Burnaway

[cont.]
Lori looked at her fingers for a second, her head tilted to one side. “Everyone has regrets, don’t they? Regrets help make us who we are. Do I regret getting out of the art world? No. When Hondo died, it was like everything got turned upside down. I was a mess. If I hadn’t gotten out of the art world, I’d be another casualty.”
“You had a gift, a great gift, and you are throwing it away.”
“Was it a gift? I’m not sure about that. Making art for me and Hondo and even for Tommy was so much about doing drugs, staying drunk, getting wasted. It was us acting out the role of bohemian and we were pretty perfect at it. Don’t get me wrong: I’m proud of the work each of us did. Some of it was remarkable and strong. But why would I continue doing something that destroyed my friends, my health and made me nuts? What kind of gift eats you alive?”
Lori picked up the salt shaker on the table and ran her finger across the holes punched into the metal tip. She needed to run it through the dish washer. Some of the holes were clogged. Her daughters could win Olympic medals for hurling. “Let me tell you a story, Barbara. A few months after Honda died, I mixed whiskey and pain killers. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant the emergency room but it was enough to scare my roommate and looking at her panic and distress made me see I was self destructing. And then I met Brendan. We started talking and it was so comfortable. It’s like I’d known him for years. He was so calm and playful and I was so strung out. It just struck me: art wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I wanted to laugh and be in love.”
“Your talent…”
“Can’t you get it? It wasn’t healthy. I had to get out. This is your second film on us. You’ve had a chance to observe the four of us. You’re smart. Haven’t you noticed that the only one of us who actually loves making art is Alex? For him it isn’t attitude or affectation. It’s what he loves doing, it was what he was born to do. It’s like a puzzle for him to solve – he’s involved and detached at the same time. Making art feeds him. It was different for us. It was a form of madness, a kind of self destruction, just like slow suicide. I loved Hondo, I loved being wasted and having people suck up to me. I loved the idea of being special and carted around Berlin and London like royalty. Making art was the excuse to continue like that, continue being an adolescent bad girl. But when he died, I needed to grow up and find out who I actually am. I needed to find the puzzle to fascinate and inspire me. Tommy couldn’t see that. He wanted everything to stay the same. I couldn’t stay the same and survive. And I have changed. You know, I’m not a great mom. I don’t have a huge amount of patience. This is a struggle. But when I get up in the morning, it’s me getting up, not a hangover. And at some point, if I find something I want to say, then I may step back into the art.”
“So you think being a mother makes you an adult?”
“Hardly. It’s a process and I’m not nearly there. But one thing I can say: I’ll remember this year. I will never forget the pain of delivering five pound babies one after another and the joy of watching these little people grow. I have months, literally months, when I was painting that I don’t remember. I was too stoned, too high, too drunk. It wasn’t a life. It was like living on pause.”
Barbara didn’t smile. The interview was not what she had anticipated. Her imagined storyboard had a self-centered woman contrasted with the laughing babies on a pale pink blanket. Even the blanket was wrong. Who puts baby girls on black and white plaid?
“So you recommend motherhood as being more real than art?”
“No. Not at all. I think we all have to look into ourselves and make decisions, knowing that many of them will be wrong and will need revisions. I didn’t plan to have these babies, but when I found I was pregnant and saw how happy Brendan was about it, I accepted the challenge. If he hadn’t been in my life, I would have made different decisions. Children were never part of my plan and I certainly never thought I needed to have children to make me a real woman. I still don’t, but the experience has changed me. Most days I’m glad I made the decision I did.”
When Barbara asked her if she had really gotten over Hondo, Lori looked her straight in the eye, “Have you gotten over your mother’s death? I don’t believe any of us get over the death of someone we love. We learn to navigate around it with time, but that hole stays there forever.”
“I don’t understand why you aren’t still painting. Is Brendan jealous about your talent and you’re trying to please him? He can’t be happy when he reads that you repeatedly described Hondo as the love of your life.”
“I don’t speak for him.”
“But it has to hurt to read…”
“I don’t understand how his feelings about Hondo fit into your film. I don’t understand why you sound so belligerent. What is it you’re trying to get from me? Do you want me to get angry? Do you want me to cry? Believe me, I’ve done plenty of both. I did love Hondo. I will always love Hondo. The same is now true of Brendan. This is a good relationship. He is a good man. You make it sound like he’s somehow preventing me from being creative. That’s just not the case. Brendan really was my life raft. But this film of yours is supposed to be about art, right? About continuing in art? The struggles of being creative? Brendan and I discussed this. If I decide to resume painting, he’s already offered to build out the garage into a studio. The decision is mine, not yours, not his. It’s mine and even I don’t have any control over inspiration.”