Negative Space

Sarah was an artist and my roommate.  You wouldn't guess it to look at her - jeans, t-shirt and strictly sneakers, Nike, not Converse or from talking with her - quiet, not shouting passionately about "Her Art".  But, whatever was going on in that mind of hers, I wish I could have had a front row seat, because the glimpses that made it onto a canvas startled me, made me want to gesture and yell "Hey, look at this! " because I knew Sarah never would- Sarah the Obscure.  She was from a family with 13 kids, I thought she was kidding at first.  You would think she would be sceaming for attention, especially with her talent, but there were times when she would throw away things that I would secretly fish out of the garbage and save under my bed.  She confided in me that she despised those other artsy Greenwich Village girls, who wore their art like plummage - funky dress, combat boots, dyed hair, lots of silver jewelry - she laughed and a said she covered her ears as they strutted by.  I knew that walking the walk was 50% of the package for at least 99% of the world, and even though she had the full 50% on the substance side of the equation, that still only made her equal with the style girls even if their substance portion was thin gruel in an orphans bowl.
      But I've gone off point, which was that she used to have this thing with negative space.  She would take a charcoal pencil  and fill in the air space, the parts that were usually left blank, and a person or object would emerge from the white.  She called this figure-ground reversal, and as I'd watch her, these white figures would seemingly climb out of the paper.  Later on, I'd read somewhere, that Michelangelo felt this when he was sculpting - that he was freeing the figure from the block of marble, chipping away the excess, it was all already there, waiting to come out.
     So I chipped away.  I framed and hung her paintings around our apartment, even the hipster coffee shop on Varick jumped at a mutually benificial display of her work.  I posted images and her bio on the internet and a gallery exhibit soon followed.  It wasn't difficult really, self-important and even truly accomplished people peeked inside this dull, white matte egg of a girl and backed-off gaping, like I did.
     I must admit, we lost touch over the years, she met Mark and I've been here on the farm trying to scrape by.  When I saw the paper, I knew it wasn't an accident because I could remember the conversation like it was yesterday.  I don't remember what triggered it, but it was probably some TV drama or news story, "If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?"
     "I'm not interested in this conversation, why would I go where I never want to be? It's opening a door, inviting doom."
     "No, it's exploring all the crevices of your mind.  I wouldn't do the cry for help shit like pills or gas or even jumping off a bridge, but I wouldn't do the obvious gun shot to the head either."
    "I don't want to start my day like this, I need eggs and a couple of refrains from Oklahoma."
     "You know how the buses speed right up to the curb when they come to the busstop?   I'd casually glance behind me and then at the last moment just step off, I could even make it look like an accident, just trip in front of the bus."
    "When I take you out in the surrey with the fringe on top..."
     "Yes, definetly an accident, nobody would need to know my business..."
    "Nosy folks would peek through their shutters and their eyes would pop!"
     "Reminds me, gotta catch a bus up to Lee's for supplies, need anything?"
     "I'm at the farmer's market today, we sell the eggs, we don't paint them."
     "Smartass"

    I was spreading yesterday's paper down for the ducks, the ducklings were hatching and I liked to keep a close eye on things.  This is when I got most of my reading done, no rest for the weary, even though it was yesterday's news.

      Woman Hit By Bus In Midtown
       Sarah Siessler, 41, died after being struck by a city bus. The accident occurred while the bus was approaching the busstop at the corner of 57th Street and Seventh Avenue.....  

     I didn't read the rest.  The ducks were clamboring out of their box.  I spread more newspaper.  I gently lifted the eggs out onto a soft swirled blanket.  The thing about ducks is that they have rounded bills, unlike chickens with their pointy beaks, so it is more difficult for the ducklings to break out of their shells.  It takes more time, and some never make it.  But I learned early on at the farm, that you can't help them,  even if you want to.  If they can't make it out on their own, they won't survive on the outside.  So I sit and watch, I talk to them and encourage them and even sometimes sing to them, but most times I just quietly and wait, taking up negative space.

By:  Dottie PR