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.