Here’s how I drilled a hole in my thumb:
When Bernard walked into our bedroom, I was in the middle of saying: farewell, blue shirt; thank you for bringing out the blue in my eyes.
And Bernard said: what the hell are you doing?
And I said: I told you already; I’m going to spend three hours cleaning out my closet (which, really, technically, is our closet). And I’m using a new technique called KonMari, because the woman who developed it has a zero percent return client rate; once she helps clean out a closet, her clients never have to do it again.
And Bernard said: I think you need to KonMari yourself downstairs and finish all these pictures for your show, or they won’t be ready to hang next week.
I had told him already that I was going to work on the closet and told him already that it would take three hours and told him already that we’d work on the pictures in the late afternoon, once I was finished.
It took not three but nine and a half hours to get through the whole closet project (farewell, denim jacket; thank you for teaching me about impulse buying), and so we did not get to work on the pictures on Saturday.
And we didn’t get to work on them Sunday, either, because my daughter, who helped me through the home stretch of the closet project, had been waiting very very patiently for me to help her with her room, because she wanted a clean start for the new year. (As an aside, she does not have even a single moment’s hesitation saying: sayonara, ratty-looking jeans; good riddance. I very much admire that quality in her.)
It was well into Monday – dinnertime – when I was finally ready to help put the paper backings on all the filled frames, all 18 of them, with two empties to spare because spares are almost always a good idea, except when you are cleaning out your closet. But I am better at cooking dinner than Bernard is, and the kids were hungry, and it was the night before second semester started. So Bernard glued the brown paper onto the backs of the frames, the first 10. On Tuesday he did the remainder of them, which left only the wire and wire hangers to add.
…because I felt guilty for having gotten to do 100% of the fun work (making the art) and only a tiny fraction of the hard work (cutting the mats) while Bernard did 99% of the hard work (making 20 frames by planing and cutting and assembling worm-holed, unpredictable, reclaimed wood, then putting glass in each and every frame), …
… because Bernard’s vintage iPhone 3 died, and he was watching YouTube videos about how to take it apart and get it to boot up again (as if I could make that up), …
I decided that I, all by myself, would put the wires and wire hangers on the backs of the frames.
I don’t remember exactly what technique I used the last time I had a show and made frames for my work, because it was 22 years ago (which is a story for another day), but I do remember getting a call from someone who purchased a piece saying the piece had fallen because I had done a completely terrible and unprofessional job of putting hardware on the frames. So, back then, I got a carpenter friend to help me fix and reassemble, and everything was fine, and I learned that the hardware is every bit as important as the art, even though you can’t see it, the same way the proper undergarments make the outer-garments look right.
Since Bernard is really much better at this whole carpentry-woodworking thing than I am, I asked for very specific instructions about how to attach the wires, and the instructions were to use the drill to screw screws to hold the wire hangers that would hold the wire. Easy peasy.
Bernard said, very clearly: don’t hold the screw while you’re running the drill, in case the screw moves or the drill slips.
And I said: I just need to hold it in place to get it started.
And Bernard said: I’m telling you, don’t hold the screw while the drill is running.
But I did anyway, which is how I drilled a hole in my thumb. And then I said: motherfucker. And then Bernard said: I told you so. And really, he did earn the right to say that; he did. And when I said: I think I might faint, Bernard said: sit down, you’re fine. And after a minute I was, mostly.
And then I said: So you’re doing the rest of these, as soon as you get your phone put back together.
And Bernard said: Un-uh, get back on that horse, missy. These are all you.
Which was exactly, precisely the right thing to say.
Because a true friend – spouse, lover, parent, any kind of real partner in life – knows how and when to help you move forward. They know, or learn to know, your capabilities and limitations and fears and desires and wants and needs and know when to push you ahead and when not. They say: you are fine, you are capable, you are learning, you are strong. They say: I can help you, let’s try together, keep practicing, don’t be afraid, I am here with you. They say: there is no someday; there is today.
Get back on the horse, that’s what a friend says.
You can ride that horse if you want to.
That’s a mean-ass horse; get off now.
I think you might like this horse better.
I fell off a horse once, too. Me too.
I finished putting the wire on all 18 frames, all without incident. No, I didn’t hold the screw again while running the drill. Yes, all of the frames seem to be holding their weight as they hang on the wall, on public display, out there in the wide open for anyone to see.
Yes, last night, for the first time in a very, very long time, there was an opening for a show of my artwork, out there in public, paired with opening an online store, one that, like everything else, will improve with time and experience. And to celebrate I got to spend a few hours with the most terrific, incredible, wonderful, eclectic, interesting, loving people anyone could ever hope to know, my friends. Even the friends who couldn’t be there in real life were there in spirit, as they always are, always. It was awesome and humbling and fun and dear and hysterical and touching.
Because friends say:
Keep riding. Don’t stop. We believe in you.
I know. I know. I’m supposed to be doing KonMari and getting rid of things. But instead I just made my first impulse buy in years (this old cynic can’t resist the possibility of a “happy day”). And if I asked this before, forgive me, but did you read this? http://slate.me/1OtXDzG I haven’t read Kondo, only “about” her in true post-modern style, but thought it was kinda interesting. (And, yeah, I need to figure out how to do links in comments.) Sorry about the thumb. But congrats on the show. And a post that made me smile.
Thank you – on all counts! No, I hadn’t seen that article (sometimes I have to walk away from Slate for a minute or two). The book is definitely not for everyone, though possibly for everyone (anyone) with pack rat tendencies, which I clearly have. And I don’t know how to links in comments, either. I think we will manage just fine. Cheers to a happy day, coming your way.
Agreed. Sometimes the contrarian schtick is just too much.
I love your writing style and the more I read the more I come to believe that in many ways Bernard and I are kindred spirits. I hope to meet him someday! Meanwhile go on and do this thing… you know you’ve got it!
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There was a point at which my musical miss thought we needed to buy a new house because we didn’t have any more room. It never occurred to her that if she didn’t save between five and ten pieces of every bit of tour and recording ephemera, we’d have plenty of room. Too much room, in fact. So, I saved one of everything, put the rest in boxes in the basement (Brooklyn house). Two years later I threw out or gave away the stuff on the basement. She didn’t care.
My biggest question is does this Kon Tiki, er Mari 🙂 thing work on shoes?
Well, I suppose the answer depends on just whose shoes we’re talking about….
I’ll guess just have to wait for her new book. Another 224pp of nagging. At least that’s what the New Yorker says.
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Oh, lovely. You have such a way of saying the thing, and giving a sense of the way it felt and what it meant, and also, that it never is exactly the thing you were talking about anyway, that matters. It’s the thing right next to it.
(And yesterday I got rid of a couple things out of my kids’ rooms by thanking it first. Baby steps.)
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Baby steps are everything.
Yeehaw! I am cringing at the thought of the thumb and the drill… I’m a total whuss; I think I would have fainted. Or at lease cried and whined for a good long spell. No medical attention? It sounds horrible. But, the perseverance part, the getting the job done, the ready for your show: Brilliant! Way to go Bernard. Sniffle sniffle.
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I cannot recommend the drill in thumb maneuver. Really, do not do this. But the rest of the adventure has been great, far overshadowing the mishap. Yes, way to go, Bernard. I’m a lucky woman, and I know it.
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