Dec 09: Cathy de la Cruz, A Mess, a Museum

A Mess, a Museum

Cathy de la Cruz

*

“Well, this is my house. I don’t know what it is: a sitting room; a music room; a mess; a museum …” 

—Serge Gainsbourg, April 1979

*

The best art I saw in Paris this year was the art I was not allowed to take any pictures of. The best art I saw in Paris this year was somebody’s house. The best art I saw in Paris this year included me listening to the narration of a grieving adult daughter as she told visitors through headphones which items and rooms reminded her of favorite memories of her dead father. The best art I saw in Paris this year included a lengthy moment of me staring at the bed in which this narrator’s father died in. The best art I saw in Paris this year was Serge Gainsbourg’s house. 

I have always loved art. I have an MFA in Visual Art, which I guess doesn’t necessarily mean I love art, but I do. Living in New York City for the past eleven years has turned me into a sort of art-junkie, taking in as many museums, gallery and unconventionally housed art shows as possible. 

Art that I saw in my eleven days in Europe to illustrate my art-junkieness:

• Gerhard Richter retrospective at the Fondation Louis Vuitton
• Is that a Delacroix? The Art of Copying at the Musée Delacroix
• Art Basel Paris at the Grand Palais, as well as throughout the city 
• Ellicit Es Festival Feministe De Films De Patrimoine at Cinéma Saint André des Arts
• The Third Man at Cinéma Le Champo
• Berthe Weill. Art dealer of the Parisian Avant-garde at Musée de l'Orangerie
• The Musée Rodin
• Niki de Saint Phalle, Jean Tinguely, Pontus Hulten at the Grand Palais
• ECHO DELAY REVERB: American Art, Francophone Thought at The Palais de Tokyo
• Serralves Museum of Contemporary Art in Porto, Portugal
• So much street art
• Many street performers and dancers

For the last two years, I have had the good fortune to apartment-swap with a friend-of-a-friend in Paris and call me art-naïve, but I am starting to wonder if Paris is even a better “art-city” than NYC. Maybe this is obvious to everyone else, but it didn’t become glaringly so until my most recent visit to Paris, just four days after the now infamous Louvre Heist. 

October 19th is when the 2025 Louvre Heist occurred. I swear I was sitting in my Brooklyn apartment taking selfies of my new French-inspired bob. I swear I was taking a screenshot of my Parisian friend, Mile’s flight itinerary since we were about to apartment-swap. I swear I was sitting at home looking at cool things I could do while I was in Paris for 11 days (Full disclosure: I ended up in Portugal for three of those days). I swear I was taking photos of my cat, Fig. I swear I was downloading an app to see what I would look like with blonde hair. I say, “I swear” because in the days that followed it became the obnoxious running joke of many who knew me in the U.S. to tease me about how I was I was in Paris because I was part of the Louvre Heist. 

I know none of my friends actually thought I was involved in such a thing, but the fact that it was a running joke during my trip, yet I never heard or saw any mention of it while I was actually in Paris felt the way news works; how sometimes my family in Texas calls to tell me about something that happened in New York City that I don’t know about. 

I even thought that I heard the police sirens on October 25th catching the Louvre robbers, but when I check my notes in the form of the time stamped pictures on my phone, I heard those sirens on the 26th. 

I have only been to the Louvre once and it was on October 25th, 2024. I was at the Louvre within 5 hours of landing in Paris. I had never been to the Louvre and somehow had the energy to do so after a hard landing that involved my iPhone breaking as in it was completely unusable in a foreign country where I was traveling solo. In those 5 hours, I managed to nap and plop my sim card into the mutual friend’s phone all while he was preparing to travel to New York city to stay at my place. We went from apartment-swapping to me having his teenager daughter’s old cell phone. 

Once at the Louvre with my tiny retro cell phone, I bought a ham and cheese sandwich, some potato chips, and a coke like the American tourist I am. Then I made my way to painting after painting until I saw her. You know who. She was this tiny little painting on a black wall surrounded by paparazzi. There were at least seven rows of people in front of me. I took photos and videos of people taking photographs with her, the spectacle. And then I got closer. And closer. And then I found myself taking a photo with her. I was close. So close that my partner at the time upon seeing the photos later asked me if I had been given a private tour of the Mona Lisa. And then it was like I had her all to myself. And that’s it—once you reach the closest you can get to get to her, you are ushered out and it is in that moment where you are actually the closest to her and almost have a private moment—while you’re saying goodbye. It’s sort of like paying your respects at a popular person’s funeral. 

 

Now it was exactly a year later—to the day and I had an appointment to visit Serge Gainsbourg’s house. Opened to the paying-public in fall 2023, the house is now a designated historic landmark and while I do not claim to be the biggest Gainsbourg fan, I used to be a huge fan of Yé-yé music to which his contributions are unparalleled. Additionally, I understand his place in French history, and I was an American tourist in France—so visiting his home seemed right. I was also intrigued by how far tickets to Gainsbourg’s house sold out in advance. For this visit, I bought my ticket four-months in advance. 

 

I did not understand when I bought the tickets that part of the reason the tickets sell out so far in advance is because Maison Gainsbourg is an actual historic house, only a limited number of visitors are allowed in at a time. I recall only seeing two other visitors when I was there and then several staff keeping eyes on us. Though interestingly, we had full reign upstairs. Mostly I think there would have been nowhere for staff to sit upstairs. Once upstairs, I touched the door to Gainsbourg’s bedroom like a creep. 

 

What does someone who isn’t the biggest Serge Gainsbourg fan in the world get out of touring his home? I genuinely loved some of his music. I loved many of the songs he wrote for women artists, many of whom he was romantically linked to. I love the music and art of his daughter, Charlotte who narrates the entire tour. I love the fact that Gainsbourg was such a controversial weirdo who for me seems Frencher than French. Of course, I wanted to see his home on my third ever visit to Paris. 

What surprised me was how much the tour was about family life. Once inside, I sort of forgot Gainsbourg was a pop star and saw him as just an older multiple times-broken-hearted man and father who drank a lot and lived in a relatively modest house for such a star. I started to think about both my grandfathers in the final years of their lives—alone in their homes. 

Once I arrived at Maison Gainsbourg, I was given headphones, but I did not realize the soundtrack I was listening to was created by a group called Soundwalk Collective who have also collaborated with Patti Smith and Nan Goldin, among others. Their work is so subtle that I almost didn’t consider it as “work,” which I think is why the visit ended up being so powerful. Those unreleased sounds of Gainsbourg mixed 30 years after his death with his daughter’s narration and sounds collected within the space, create a feeling that is hard to explain. I felt like I was peeking in on my own childhood—like I was witnessing visions of my own family that don’t exist anymore. When I left, I could not stop thinking about what the Maison Gainsbourg version of my family’s home would be like. Then I decided everyone needs to do this with their home, as if it’s possible—as if our homes full of memories don’t get sold or bulldozed. What a gift to be able to preserve something like a family home and share it with others. 

(Photo by Pierre Terrasson from the Maison Gainsbourg website) 

 

This experience got me thinking about The House/The Home as an exhibition. Of course, a house, a home is an exhibition—a curated collection. I was so deeply moved by this personal half-hour experience. For some Gainsbourg fans, I can imagine the carpet that is pulling away from the floorboards and the paint that is chipping along with the darkness due to the closed shutters (closed for conservation purposes) might burst a celebrity-bubble, but I thought it was perfect. This is intimacy and it’s not for everyone. 

(Photography by Charlotte Gainsbourg from the Soundwalk Collective website)

 

Nothing about this tour feels forced—everything just flows. The kitchen was so small that it made me think about the home my mother grew up in in San Antonio, Texas. These were not feelings I expected to have in 2025 Paris, France. 

This is where Gainsbourg composed most of his songs. I want everyone reading this who writes or makes any sort of art to imagine someone 30 years after your death visiting the space where you made things—your first drafts—visiting that space frozen in time. It might not age well, and it might disappoint someone who held you on a pedestal. 

This space was beautiful and chaotic, and I loved the imprint of where Gainsbourg sat on his couch. I am regularly embarrassed of my own couch imprint. I loved the table of police badges that he collected from law enforcement who were not supposed to ever give anyone their badge—it was obsessive and almost pathological. I loved the upstairs room of dolls. I loved the bathtub that apparently Serge never used, but is famously photographed in. In fact, this was my favorite detail: “Dad hated taking baths.” And then a few minutes down the street at the official Serge Gainsbourg Museum, there Dad is photographed in the bath he hated taking. Home versus official-museum or reality versus public persona. 

(Photo by the author)

 

The museum itself was a bit of a letdown. Lots of memorabilia, a gift shop, and a bar—but nothing that really tells a story or evokes any real feeling. I would not recommend going to the museum without also going to the house since tickets are sold separately. The museum is the flashy clothes. The house is the body underneath those clothes. 

In comparison, the Gerhard Richter show was like exploring a cave with a bunch of fellow explorers due to the nature of how huge and magnificent the Fondation Louis Vuitton is. The Musée Delacroix felt like a claustrophobic old home that was too bright and crowded—like being at the mall the day after Christmas. Art Basel was essentially an art-orgy—decadent and fun, but also overwhelming and exhausting; I walked out it thinking I needed a break from art for a while. The feminist film festival I went to was enlightening, but very similar to things I have already experienced in my life. The screening of the Hollywood classic The Third Man at Le Champo might have been second favorite art experience of the trip because it was at 11am on a Friday and seeing an old film I’ve always meant to see at that time of day at a legendary old Paris theater made me really feel like I was on vacation. I even got yelled at by a grumpy old Frenchman for accidentally kicking his seat. He yelled something at me in French and instead of being embarrassed, I felt like I was getting a real Parisian cinemagoing experience, and I was absolutely delighted. I saw great art at the Musée de l'Orangerie, but again the experience was crowded and bright and a little tiring. The Musée Rodin was great even though I am not a huge Rodin fan—I am so glad I went. Let’s just say when I got to the Niki de Saint Phalle, Jean Tinguely, Pontus Hulten show, the museum attendant looked concerned and said “I don’t know if you’ll be able to see everything since you only have two hours” and I knew it wasn’t going to be my favorite experience. His saying that caused me to rush through with time to spare and sweat on my brow. The show at The Palais de Tokyo was all artists I had seen before in the U.S. and while I appreciated it, it felt a little too close to home to dazzle me on my last night in Paris, but the space also had a restaurant, and I was starving so I’ll always think fondly of them for that. The Serralves Museum of Contemporary Art on my spontaneous trip to Porto, Portugal absolutely blew me away and I would go back there in a heartbeat, but somehow the Serge experience is still my favorite of the trip.

The tour of Serge Gainsbourg’s home was only thirty minutes long, but it stands out in my brain as so much longer. I’m sure part of that sense of time elongated was because I was not allowed to use my phone to document anything. Whether or not it was her explicit intention, tour organizer and narrator, Charlotte Gainsbourg succeeded in capturing my full attention.

*

Cathy de la Cruz was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. In 2009, she received her MFA in Visual Art from the University of California at San Diego, having completed a series of short experimental live action and animated nonfiction films. In 2014, she received an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona. She currently lives in Brooklyn, NY where she is a Senior Metadata Manager for Penguin Random House. 

Dec 08: Scott Dickensheets, In the City

In the City

Scott Dickensheets

*

“One eye sees, the other eye feels.”

—Paul Klee

*

45°, 90°, 180°, City © Michael Heizer. Courtesy of Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Ben Blackwell

*

It’s been 900 days since I walked into City, Michael Heizer’s enormous and complicated work of land art, situated in the Nevada outback three hours north of Las Vegas. It’s 299 breathtaking acres of precision-manicured plazas, hillocks, terraces, pathways, mounds, viewsheds, and berms, sculpted mostly from compacted dirt and gravel excavated on-site, and punctuated here and there by massive concrete objects, sharp Euclidean counterponts to the site’s organic swoops and curvatures. Somehow the artist’s implacable minimalism coheres these many elements into a holistic experience.
     That was June 21, 2023, and I can still conjure the physical inhalation and emotional exhalation of wandering in and being absorbed into City’s immensities of space, time, isolation, and intention—some of which I had expected to encounter, given the gale-force PR of its opening nine months earlier, but which, once there, I was immediately unable to transcribe. That was one of City’s first effects, to deflate the speculative vocabulary I’d prepared ahead of time; none of my synonyms for really fucking big would do. “My main problem will be finding the words for this,” I told another visitor—six people are allowed on the site at a time—shortly after we entered. I’m not an art critic, so my linguistic grip on the nonverbal aspects of the experience was already loose, and the more I wandered the multileveled expanse, a mile long and half-a-mile wide, trying to reconcile my seeing and feeling eyes, the more words fled my brain.
     Leslie Jamison once explained that “to me the defining trait of the essay is the situation and problem of encounter.” That’s certainly the case here. Nine hundred days later I’m still trying to pin it all down, from my perch in a city that’s the exact opposite of City: dense with people, noise, marketing, and distraction, profligate and garish, mercantile in the extreme, deep-faked, and riddled with surveillance. As is yours, no doubt, mine is a life saturated by screenloads of media, so City’s unplugged power chords served, and still serve, as a resonant outlier. It doesn’t try to mediate much beyond your experience of it, and that to no insidious effect; it stimulates no consumer desire, fritters none of your attention, promotes no bogus facsimile of reality, encourages no brain rot; the only algorithms at work there are the original ones—time, space, geometry, awe.
     On one hand, I don’t want to oversell the experience; it’s not like I met god or anything. On the other hand, if I haven’t thought about it every one of those days since, I have more than I haven’t. Which is to say, it delivered as heavy, complex, enveloping, and sublime an aesthetic wallop as I’ve ever received. I’ve been trying to affix words to it ever since.

*

City, 1970 – 2022 © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Eric Piasecki

*

Hang on for a moment while I speed-run the backstory. City is the career summation of land art pioneer Michael Heizer, the supersize payoff on everything he learned about the uses of mass, scale, geometry, geology, light, and time during decades spent making art out of massive boulders and negative-space excavations. (His father was an archaeologist who studied ancient cultures in Nevada and Central and South America, with a particular interest in the quarrying and moving of large stones for ceremonial purposes.) Notably cantankerous and private, Heizer spent 50 years building City while guarding its secrecy, mostly on his own, at considerable cost to his health and finances (though ultimately much institutional support arrived, in the form of the Los Angeles Contemporary Museum of Art and others). I’m pretty sure he intends it to last forever.

*

City © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Mary Converse

*

Okay, so let’s encounter. You’re given three hours to wander the site at will. The first thing I saw and felt were the long sightlines. In the foreground: the idealized curvature of City’s edge hills—something I read claimed that Heizer used satellite-linked graders to scrape everything just so. The backdrop: the rugged, chaotic mountains of Nevada’s basin-and-range geography, the whole scene overtopped by central Nevada’s huge, empty sky. Among other effects, this shrewd horizon-management sets up an enlivening duality between inner and outer, between wild nature and perfected abstractions of it. There are no conclusions to be drawn from this, I don’t think—my fugitive vocabulary notwithstanding, City vibes primarily on a preverbal wavelength. One eye sees, the other eye feels.
     The second thing I perceived were its magnitudes of time. As I strolled through a lowered gravel plaza with a massive raised terrace at one end of the installation, it wasn’t hard to imagine this space filled with pre-European peoples in the throes of a religious fervor. It struck me that Heizer, familiar with those ritual gatherings, is trying to use the secular tools of geometry and engineering to access that same capacity for human awe in the presence of a larger reality.
     And so one of the maximalist aspirations of Heizer’s minimalist project began to reveal itself, at least in retrospect: using space and time to confront and astonish you with your true, small place in the cosmos.
     You needn’t take my word for it. Look at the December issue of Vogue. It has page after page of sumptuous Annie Leibovitz photos of Dune star Timothée Chalamet wandering in various fashionable outfits through Heizer’s sere, serene vistas. And yet, despite his interstellar celebrity and charisma, when Chalamet isn’t depicted as literally too small to matter, he is, as my friend the author and cultural geographer William L. Fox notes, “simply in the way of the view, and your eye slides around him.”
     Whatever you’re wearing, walking City is both an intensely physical undertaking, keeping you aware of your body at all times, and remarkable cerebral: you notice that, while indisputably of this place (Garden Valley, Nevada), City’s smooth perfection renders it oddly placeless, too, as though you’re in the middle of every desert. Despite its ambient enigma, there’s no sense of inherent folklore here, either, which is perhaps curious for an installation proximate to the quasi-occult mysteries of Area 51, the mythology-generating machine that is Las Vegas, and the tech-bro shamanism of Burning Man—Nevada may be rich in modern signifiers, but this place traffics in deceptively simple effects:
     The front of “Complex 2,” a 24-foot-high trapezoidal mound, seems, from a distance, to be framed by solid concrete beams. It’s only when you approach that you see the truth: the “frame” comprises separate beam-pieces protruding from the structure at different distances, each carefully sized and place so as to appear solid from a distance. At this point you might feel meh about such a basic optical illusion—or you get that it bookmarks a fundamental truth about the desert, and maybe life: You can’t trust your eyes. Perception out here is tricky, and distances are rarely what they seems to be.

*

City © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Photo: Joe Rome.

*

“Yeah,” one of my companions said when I mentioned that business about feeling small. “But the desert will make you feel that, too.” I didn’t have a good response.
     Here, 900 days later, is what I wish I had said: Before pop culture downgraded the word sublime into a synonym for cool, it generally denoted a beauty so vast it evokes both awe and terror in the powerless viewer. In that sense, yes, the raw desert doesn’t need Heizer’s help to impress your insignificance upon you, and its venomous creatures and potential for deadly exposure will certainly sharpen the point.
     The magic of City, as I grokked it, is that Heizer has retained the sublime but changed its terms — more awe, less terror—to create a site that deliberately makes you feel small, even as you examine yourself feeling small. But Heizer’s minimalism gives it a twist. Yes, you’re rendered miniscule, but, as you and your companions trudge through City, the lone active, living elements in this vast setting, you also become the entire focus of the place. This has been created explicitly to make you grasp your place in the cosmos. So, sure, you’re tiny. But insignificant? No. I found this discombobulation of the self profoundly affecting, and I’d like to think Timothée Chalamet would back me up on that. (Or not. “It’s just a totally remote experience” was all he had to say to Vogue about his time at City. Eh, give the kid another 900 days, I’m sure he’ll level up.)
     Smallness has a kind of power here. Late in my three-hour visit, as I shambled along a wide pathway lined with concrete curbing, the sunlight slanted in low over what, just a few moments before, had been a plain, monochromatic beige hillside, tranches of larger gravel began throwing thickets of tiny shadows, dramatically shifting the visual aspect of that hillside—simple light and the logic of ruthless subtraction altered what counts as dramatic. You can brain up a life lesson from that if you like, or just marvel at it, as I did. Doesn’t matter. Like Donald Judd once said, “Intellect and emotion, thought and feeling, and form and content are the same false dichotomy."

*

4/5 Pit, City © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Mary Converse

*

Not everyone feels as well-disposed as I do toward City. It’s drawn heavy criticism: as an example of white-male megalomania; as too elitist and exclusive (it costs $150 to visit and isn’t easy to get to); as reifying the colonial mindset that stripped Indigenous peoples of their homelands; as exemplifying American technological imperialism by laying a heavy hand on the environment. All are valid discourse points that simply did not follow me onto the site, nor did they arise from it when I was out there. The effect of Heizer’s determined minimalism, late art critic Dave Hickey wrote in Gagosian Quarterly after visiting City, is that “you are forced to distinguish between what you see and the preconceptions you brought with you into the desert.”

*

Complex One and Complex Two, City. © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Joe Rome

*

My visit to City occurred early in a devastating run of family losses: five deaths, six if you count my favorite dog, plus a rabid political party gone off-leash, the abandonment of decency and American principle—and no, I’m not going to turn this into a trauma narrative; no need to involve Parhul Sehgal. I’m quite sure that Heizer, who dislikes his own biography being used to discuss his work, wouldn’t appreciate me ladling my pathos onto his creation to score points with Essay Daily readers, either. He didn’t spend 50 years breaking himself and his bank just to make something that’s fucking therapeutic. Anyway, while many believe art can heal, I’m not all-in on that one. Art’s elevated my mood, enhanced my mind, and improved my manners, but I can’t recall an instance in which it truly healed me. Reader, I’ve tried.
     But I do believe art can model alternative ways of being in the world.
     In my case, accumulated grief, while viscerally writhing in my chest, also frequently propels me deep into anxious, abstract reveries—after all, what’s death but the ultimate abstraction?—in which I am often adrift, depressed and detached from the world, small against the despair. It’s just a totally remote experience.
     But my long-tail takeaway vibe from City has been the inverse equivalent: floating in a realm of abstractions, yes, but leaning into those wordless contemplations, and finding the whole process levitating in such a way that it returns me to the real world. No doubt that’s why I reflect on it so often. I’m not saying the one sensation dispels the other, not at all. Actual time might heal, but art about time probably won’t. Still, on some stubbornly inarticulable level, I sense a useful feedback loop between the two...
     I know, I know, sounds iffy when I type it out like that. I guess I’m still looking for the right vocabulary.
     But maybe, over time, my encounter with this massive art project is slyly proposing different ways to inhabit formally similar experiences until the awe I saw and the sadness I feel work themselves into another false dichotomy—just another instance of things not being what they seem.

*

Scott Dickensheets is a freelance writer and editor living near Las Vegas. His work has appeared.

Dec 07: Emiland Kray, Even Robots Feel Sad Sometimes

*

Even Robots Feel Sad Sometimes

Emiland Kray

*

Emiland Kray, Robots Woah, diptych, ink on paper, 5.5”x4”, digitized into a gif, 2025

*

In a bout of sleepwalking at 17, I was visited by a robotic child in my dreams. In a miraculous feat, while completely asleep I imagined following this child from my bedroom into the hallway. Her head had pulsating electrical charges beneath yellow plexiglass and I remember the clicking of her feet upon the tiled floor outside of my bedroom. Pressed up against the garage door, she extended her hand to me. As I reciprocated the gesture, a few things happened. To anyone who may have been watching, I collapsed. Completely breaking the sleep/wake trance and fading utterly into unconsciousness as a pile upon the garage floor. To the robot, I grabbed her hand and a part of me transcended humankind and my body transformed into a shimmering metal sheet unburdened by breath and sleep and food. And to me, I saw stars and my vision sparkled for a brief moment as our fingertips touched.
During this time in my life, I was dealing with the onset of generalized anxiety disorder, depression, and at the cusp of a drug addiction. It was routine that I would starve myself in my childhood room, chewing on the heads of my erasers to experience the mouthfeel of aluminum while drawing on my ceiling, walls, and floor. Matched only by amphetamines, my hand never slowed, aside from sleep, which was riddled with nightmares. My thoughts were like pistons as I spent several sleepless nights drawing simply because slowing down was mixed with a shame that came with mortality. Most of my mental breaks resulted in thoughts of wishing to be robotic, to simply work, unrelentingly, in an inevitable climb to production. And it seemed that very early on, this behavior was not only tolerated, but encouraged. Consistent positive feedback from academia and gallerists that were now expectant of that quantity of work from me fueled my now obsessive desire to draw and write and make.
     A year prior to my robotic sleepwalking experience, I remember scanning the clearance aisle in a Borders for crossword or sudoku books. Instead, I was immediately drawn to the last copy of a Taschen art book, H.R. Giger, for $14.98. A pittance really for the 240 page, color illustrated hardcover book about the Alien-Porno-King himself. I was introduced to Giger’s work, like most folks, through the iconic monster and set designs in the 1979 film Alien and perpetuated through that entire franchise. Simultaneously phallic and feminine, Giger’s aliens stalk spaces that are both android and organic. Before purchasing this book, I had never given any thought to his earlier career, or to how he was hauntingly like me and so many other artists: prolific to a fault, addicted to drugs, and sliding up and down from manic episodes. It seems as though Giger was also playing a balancing act between self-harm and artistic success.

*

H.R. Giger, Head |||, 1969, Oil on cardboard, 54 x 63 cm

*

Giger’s early work was pornographic and grotesque. It formally reflected a masturbatory speed and desperation within the quick quality of his marks, and the content that he drew was equally disturbing. His pen and ink work created in his twenties mostly depicted decapitation, fetuses, and/or inexplicable limbs. The speed that was prescribed to each mark coupled with the experimental nature of both composition and content consistently broke basic rules about anatomy and several social norms with his depictions of pornography and Satan. And it’s in that sweet spot where I see a glimpse of things that were special to me in moments of mania: a boldness to the ink, unified chimeric shapes, and the sheer fucking quantity of work. Did Giger want to be a robot too?

*

H.R. Giger, Self Portrait, 1962, ink on paper, 15.3 x 20 cm

*

The trope of the self-harming mentally-ill artist is a stylish framework within arts education and art history from which to view the art historical canon, and also to help define the avant-garde. Its edgy allure makes it easy for artists to feel pressured to suffer for their work in order to fit within that familiar narrative, but the consequences of this stereotype are terrible. In the winter of 1888 Vincent van Gogh had a manic episode after an argument and cut off his own ear, reporting the next day that he had no memory of the event. Amy Winehouse, one of the most unique jazz singers in our lifetime, battled alcoholism, drug addiction, and bipolar disorder until she died of substance abuse. In a letter to his father, Michelangelo Buonarroti said, “I lead a miserable existence and reck not of life nor honor—that is of this world; I live wearied by stupendous labors and beset by a thousand anxieties. And thus I lived for some fifteen years now and never an hour’s happiness I have had.” The list is seemingly endless, but when actual medical intervention is taken, it reflects an inept healthcare system. After Britney Spears’ public health emergency in 2007, she was prescribed Lithium and incorrectly diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a tragic but not unique story how medicine and psychiatry control women rather than help them. The psychoactive drugs prescribed to Sylvia Plath to treat her depression are suspected of being the very substances that actually enabled her to take her own life. And when I sought mental health care after consistently having panic attacks in my studio, I was put onto a 6 week fast-track therapy program that resulted in no tangible change.
     Furthermore, it also seems like artists who make while manic, depressed, or while pushing through panic attacks are celebrated for doing so and that experience becomes a selling point and a status symbol. As an art student, two mentors of mine were open in their discussions with me about their drug abuse. One was a prolific draftsperson who continually blew out his shoulder after long hours in the studio and was prescribed Percocets for the pain. These opioids eventually made his drawings sloppy, but gallerists then described his work as ‘showcasing a truer anguish’. The second insisted that I try coding while high after describing his ideal cocktail of drugs containing fentanyl and mdma. A touring musician friend of mine whenever visiting town always asks me for an Adderall connection (to which I have none), and it’s situations like this where sometimes I ask myself which came first? The artist or the addiction? Because, it’s obviously both a behavior that is encouraged from the outside, purported by gallerists, art writers, and critics spinning a stereotype, but it’s also perpetuated from within through initially well intentioned treatment, but also through good old fashioned peer pressure.
     In an interview between Giger and Dan O’Bannon, a film screenwriter and effects supervisor most famous for the screenplay for Alien and The Return of the Living Dead, he confirmed Giger was an opium addict. Originally dosing opium to treat his night terrors, one of O’Bannon’s first accounts with Giger was at a hotel in Paris where Giger approached him with some tin foil and said bluntly, “Would you like to do some opium?”
     Dan: “Why do you take that?”
     Giger:”I am afraid of my visions”
     Dan: “It’s only in your mind”
     Giger: “That is what I am afraid of.”
     Maybe it’s prewritten, where those of us who use art to purge, must also treat the poisoned well with chlorine or fluoride. But it’s also those very moments where drugs blunt the hopeless life ahead of us, and sharpen a focus that delivers us to a flow state with ease. Again, interviews with Giger feel like a mirror as I am transported back to watching my dilated pupils flick back and forth in a mirror, or drawing portrait after portrait upon my friend’s printer paper after a night of dropping acid and watching the sunrise.
     The first time that I wanted to be robotic was actually before my sleep walking adventure in the garage. It was because of the pain that the developing calluses in my fingers were causing because of my rigorous drawing habits. I grip my drawing utensils between my middle finger and my ring finger and, growing up, it caused a noticeable divot in the tip of my ring finger. Even into adulthood the finger is misshapen around a now beloved callus. When this was developing, I was around 14 years old and was regularly filling up sketchbooks with ink and pencil drawings of robot dogs, and robot peacocks, and robots with scoliosis. The very mechanism that my body was building up to make it so I could draw more, was the very thing I sought to eliminate. My wrists were unyielding engines, but my finger muscles just couldn’t keep up. The more it hurt, the harder I gripped, and thus the more I wished for oil to flow through my veins.

*

Emiland Kray, Call Me Mr. Bicycle Chain, chalk pastel on paper, 18”x24”, 2015

*

There’s nothing in interviews or biographies about Giger wanting to be a robot, but it was in part because of his work that I knew I wasn’t alone in at least imagining it. In his middle and late career work, much of his figurative work includes androids. Somehow the human body transformed into a mechanical one. Leaning into monochromatic and analogous color palettes, his predominately airbrushed paintings give us the succulent repetition of a well oiled machine. In disgusting awe, Giger oftentimes reduced uniquely human behavior, like fucking, birth, and dying, into mechanized motion. Giger suspended death, and showed us a painless and grotesque world. Decapitation was still prevalent in his work, but the expressions were placid instead of stained and horrified – they were expressions of a robot suspended in the land of the living-ish. 

*

H.R. Giger, Passage Temple (Life), 1974, acrylic and ink on paper on wood, 240 x 280 cm

*

If we were robotic, then we wouldn’t have to turn to drugs to stay awake or to numb the pain. My mechanized esophagus could drink unleaded gasoline, no actually, I could drink leaded gasoline and be completely unscathed. I could harness the highest octane creative power, carpal tunnel be damned! EntireContribution84 asks Reddit: “What is the problem of becoming an emotionless robot?”, and here I am still wrangling that same question. Getting past two factor authentication may be a short-term issue, but thinking long-term, I could probably make 2-3 good fucking drawings per week. I wouldn’t need to take time to eat or sleep, but instead I could consistently be working. My calluses would go away along with my back pain and migraines. The biggest fear that I have though, is would the art then truly be mine?
     One of the main reasons that I haven’t taken hard drugs in over 5 years now was because it changed the quality of my artwork. Although it increased my productivity levels, the comedowns resulted in crippling impostor syndrome and hellish shame. The artwork felt dry, despite being expressive and opulent. Is this the consequence of being a robot? The marks looked feverish, the work seemed suspended, everlastingly pregnant with an ideal that was ultimately empty. Little information is known about Giger’s drug addiction, but it’s alluded to in his paintings. Heroin syringes for example are repeated motifs in several of his works, but whether or not the artist partook in those drugs is speculation. Even less information is known about any attempts at sobriety for the artist. There are several accounts from partners and friends about potential alcoholism, but nothing concrete and again no professional diagnoses. In a 1994 interview with Steven Cerio, Giger claimed that drugs are completely forbidden in Switzerland, but his romantic partner Li Tobler on multiple occasions has confirmed that drug use was ubiquitous within their relationship.

*

Li-||, airbrush on board, 1974

*

I cannot deny that something in his artwork reminded me of my years of dissociating while drawing under the influence. From a formal point of view, we share repetition, we share paper and canvas, and we share the robot. The external pressure to create and produce is an ongoing issue with horrific productivity trends like the 5-9 routine, and side hustles just to meet basic needs. Production at a high level has become a necessity for folks just to keep their heads above water, and having a healthy work-life balance is so rare that I am beginning to think that working under capitalism is really just a scam. Fueled by a desire to please an internalized quota at such a young age, I felt compelled to produce constantly. Not only did drawing quiet the pounding in my head, but it also seemed to please those around me and thus my quota got higher and higher. When looking at the late career of Giger, I can’t say for certain that he ever did slow down. Still filling sketchbooks with pornography while also working with industry monsters on projects like Dune, two covers for Heavy Metal magazine, he designed the entire architectural interior for a bar and lounge down to the detailing on furniture design and the patterns in the fucking tiles. The breadth of work that he produced is astonishing, and his signature style is still sought after by artists, make-up artists, screenwriters, and interior designers alike.

*

Table, chairs, and tile designed by H.R. Giger for the Giger Bar

Giger Bar interior crop

*

Now though, only one of us is still pumping out drawings. H.R. Giger lived until the age of 74 until he died from complications after a fall, and now I am alone to reflect on the high I get from making drawings until my calluses are rubbed raw or my eyes become bloodshot. Not even the Alien-Porno-King himself could keep his pedal to the metal forever with death being the final boundary. While I’m down here, dreaming of the dopamine rush of making 2-3 drawings a week, but realistically hitting my wall at 1, I still think about that little robot girl who visited me when I was a kid. A wordless, outstretched hand. Maybe, at 74, Giger had taken it, and he was the one now transcending in the circuitry. Maybe he’s basking in the joy of everlasting creation alongside his own robots. One day, I’ll be there too, and it won’t be Percocets or fentanyl or MDMA, but maybe it’ll be a fall, or maybe it’ll be the last breath of my iron lungs during a peaceful night in bed. 

*

*

Works Cited

Boniface, Sadie. “Back to Black: Amy Winehouse Biopic Reviewed by an Alcohol Expert.” The Conversation, 11 Apr. 2024, theconversation.com/back-to-black-amy-winehouse-biopic-reviewed-by-an-alcohol-expert-227609. Accessed 1 Dec. 2025.

Giger, H. R. WWW HR Giger Com. Taschen, 2008. 

“HR Giger - the Official Website.” HR Giger - The Official Website, HR Giger Museum, 12 Dec. 2012, www.hrgiger.com/biography. 

Madahi, Doha. “Britney Spears’ Allegation of Abuse by Doctor Unlikely to End Conservatorship, Experts Say.” NBC News, NBC, 13 July 2021, www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/britney-spears-alleged-her-former-psychiatrist-was-abusive-it-probably-n1273769. Accessed 1 Dec. 2025.

Poetry Foundation. “Sylvia Plath.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, 2016, www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sylvia-plath. Accessed 1 Dec. 2025.

Rose, Steve. “Alien Designer HR Giger: “I Am Afraid of My Visions.”” The Guardian, The Guardian, 14 May 2014, www.theguardian.com/film/2014/may/14/hr-giger-film-artist-alien-i-am-afraid-of-my-visions. Accessed 1 Dec. 2025.

Vercillo, Kathryn. “Michelangelo Buonarroti: Art and Mental Health History.” Create Me Free, 2 Nov. 2023, createmefree.substack.com/p/michelangelo-buonarroti-art-and-mental. Accessed 1 Dec. 2025.

Yashi Banymadhub. “The Tortured Artist Is a Dangerous Myth. It’s the Way Creative Workers Are Treated That Causes Breakdown.” The Independent, 10 Oct. 2018, www.independent.co.uk/voices/world-mental-health-day-tortured-artist-dangerous-myth-pain-art-depression-suicide-a8576971.html. Accessed 1 Dec. 2025.

*

Emiland Kray is a visual artist working primarily with book arts and game design. His work investigates the complexities of memories and dreams, by manipulating our attachment to nostalgic forms. He was born and raised in Las Vegas, Nevada and in 2023 he received his MFA from the University of Arizona with a portfolio of traditional watercolor, book arts, and game design. Kray was the winner of a 2025 Distinguished Book Award from the Miniature Book Society, has work in notable special collections such as the Arizona Poetry Center, University of Nevada, Reno Special Collections, and the Lilly Library in Indianapolis. Kray continues to make art with a focus on community involvement and collaborative projects, through initiatives like Troctopus Press, The Octopus Anthology, and partnerships with several non-profits and public libraries throughout the American Southwest. With a focus on accessibility, you can find many of his books in libraries around the United States and find his games free to play online.

Play some games | Look at some books | Social some medias

Dec 06: Brooke Wonders, Nightmare in the Blood

 Nightmare in the Blood

Brooke Wonders

*

My husband and I played Bloodborne together. For nongamers: Bloodborne is a critically acclaimed gothic-horror videogame put out by FromSoftware and developed by Hidetaka Miyazaki, arguably the greatest living game auteur. I say my husband and I played Bloodborne together, but that’s not true: my husband manned the controller while I watched from the couch, laptop perched on my knees as I researched every available quest chain in the game.
     At the moment, our Hunter was in a pit, wandering through darkness. Avatars in Bloodborne are called Hunters, and they resemble disheveled Victorian goths. Our Hunter wore a black tricorn hat, a jaunty black capelet, and a black bandana over her nose and mouth. Few of these features were currently visible.

     “I don’t think there’s anything in here,” my husband complained.
     “Keep walking. It’ll be worth it, I swear.”
     A gray-pink mass emerged from the darkness: a brain, tall as our Hunter and covered in too many eyes, with a bouquet of tentacles blooming from its side. It stared at us. We’d found the dying body of the Brain of Mensis.
     “This is the thing that wrecked us?”
     The Brain of Mensis sits atop a tower in the Nightmare of Mensis region. When its gaze falls on you, you take damage—quickly and brutally. We’d spent most of the level hiding behind pillars to keep out of the Brain’s sightline, until finally we found a lever that dropped the Brain of Mensis down into the pit. Now, we hunted it.

     Mensis sounds like menses. Hunters chug blood vials instead of health potions—where’d that blood come from? Toward the end of the Nightmare of Mensis, the thin wail of a baby leads players to a woman dressed in white, her front stained with blood. Beyond her is Mergo’s Wet Nurse, a four-limbed, black-shrouded angel of death who fights beside a rusted pram. Once Mergo’s Wet Nurse has been defeated, the baby’s cries stop. The Lovecraftian Great Ones who rule the benighted world of Yharnam have stillbirths, attempt surrogacy, and even babysit—despite continuous failure to achieve parenthood, they keep trying. Bloodborne’s imagery evokes the discomfort and silence surrounding reproduction and the female body. 

     “This walkthrough says to use the Make Contact gesture,” I told my husband.
     “How did anyone ever figure this out?” he grumbled, but complied. Our Hunter bent her arms into a 90-degree angle. “Now what?”
     “Don’t touch the controller.”
     A minute is forever in videogame time, especially when shadows usually hide beasts who try to murder you. We waited in the dark for Make Contact to make contact. At last, the brain rewarded us with loot: a rune that increased the blood echoes we won by killing things. Even Bloodborne’s currency has a gothic name. 
     “Now what?” my husband asked again.
     “The internet says to kill it, but you don’t have to.”
     We sat in silence for a moment. The brain’s sad eyes watched us. Then my husband hacked it to death, a mercy. 

     I hate being the girl who watches boys play videogames, but I wrecked my wrists playing World of Warcraft in the aughts, and my hands go numb and stop working whenever I game. This chronic pain had recently been overshadowed by a more acute agony, however. Elizabeth McCracken, in her memoir, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, refers to her stillbirth as “the calamity,” and there is no better word. At the time of my miscarriage, everything I knew about pregnancy loss came from McCracken’s book, and though stillbirth is not miscarriage, I’m grateful she shared the gory details, as they were all I had to go on. My husband and I played Bloodborne because I lost a pregnancy, and immersing ourselves in body-horror fantasy felt easier than talking about it.
     My husband held my hand as the ultrasound tech told us she couldn’t find a heartbeat. I laughed in shock, and my husband gave me a worried smile. I was in the eleventh week of my pregnancy and about to exit the first trimester, or so I thought. The OB/GYN told us I had a blighted ovum, and that based on its size, the being inside me had ceased to be at nine weeks. Instead of suggesting a D&C, the usual procedure for a miscarriage occurring after week ten, the OB/GYN said, “I’m so sorry,” and sent me home to pass it naturally. A D&C, or dilation and curettage, is the same surgical procedure used for medical abortion, and women receiving one after a miscarriage usually recover in two to three days. I did not receive this care.
     I ended up in the OB/GYN office because I’d started to bleed. I was about to get on a plane to fly from my home in Iowa to Washington, D.C. for a writing conference, and I knew so little about miscarriage and had received so little information, I thought I could still take part in panels while passing a nine-week-old fetus. I was a 35-year-old woman raised by a feminist mom who’d pressed Our Bodies, Ourselves into my hands the day I got my first period. I should have known, but I didn’t.
     I wish miscarriage, stillbirth, and pregnancy loss were discussed more openly, especially the gore. I passed massive clots, bleeding through maxi pads faster than any period I’ve ever had. In two days, the shock wore off, and I fell into depression. My body expelled tissue while my mind mourned the baby I hadn’t been sure I wanted, until I learned she wasn’t to be. I went to the clinic for blood draws each week like a good girl. I never received results from these blood draws, nor was I given any information about why I had to endure them; I’d had only two appointments before losing the pregnancy. These doctors didn’t know me. After eight weeks of blood draws by inept phlebotomists, my inner elbows bloomed purple; I looked like an addict. During the busy month of April, I stopped going. No one followed up.
     A baby can survive outside the womb at twenty-five weeks. I carried my miscarriage for twenty-three. This harrowing process is referred to as an incomplete miscarriage, but it usually ends after around four weeks. Mine lasted for four months of erratic, heavy periods and random contractions that felled me. I didn’t know they were contractions; I thought I’d developed a strange muscle spasm in my midsection—perhaps an exercise-related injury, or maybe indigestion? Finally, I grew concerned enough to return to the OB/GYN. She scheduled me for a D&C the next day.
     That night, the contractions quickened, leaving me strung out on my bathroom floor. My fever spiked and I couldn’t keep water down. My husband debated taking me to the emergency room, until a 4am ice bath cooled me down enough to get through the night. On May 13th, 2017, the day before Mother’s Day, I received a D&C. “You fell through the cracks,” the OB/GYN said before the anesthetist put me under. The surgery lasted seven minutes. My cousin, a nurse-anesthetist, called the next day. “You were at how many weeks? That’s unbelievable. You’re lucky you didn’t die of sepsis.”
     I received the D&C in May. My husband and I played Bloodborne in June, July, and August, then started over again with a new character build and weapon. We bought the expansion and played that. As the grief ebbed, we cut back to fewer hours of gaming. We took up weightlifting. We went to therapy. I wanted to write about the miscarriage, but the usual nerve pain limited my ability to type, so my husband offered to be my hands. In the same way he moved our Hunter through abandoned universities and haunted cathedrals, now he typed while I dictated.

     I lose my mind, so my husband goes hunting for it. We wander around in the dark.
     “I don’t think there’s anything in here,” my husband says.
     “Keep walking. It’ll be worth it, I swear.”
     A gray-pink mass emerges from the darkness: a brain, or maybe a fetus, a gothic horror either way. This is the thing that wrecked us. The reason we’re down here in the pit. 

     When the phlebotomists checked my blood each week, they were searching for the echo of my lost pregnancy: the hormone hCG. When that hormone left my bloodstream, it would be evidence my body no longer believed itself pregnant. The number didn’t go to zero until a doctor dilated my cervix to scrape and suction the stubborn tissue away.

     Bloodborne’s three endings become available after you’ve defeated Mergo’s Wet Nurse. A gate opens in the Hunter’s Dream, allowing you entrance to a graveyard where Gherman, the first Hunter, awaits in his wheelchair, an 18th-century contraption of wicker and metal. Gherman offers you a choice: awaken from the Hunter’s Dream and end your hunt. Or, stay asleep to dream of blood. If you choose to awaken, you come to in a cathedral. A bell rings in the distance, heralding the sunrise—the first ending. If you choose to remain asleep, Gherman rises from his chair and a boss battle begins. If you defeat him, however, a new horror appears: the Moon Presence. The scythe-wielding Moon Presence resembles a thorn bush crossed with an anorexic Giger alien, and she can’t be fought. In this second ending, she cradles you like a mother, then confines you to Gherman’s chair, where, it is implied, you will continue his work of mentoring new Hunters in the ways of the hunt. 
     The third ending triggers only if you’ve collected three “One Third of Umbilical Cord” items. One drops off Mergo. Another can be found in an abandoned workshop. The third can be won in several ways, but here is the path we used. We rescued a pregnant NPC named Arianna and sent her to a chapel safe haven, where she remained. She helped us by donating vials of her powerful blood, a consumable item that increased stamina. Until the time we went back for more Arianna blood and found her weeping and no longer pregnant. “This is a nightmare,” she told us. At her feet, a pink abomination cheeped pitifully. It had a fetal look to it, labial, but with hooked claws for hands. Arianna’s sobs transformed into maniacal laughter, but for a few seconds, the two sounds were indistinguishable.
     We acquired the third umbilical cord segment by murdering Arianna’s newborn monstrosity. Killing the Brain of Mensis takes multiple strikes, but the Celestial Child dies from one hit. 

     If you manage to collect all three cords, when the Moon Presence appears, you can kill her, and in place of the usual Prey Slaughtered message, the words Nightmare Slain fill the screen. In a final cutscene, the Doll—the game’s combo girlfriend/mother figure—discovers a newborn monster on the path leading away from Gherman’s graveyard. It looks like an eggplant with tentacles. The Doll scoops it into her arms and coos, “Are you cold? Oh, good Hunter,” suggesting this helpless creature will grow into you, or someone like you. The Great Ones have successfully reproduced, and you end the game proud parent to a baby eldritch horror.

     I grieved the fantasy of parenthood in the early weeks of my miscarriage, but as it stretched on, grief persisted in my body outside my conscious awareness, thanks to the hormones in my blood. In the most material way I can conceive, I couldn’t let go of my pregnancy. It took years for my husband and I to work through the terror and horror of those four months enough to try again. Bloodborne’s land of Yharnam reconnected us—a nightmare, slain. And eventually, we completed every available ending, including the one where we became parents.

*

Dr. Brooke Wonders is an Associate Professor at the University of Northern Iowa, where she teaches courses in speculative and experimental nonfiction, as well as fantasy and horror. Her writing has appeared in The Dark, Brevity, and Clarkesworld, among others. Heloise & Wulf, a gothic-horror videogame she cocreated with Annah Browning and Paracat Games, is free to play at Black Warrior Review.

Dec 05: Joni Tevis, Float and Trowel, Barrow and Lantern (Eight Craftsmen, ca. 1910)

Float and Trowel, Barrow and Lantern (Eight Craftsmen, ca. 1910)

Joni Tevis

*

*

Mud on the ramp and the toes of their boots. These men are masons, but of brick or stone I can’t tell. They pose on the granite steps of what could be a bank, courthouse, church. The silvery sheen of the photograph dates it around 1910. It came to me in a box lot at an auction. I don’t know who took it, or where.
     All eight men wear hats, are white. One man stands with his leg propped on a barrow’s handle. Two of them bite unlit pipes. Only one is empty-handed—no stick, float, trowel. Look at their clothes. Chaffed and mud-marked, creases set by days of work. Moth holes in the placket of this fisherman’s sweater, buttoned top to bottom.
     What you learn first: how to carry. Load the hod with bricks or blocks and carry it to the job site. Unload it and do it again, again, again. Here’s the youngest, his overalls snapped over a heavy coat, work shirt, crooked tie. All of it spattered with slurry. A star on the wrist of his glove. Apprentice.
     Then learn the tools: mash hammer, mell, dummy, pitching hammer. Chisel and mallet should match. Use a boaster for fine finishing work. Learn the habits of stones. Sandstone, limestone, granite, marble. You can spend your life testing their moods and tasting their dust. This man, neck stretched and seamed, must be the oldest. He’s the only one with spectacles, the only one with a mustache, the only one seated. Knees wide apart, lantern before him: light-bringer.
     Look at their hands. Four men wear mitts or gloves, but every bare hand shows signs of hurt, fingers splayed or flattened at the tips, a ring finger awry and stiff from an old break. Only one, third from left, has his name preserved: Jim, written in pencil above his head. Jim’s eyes look tired. His jacket pocket bulges and his pants have two little holes torn in them. The buttons on his coat don’t match, but someone sewed them on tight.
     And this man, in a tie and fedora, tucks his left hand behind his back. Stares at the camera with a look on his face like worry. He’s the one for me. Why does he hide his hand? Who taught him his trade, and where? Did he help to lay the granite he stands on? Who loves him? Where is he from—Ireland, Spain, Sicily, Pittsburgh? How much is he paid? What will he eat for lunch? I know his face better than those of many of my kin. How can what we make with our hands last longer than we do?
     This is a break, not the end of the job. The windows behind them sealed off with frames of stretched burlap or screen. A work entrance of raw planks with a hasp and padlock snapped to secure the site. But against the solid blocks of stone, it all looks as temporary as it must be. The job is ongoing, and could be for some time. Maybe you start what someone else will finish.
     For example, look at Washington National Cathedral in D.C. Teddy Roosevelt set the foundation stone, or pretended to, on September 29, 1907. A Sunday. Strange to work on a church on a Sunday. But this was a ceremony—a big event with crowds and hoopla. It’s work, but work with a difference.
     Then for the next eight decades, the work continued, without spectators or speeches. Masons like the ones in my photograph laid the great building, one course at a time, squared and precise. I read an interview with Joe Alonso, the Cathedral’s head stone mason, who’s worked there since 1985. Asked about the masons of the past, he mused, “Just seeing their work, the work itself speaks to me….When you’re walking way back on the apse, or the great choir”—remember, this is atop the building, better than two hundred feet in the air—“built back in the 1910s and ’20s, and seeing the work they did, they actually set the standard for us as we were building the last portions of the cathedral. At least I felt that when I was up there. It had to be as good as their work.”
     In September 1990, eighty-three years to the day after work began on the cathedral, Alonso set its final stone. He told a writer from the Smithsonian’s Folklife magazine that he “felt like all the other masons were up there with him, ‘maneuvering that big finial into position, checking it, making sure it was level and true.’”
     That was a ceremony, and ceremony matters, but I prefer the daily work of it. A day like today. You can see what you’ve made. How I love to run my hand across the brick foundation of my own home and admire the skill behind it. There’s a fundamental earnestness in me. I want to build something that will last. Something that gives shelter and lifts the eyes to heaven.
     They’re in the process of something. Not finished. The camera flashes, and the men scatter. I examine the photograph under a duoscope and up close, silver specks fleck the men’s coats and overalls, constellations of bright pips from the halide emulsion the unnamed photographer used.
     Break’s over. The masons get back to work. People will climb up and down these steps for years to come, not thinking of the ones who laid them. Wars come, they know, and earthquakes. Stone today could be rubble by nightfall. No wonder that masons are given to ritual, secret belief, relics stashed in hollow cornerstones. Me too. When Alonso set the last spire, a sprig of boxwood cut from the bishop’s garden hung from the hook of the crane. Evergreen, more or less, a symbol that says Let this live on after I’m gone.

*

Joni Tevis is the author of two books of essays, including The World Is On Fire. Her work has been honored with two Pushcart Prizes and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. She serves as the Bennette E. Geer Professor of English at Furman University in Greenville, South Carolina.