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Seventeen years of living in a three-bedroom Astoria apartment distilled into one art installation: so much lost and gained; so many things dismantled and recreated; so many memories... I lived and worked in every room of that home. Beginning in the front room with my first guide dog and the boyfriend whose munificence allowed me to remain long after us, to the back room where I came into being as a blind person and an artist. Once I looked out the window to fire escape and cherry tree, the identical buildings across the yards, but, upon my departure, I saw only a pixilated rectangle of light.
I last moved towards that window to open the curtains for Stravinsky, a creeping pothos (Epipremnum aureum) I bought to commemorate the untimely death of my second guide dog Igor. Igor's poem, To Stravinsky, ensured that his plant spirit would occupy the living center of Distillation Installation. Also I made his small relics into a piece whose description sounded, "Glue on memories." (I audio labelled title and description cards with my PenFriend, dots that speak with my voice when touched with tip, analogue/digital magic for blind people!)
Finally, in later years, I came to rest in the dark corner room, dubbed the bat cave. Its purple walls with a genie pulsating light and smellscape in the last days, days when future was uncertain about everything except the important things: art and love, love and art, warm stability with our two hearts knocking out a stronger beat, keeping up the simple hard tune, "desire is suffering, desire is suffering, desire is suffering..."
So much potential had to be tossed. Braille books and maps, fabrics that wanted sewing, yarn that wanted knitting, paints that wanted painting — so many things collected and hoarded in the late stages of dissertation-that-wanted-writing. Throwing so many things out seemed so sad — so much potential lost that I conceived making an installation out of some precious drops of it. for months, I put things that might be of value in one corner and made bags for the street scavengers to pick through and utilize, minimizing landfill.
I'd decided years ago that I had enough clothes and began repurposing. Too many things in the world. Too much crap. I kept ahold of my crap so that I would not be too tempted to buy new crap. With that in mind I first put fringe on deconstructed sweater and kept on with my refashioning old things into new by hand sewing. But of course, there are always things to buy that are not clothes — technology and musical instruments — and I can't make shoes...
Distillation Installation manifested in the once-living room, the home's center, with tin ceiling painted over long before I arrived. As I worked, around me as I sorted, discarded and built, its cracked paint fell about me in apocalyptic chips.
The braille blinds were the first part of the installation. "See ya later world," I thought as I sewed double-pages of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde braille book together, and lay them in cascading strips from the wrought iron double barred curtain rods bought in the early years of domesticity.
Then began the odoriferous papier-mâché experimentations. If I'd had a budget I would have invested much more heavily on smells, because flour takes a scent, is cheap, and good for sticking odd things together (pink taffeta on shovel) and mummifying others (drum music on accordion), but aromatic distillates, the cells of plant matter burst asunder to capture their aromas in oil or water, are rightly expensive. In the end, I could not give each piece a signature scent. But the room was scented: eucalyptus (Eucalyptus plenissima) and lavender (Lavandula angustifolia) bubbled in the ultrasonic diffuser in the Never Be Sorry exhibit, and in the corner under Prague Castle, a fan diffuser blew sweet orange (Citrus sinensis) and black spruce (Picea mariana), while the hanging braille cranes were lovingly spritzed with orange blossom water from the bitter orange tree (Citrus aurantium).
My origami braille cranes — not a thousand as planned, but a lot — hung from wire hangers suspended on the five blades of the dusty ceiling fan with three colored lights — blue red green — in the center sockets for a soft organic look.
Beneath sat Stravinsky on his personal braille-mâché tabletop — the last-minute decision that worked well to create small gasps when the curtain opened on the night of the goodbye tours.
I see it all in my mind's eye and am proud to have done this thing — compensatory vanity! And why not cover over the mirrors (if I can't look at myself why should anyone else?) — the gilt one sacrificed its mirrorness first, covered over by gold dust and finger paint scrawl, "Never Be Sorry," another poem-inspired exhibit.
And "by following the scent" near the end — mirror removed from useless vanity, covered and dusted in mist and pink lipstick. Goodbye to the stage and the music and the light. Hello dazzlement and words and another trip in new places. No guilt just a bomb left behind, time tick tocking until another home will be made and destroyed, until the end when I leave all homes for the last time, leaving behind a fine distillation of my experience of the world, overwhelmingly flavored by brilliant hallucinations and this long eye disease my life.