The Long Hallway

My dear Frances, I’ve been waiting to have a moment when I could take a breath, to let emotion in, to open the picture of Laurie’s work that you sent me. It’s obviously just a fragment of a larger piece, and especially with the bubble wrap over it, it looks incredibly ghostly and otherworldly – and with a blur that I don’t associate with Laurie! I remember her as so concise and focused, a mind always searching, and researching. So serious that when she laughed it was almost unexpected. I remember those deep, almost-black eyes. I think of Laurie as one of those people whose interests were deep and narrow. Her plants were symbolic of that: a profuse jungle by the windows, but only of two types: oxalis and geranium.

Of the pictures I took when I visited a few weeks ago, the one that I’ve been looking at the most is of the hallway. Living, as we did (and you still do), at the far end of the hall from the stairs, there was always that city-block-long hall of doors and faintly buzzing fluorescent lights to walk down to our respective front doors. Looking at that picture makes me remember how blank that hall was; if you didn’t know what was behind those doors you’d think you were just in another industrial building. When we all finally got to know each other and what was behind those doors, it was like a secret revealed. Laurie’s austere white box with all the green at the window, the north light that she preferred reverberating off those whitewashed walls. The parsimonious space that she gave to living compared to the vast work space, and the projects, always installations in the making, always changing. My special times with Laurie were when she would have me over to try out the dinners she would be cooking for her book club. Not only was she insecure about them, but she was also, of course, a perfectionist, and the dinners would be quite elaborate; she would have cooked for hours. Honestly, I don’t remember the menus or even specifically what we talked about (though we always had enough to go on for a few hours). I remember Laurie’s delicate – maybe fragile – presence; her intricate descriptions of her current projects – how intellectual the concepts were, how many odd sources and resources she drew upon to create them. How serious she was.

And for contrast, the next door opened into Suzy’s place. Oh my god, that place! How funny that Laurie’s austerity should share a common wall with such kitsch! Of Suzy I remember mainly the blonde hair, the steely ditziness, the rococo (yet acrylic) bathtub on a dais in the middle of the space, the hopscotch painted onto the floor, the costume parties. Her complaints about how many pairs of sunglasses had been stolen out of her car. I never, ever understood what she was doing in the building, but she certainly seemed to enjoy herself while she was there!

Jeff, who lived on the second floor among the storage lockers for a long time, and then had a brief sojourn on the third floor. Of course, I had a little crush on him for a time; of course, unrequited, though we were friends. His place on the third floor was a cavern (he had only one window) inhabited by some weird heavy furniture donated by a friend and a huge clawfoot bathtub that I coveted. He and I would get together and drink (my scotch of course) and have long, deep conversations, including several about his experience of racism as a child in Toronto and as an adult in Montreal. I have no idea what happened to him.

Your place with the long hall that blossomed out into your corner space, also given over mostly to studio, and reconfigured regularly. Always something to rest my eyes on, and always a new series of works to explore. Your work has always been so personal, or so it has seemed to me – images drawn from some deep place within that surges out into expression. Your work, more than Laurie’s, made me wish I could be an artist and think about the necessity to create that is the life’s blood of artists.

And of course there was Kalkadu (I’m sure I’m not spelling that right!), your medium. And Tweet, for whom we went on the wild chase to find a cage! You and I, I think, were the best of neighbours. We knew some of each other’s secrets, we knew when to keep our own counsel, and we were there for each other in times of need. At least, you were there for me.

I could put down so many little memories about the building and the people in it and my times there. Our famous solar eclipse evening (and my obsession with viewing other celestial events from that glorious roof, above which the sky stretched out forever). Living above the Hunter grommet punchers five days a week. The couple of fabulous parties you threw. Our birthday dinners out. Stephen, the dour Irish artist down the hall with the occasional surprising laugh. But I think that my lasting feeling about that time was the sense of community – and it’s ironic because that hall looks so inimical, but you opened those doors and there was always someone there. I cherish that.

Käthe Roth Translator & Editor