science…”
In the elegant powder room of the gallery, Jen stared hard at the mirror. Was that really her, resplendent in black velvet, wearing a Contessa necklace, hair coiled in a professionally lacquered and decidedly Slavic updo. She looked for all the world someone comfortable with status, with power. Why not, she thought. I am just me but just me can be anybody I please.
Jen had spent the past year touring her collection across North America, with the dubious distinction of being the first Canadian sculptress under the age of 30 who had a national catalog. She’d just landed a major public commission in Detroit after a grueling competition, and it offered the chance to be back home. Finally, her hometown public gallery would also exhibit her work.
It must have been on the 11 o’clock news. Something must have triggered Saint’s poison pen. So here she stood, alone in her riverfront loft, while the vile words of Saint’s letter, apparently hand-delivered, erased her meager accomplishments, left her feeling small and bereft. A poser.
Saint was unrelenting and righteous. There was the trip about abandoning their home. Then the trip about her father having to help so she could stay. The overtime that meant on the assembly line at the factory. Then the ugly suggestion that Jen’s suicide attempt had been just another dramatic moment contrived to refocus the attention of her friends onto her insatiable self. There was a lot of talk about betrayal, but Jen wasn’t sure how she’d betrayed her. It was mostly unclear.
What was clear was her hatred of Jen’s creative works, of whatever it was she thought they said, shared.
“I hate it when you’re telling the world to fuck off. Do you think we’re so stupid you can manipulate us with your cultural studies mumbo jumbo and your socially just platitudes about society? I’m glad I never went to university, if that’s the kind of useless shit you learned getting a BFA, which should stand for Big Fucking Asshole…”
Suddenly, Saint seemed far less literary than a mere few years back. Suddenly she seemed like a working class stiff jealous of anything that might suggest working in a factory all day and buying leather sofas wasn’t really la dolce via. One of them had changed. Or one of them had stopped changing. Jen wasn’t sure.
All she knew was that it hurt, and that she held no intention of allowing Saint that privilege.