Meanwhile, Jake has struggled to break out of the pack of painters trying to expand upon Pop Art. With any luck, the new home will provide the inspiration necessary for Miranda and Jake to develop their promising voices.
Both artists are represented by Hal Eggers, who recently left Patina to form his own gallery.
SERIES 2, Personal papers
BOX 9, Diary (1982–1993)
* * *
AUGUST 14 1984
We live in California now. We’re West Coasters. House bought in May. Moved in June. I keep hoping I’ll understand it more, that our life will settle around me like dust. We must have decided on Callinas somehow, we must have weighed other options, we must have bought the house and discussed the renovation. The truth is I don’t remember any of that. It feels to me like we arrived here by magic. Borne on a dark cloud.
The absence disturbs me. I looked back in this journal for clues, like I’m an archaeologist excavating my own past. But all I turn up is bits of ground-up bone.
So let the bones lie buried. What matters now is that we are settled in our high house with the sea anchored in the distance and the smell of fresh paint slowly fleeing through the windows. I have room for a darkroom in the attic, mine all mine. It’s bigger than my shitty studio in New York, and I can set it up however I want.
From our bedroom window you can see the water. Limitless here. The end of the earth.
SEPTEMBER 14 1984
Callinas is a weird place. Reminds me of college in some ways. Its smallness. The town has three restaurants and one bar. When we’re out, everyone comes over to our table to see how we’re doing. The parents at Theo’s preschool are always making excuses to talk to me. “Wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” More like overshare about their mediocre kids. Arrange car pools.
I try to say yes. Part of me wants to order Chardonnay with them, go camping on the weekends, wear that same brand of jogging suit they all own, the kind that whispers when you walk. Renounce whatever I used to think was lame.
But as soon as I open my mouth, words flash through my mind. A source close to Brand. I need to be careful. Someday I will be strong again. Strong enough not to care. Not to divulge.
For now I am scared.
There are fewer people here, but more are watching.
DECEMBER 10 1984
Sometimes I think I am like a nocturnal animal who got yanked out of its cave into the sunlight. A raccoon, a possum maybe, good at hunting for trash, but cursed with a naked wriggling tail and needle teeth.
New York was hard in its way, but at least I knew how to move around in the darkness. It was easier to conceal myself in the rush and pitch of it all. The subways open all night, the police sirens wailing through the time before dawn. Wee hours, they say. Like they are so little. But I always thought of them as bigger than the other hours, stretched out until they were thin as film, holding so much time they sagged in the middle like an overburdened net. Full of possibility. Belonging only to you.
Here it always feels like daylight, and I am disoriented. The fame has followed me here like a dead rat caught on the raccoon’s tail. In New York, I could get lost in the crowd. Here I am such an outlier. So recognizable. Who else would that woman be, with the stroller on Main Street, black turtleneck and black slacks?
The raccoon. Trying to stay unseen.
Blend in, Jake says, when I complain about it.
Wear brighter colors.
Make an effort.
JANUARY 30 1985
Every time I develop any film of Callinas, all I have is empty beauty. There should be a touch of violence in everything. But if any slender knife ever wedged its way into this paradise, these people would sew up the wound immediately. They would stuff themselves inside it, soak themselves in gore, just to save this place.
From what, I don’t know. Lately I think they want to save it from me.
The problem is these people have no depth. They are painted shells around a plaster center. They think not putting up street signs means they’re moral beacons. They meditate to stop thinking. They think surfing is a religion because the ocean makes them feel powerless.
I want to say: You want to hear about powerlessness? Let me tell you about being