Mean by Myriam Gurba

Author:Myriam Gurba
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781566895019
Publisher: Coffee House Press
Published: 2017-08-14T00:00:00+00:00

I could talk about the train ride to San Francisco and how grown up it made me feel to go to the city alone to see art.

I could talk about the time in junior high when Dad took us to San Francisco for vacation and I stared at everyone, even the pigeons, wondering, “Are you gay?”

I could talk about how the sunlight moves in San Francisco. San Francisco sunshine is a bisexual woman moving through the fog.

I could talk about ghosts in San Francisco.

Allen Ginsberg’s ghost runs through North Beach. It streaks. Its ghostly penis flops. AIDS ghosts weep beside trashcans. Only certain people can see them.

None of these things matter, though. Not ghosts, Allen Ginsberg, or queer pigeons.

What matters is a woman making art out of everything she was born with.

I was standing in front of evidence of a woman doing exactly this.

Hannah Wilke was dead—the brochure in my hands told me so—but I was still watching her make art out of everything she was born with. The brochure explained that Wilke and her husband collaborated to make these photographs while lymphoma ruined her body. The brochure showed younger pictures of her with gum stuck to her face, chest, and back.

I put my face near her dying face. She looked pretty with lymphoma. I didn’t feel bad thinking that. Her face reminded me of Mom’s. It had good bone structure and a nose that was a natural work of art.

Maybe Wilke called this series Intra-Venus because she found Eros in dying. Eros is present in every image. In many, she seduces. She covers her face with her hands and swings her thinning hair. She does the things girls do that make boys think we like them. Wet hair hangs over her eyes and cheeks. She looks at the camera’s lens through the thinning strands. This reminds you who’s in charge. A palindrome.

There is Hannah (I feel I can call her by her first name because of what she’s shown me) and she wears a puffy white cap. A bag is taped above her breast. Her black robe flops open. Underneath, tubes.

Hannah in house slippers.

Hannah in bed.

Hannah in a bathtub.

Hannah with a little bit of hair.

Hannah without any hair.

Hannah on the toilet.

Hannah wraps herself in a blue blanket and of course becomes the Virgin Mary, which is so much fun. Almost as fun as building a fort out of boxes and blankets. If you’re a girl and a Catholic, you’ve done it. You’ve hoisted a blanket over your head and realized this blanket makes me divine. Put me in a manger. Hand me my Messiah. Let’s make one out of whatever is available. Women are resourceful. I will pretend that this bean burrito is the newly born Jesus. I will pretend that my fourteen-year-old cat is my donkey. I will pretend that this pillow stained by nosebleeds is my baby’s daddy.

Becoming the Virgin Mary is a good game to play when you’re dying. It reminds you that you can cheat death and that you also can’t.

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