The age of grace
Last year at the Venice Biennale I was perfectly stunned by the joint Nordic and Danish pavilions at the Giardini called “The Collectors.” Curated by Elmgreen and Dragset, the pavilions showcased a curious mini-neighborhood of two homes filled with art, ornaments and everyday pieces artfully pieced together by both established and emerging artists. This was a mid-20th-century-inspired Parthenon of installation art.
It was an elegiac swan song of innocence lost as different ranges of decay and disenchantment were displayed in its enviable trappings. Best seen as a visual collage of death, heartbreak and loss, it reveals itself in different forms that become apparent literally (a drowned body in the pool), perceptively (a corkboard filled with tepid notes teeming with repressed rage), plaintively (a dramatically crumbling staircase) and poignantly (a dog waiting for his master). Despite its enviable trappings, the objects and art that fill the homes fail to fill the void of their inhabitants. One house portrays a family on the verge of breaking up and another is the home of a laconic gay man who loses the will to live after a lifetime of folly. Both homes could not be more different from one another, one a modernist bungalow and the other containing lush and emotionally embroidered quarters. Both show past lives but hint at nothing of the future.
Is this the love life of grown-ups? Well, this what alcoholic neo-Spinozas want you to believe. But in my heart there is so much more.
They all tell us to enjoy being young and optimistic. Sadly, this is catalogued in menial fashion and romantic choices. Exploration always just got me into trouble. If there was a Luxe guide to dating and relationships, I would be so happy. When my fiancé asked my parents for my hand, my usually lenient father just said one thing, “No separation.”
No crumbling staircases in this romance. For better or worse, the dog will not be kept waiting. I know what I got myself into and it’s been the most darling thing since.
They tell me to take my time. Yesterday I was fooling around with wedding dresses. It was insane that a dress could produce such emotions. Sturm und Drang mixed with swelling Puccini music. I mean, I have gone insane in many fitting rooms but to wear that dress is a chapter all its own. I had a hard time breathing. I had to wonder if it was just the corset or the fact that I made it this far that I was indeed wearing a corseted dress with a veil. My inner commitment-phobe was sent to jail without parole and I thought to myself, I’m okay with that. I’m okay with sharing the TV remote with someone now. I think I took enough time figuring myself out to finally let somebody in.
Knowing what you want is both a blessing and a curse. The other day I had my note cards printed. When I took them out of the box I was nauseated by the results. I asked for celadon ink and instead I got jade green. I asked for ivory paper and got beige instead. And let’s not even talk about the font situation. I took a step back and thought to myself, They’re frickin’ note cards! I’m a celadon ivory girl, but seriously, there are other things to freak out about. Knowing that my wayward stationer took certain liberties is not a cause for panic. Yes, you do get more rigid; conversely you’re also more relaxed about other things. You learn how to pick your battles.
In the spirit of conflict I must say that the cold shoulder has served me well in my adult years. I was completely hysterical in the past. I had to make my point about everything. Then a guy I was seeing super casually talked more than I did at the dinner table. Deal breaker! I’m a fork and spoon entertainer. I e-mailed him an always-thoughtful “we should just be friends” letter after ordering my bed linens on Amazon. He responded with a four-page letter starting with a quote from Nietzsche saying that “Life is a discussion.” No, it isn’t. This dis wasn’t meant to be discussed. I didn’t even read the letter; we had two dinners, thanks. This turned me off from discussing anything. If in doubt, embrace denial and shut up.
In fights, big or small, I found that when the tempers rise its best to keep the words Mies van der Rohe minimal. I have this thing with The Fiancé called “Oprah sessions.” Although we don’t get free cars or homes, it’s certainly the “big give” when it comes to getting what we both want. I find negotiating and compromising with food around or while walking (a tip from Cosmopolitan magazine!) is the best way. But if he’s really been naughty, it pays to be haughty with some cold shoulder action. They just can’t stand it! It’s glorious!
I enjoy the arthritic process of being of the slightly jaded sort. As that hot boy in A Single Man says, “I can’t wait for the present to be over. It’s a total drag.” After seeing cargo pants being reinvented for the fourth time (utilitarian chic, Kylie with heels, lounge in silk and now in skinny form) I can safely say I’m in the safe zone and will not partake of the skinny cargo pants trend. That and seeing love mirages. Relationships are hard work. But at the end of the day coming home to someone both familiar and beautiful makes all the implosions worth it.
I like not looking back. I’m excited for the times when things will get so small that they won’t bother me anymore. I’m excited to finally be in that place where everything is finally black and white.
The present truly is a drag sometimes.
