Two young artists are here to work. He is stories and energy. She is materials and magic. He uses power tools I don’t know the names of. She wants to smash together a blade of grass and a cloud. We’ve talked into the late hours telling stories one on top of the other, revealing our differences and similarities. She was raised in Senegal by missionary parents from Ohio. He was raised just outside of Dallas, his parents Texan evangelicals. Each of them has veered away, making only short trips back to the courses they were set on. She returned to Senegal in orange lipstick and was offered prayers for her soul. He returned to Texas with his girlfriend and was told they would make beautiful blue-eyed babies. Each of these artists refuses to have children, as if it were a code. They will not heed the charge to be “fruitful and multiply.” But of course, they are artists and can’t help creating with their hands.
The artists are working hard: one with florescent lights and wood, the other with berries and cloth. They’ve gone on no adventures and gotten to know little about this place, but they keep working. We have also talked endlessly: religion, art, family, food, and politics. It has been a week of eating, talking, working, eating, working, talking, drinking, eating, talking, sleeping and again.