Spaces

This female artist, someone little known, hard working, struggling to create a market, had written on her Facebook artist page that she was feeling low. The reaction to this admission was immediate, and varied. Fans of her work expressed emotions from concern to muted outrage. Her fellow artists were kinder, and a discussion sprang up: should an artist disclose anything personal, or should they stay hidden behind the work?

I was playing a piece for recital next month at piano today, and my teacher, deliberately tactful, suggested I play for others before playing in front of a crowd. She asked how I felt onstage. "I feel nothing," I said. "You feel numb," she said. I said: "I feel tense beforehand and I yawn and stretch 500 million times and I'm waiting and waiting and waiting for the feeling to change into anything else. Then onstage you see nothing but lights, you're blinded and they're physically hot." Suddenly I thought of the last show, because it's still in me, like the place is in my stomach cavity, the mottled floor, the banged up walls, the snakes of cords, the gray stage carpet, the stacks of speakers. The show is over and I've been wandering it for days in my stomach. Place is empty, what does it mean. Where is that couple that was laying together in that booth. Is anything real here. "You feel numb," She said. I said, "It's just lights, you can't see the crowd. The sound is way in front of you, it's disembodied, you hear someone singing, filling the room out there and you wonder who that is and it's you. Everyone is far away, no one wants to get too close. It's lonely."

I can't stop thinking of this guy's face. I can see it now, that sad Indian. He sat at a table with his little entourage, all bands always have them. The siblings, the exotic girlfriends with careful auras of love. He seemed glum when he got there. You knew his name started with a J. He was just like that. He had that patient, resigned deep well soul of Jamie. The front bedroom blues of the youngest son. His hair was perfect. Other bands played and he sat, melancholy, hardly speaking. He looked at the floor, or the table. His girlfriend fiddled with a camera and sat in his lap once but his smile flickered through like a small bird. His business was waiting. He drank water or clear pop. He was down. He was down when he got there. His face hung in my stomach. His eyes said so much of the hopeless emptiness. Disconnected. Not on time, time all gone. Not knowing where you are. Warm buildings, bright lights, but not a soul. Here is the road, here is Market 1000 miles wide stretching south like the Road To Heaven. Zabel. Here is Mill Creek Park. Here is Dirk Quinn, wailing with his band. Here is Cedars, here is November Loop, playing the chords, playing the chords, patient, getting you to where you are. Here are the walls of my stomach black and wet. Here are the empty freeways, brightly lit. Here is his face, printed on a coin, the head in profile, the graceful nose, the jaw slightly set, the eye like one who knows his land is gone and his people vanquished.