My husband, missing me, asked for some pictures. I did my best, using a mirror. This is the only picture for public consumption; I got creative with the others.
Posing for Sabin
Marriage is hard. The great philosopher of our time, Chris Rock, has this insight into love, but it applies to marriage even more. Just substitute the word “married” for the words “in love”:
If you haven’t contemplated murder, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t seriously thought about killing a motherfucker, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t had a can of rat poison in your hand and looked at it for forty-five minutes straight, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t bought a shovel and a bag and a rug to roll their ass up in, you ain’t been in love. If you haven’t practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, you ain’t been in love. And the only thing that’s stopped you from killing this motherfucker was a episode of CSI: “Oh man, they thorough. I better make up. They might catch my ass.” Never Scared, HBO, 2004
So, added to the usual rigors of the institution, is posing for my husband. He’s in my face, literally, every night. I don’t think the piece he’s making resembles me in the slightest. The two sides of the face are wildly different–am I so asymmetrical? My nose is that lumpy? Really, my ears stick out that much?
But yes, he says, and it’s in process. You can’t judge it for months yet, nor will you ever be detached because it’s a portrait of you.
Insult and injury. Such are the sacrifices we make for art, and for our spouses.
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My husband Sabin Howard’s sculpture
He may drive me crazy: leaving his dirty bicycle shorts on the back of the dining room chair, turning off the heaters in the winter so that the apartment stays in the frigid 50’s, over-peppering the food he cooks until my tongue swells and I can barely swallow, staring at me blankly when I suggest that there is no such as thing as a Shopping Fairy who magically leaves groceries in the fridge for him to consume (has he never considered that someone, a.k.a. moi, lugs home the 5000 calories he ingests daily?)… But Sabin Howard is the greatest living figurative sculptor.
Novelist Rick Moody thinks authors shouldn’t blog. Maybe he’s right. What do I know, other than when I was at grad school at Columbia, scuttlebutt had him putting rips in his own jeans to give himself credibility, because we all knew he came from a rich family?