Running Up That Hill

Left my studio to meet Stephie at the train station. It was so beautiful. 70 degrees in March. New York was drunk on the sun. Skin was starting to show. So nice going to the train station at rush hour and not having to board a train.

“Running Up That Hill”

There was a woman behind me. She screamed out, “WHERE IS MY SOUL? OH MY GOD!” Then after a minute I heard her collect herself and say calmly, “Oh, there it is. In my pocket.”

Went to an opening last night at the Guggenheim Museum. My classmate from RISD - Francesca Woodman. Everyone was dressed up, although few were there from our class.  There were  Francesca anecdotes being passed around.  Francesca stories - all told in the past tense.  There was talk about the art world.  There were whispers about cashing in on  Francesca’s work if we would sell the precious few prints tucked away in the box at home. There was talk about almost anything except the incredible sadness at the core of it all. The person I really wanted to see, wanted to be with, wanted to connect with was not there.  Francesca was trapped in time on the walls in perfectly matted frames. She would be so thrilled of course, to see the work having taken on a life of it's own on those big famous museum walls.  Yet as much as Francesca was about the work, she was a person trying to survive, too. She was hungry and needed to eat. She was dirty and needed to shower. She was lonely and needed to loved. She was there, she created all these amazing images, and then she was gone.

For some of us....she was our friend and the work doesn't replace the friend we miss.

“Let me steal this moment from you now”