marital arts

Early morning, groggy, I transposed the letters of a flier tacked to the wall before realizing it was advertising a karate class. But even after realizing this, “marital arts” was stuck in my head. It’s an oil painting of us figuring out who will pick up the kids after school. A clay sculpture of me leaning over the bed to kiss you before I leave in the morning. The many performances and installations of us calculating what next while we look behind us to last night, to the trip south, to twenty years ago when we “looked so young,” as you say. And forward: we plan a weekend or a color of paint and we marvel at how the time goes by and how we discover new pieces, dance phrases and impressionist panels, and we can only imagine what we’ll be doing twenty years hence, what watercolor will depict the image of all that’s yet to come.


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