her legacy

I've been out and about with May again. That's not her real name, but it's a name she sometimes uses, and I need a name to call her by: my oldest-youngest craziest-sanest friend. We're pulling up to the curb in front of her apartment building. "I'd like to invite you in," she begins, in her precise, ever-courteous way, "but I have to warn you that there is now a rather shocking presence in my living room." "Really," I ask, trying to imagine what 'shocking' may be in her terms. She's frequently apologized for the 'mess' when her apartment always looks immaculate to me. She hardly owns enough to constitute clutter in one room, much less the three she inhabits so lightly, precariously. "Yes," she continues, "it's my latest sculptural work. And it's rather large. I call it 'My Legacy'. You'll have to negotiate your way around it if you come in." Alright, I'm ready. For some reason -- maybe the combination of her foreboding tone and the word 'sculpture' -- I'm picturing a larger-than-life, grotesquely proportioned female figure. Her art doesn't normally turn toward the grotesque, but I've learned with May to let nothing surprise me.

Or to try. She surprises me this time. 'My Legacy' is a swaying wall of paper chains, suspended from ceiling to floor, made from carefully sliced and glued strips of the advertising circulars most people throw away as junk mail every week. This wavy curtain bisects her living room diagonally, taped to the ceiling from corner to corner, beginning just inside the front door like an invitation. I can't resist following. The paper links radiate every color in the spectrum, although there are patterns in places: all pink here, alternating red and green in another part. The promoted products are just visible in the curves of each paper link: 1o-pound hams, stereos, avocados, diamond rings. On nearby surfaces appear shards of prices: $49.99. 2 for a dollar. Half off, Saturday only. I start to smile. She sees me getting it. "Yes", she pronounces proudly, "It's all that I'm leaving to the world." "Because you never bought any of it!" I realize. "Exactly," she replies.

I navigate this permeable wall's length, rustling through its strands from one side to the other. I can't resist fingering the smooth circles, holding new splashes of color up to the light. It's not a straight diagonal - there's a slight sinuous curve to it. With its consumptive messages relegated mostly to the background, if only by the chaos of the total, the bright primary blues, greens, reds and yellows are free to make stronger impressions. And having divided up the coherence of the advertisers' hoped-for messages, she's released odd insights into the field of vision. Faded vegetables and over-brilliant gold jewelry compete for sightings. Words out of their context offer new messages: "You more real", "time only". Prices seem more absurd, standing apart from the build-up, the concerted displays of objects-of-desire.

It's not just entertaining, or even a relief from commercial overstimulation. May's done something truly redemptive here. She's changing the purpose of things. I remember the time, several years ago, when I politely battled the mail carrier for a couple months for the right not to receive these same fliers in my box every week. He was a nice guy, and finally agreed. That felt like a small victory, but May's achieved something more powerful. She's accepted the unwanted, then challenged it at the level of its essence. Using the lowliest of materials she's voiced one of art's highest callings: transformation. Sure, the simple, literal act that transforms refuse into recycling into creativity is always commendable, and a welcome release for the sensitive conscience. But this is also one observer calling another to see in a new way. See from the outside of the system. See from the senses instead of the intellect. See the potential for creativity and beauty in the most ugly and utilitarian. See from the what-could-be instead of the dreariness of what is. This quality of seeing, surely, is among the most lovely and lively of gifts that we can hope to pass on to each other.