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| Much of this panel from Lloyd's 5-panel composition Uptown Splash, Dallas, Texas is re-purposed abstract art painted in the field across the railroad tracks from our first apartment. |
As Marci and I headed west, we drove through neighborhoods I once knew well. At one point, I could see that the first apartment complex Lloyd and I lived in was gone, but most everything around it was still intact, and so in a moment of passing, I was able to slip over a line and see myself as I once was through an old film-reel flicking granular pictures against the corroding stucco walls of my mind.
Things did not go well when Lloyd and I moved to Dallas. Much of Texas enforced sodomy laws that did not allow two single men to live together. The fact that we had the same last name and clearly resembled each other as brothers didn't make a difference. Most places simply would not rent to us.
So, rather than select an apartment in our price range that was desirable, we accepted the only place that would accept us, and it was very undesirable. The manager was this nice, old lady. The owner, whoever he was, at least wasn't sitting around in his underwear thinking about all the kinky things that could possibly go on behind the closed doors of his rentals. However, the apartment was small, damp, and had rank, rotting carpet and deteriorating furniture that I assume was purchased from a motel that rents rooms by the hour. It also had very low light--not exactly the artist studio my brother dreamed about when he decided to move to Texas.
We started our new lives out very differently than the ones we experienced when my parents were living in a nice townhouse complex with a pool, a sauna, a rec-room, and a BMW or Mercedes parked out in front of each house on the block. This clearly was a different side to Dallas, though only a few miles away.
Still, we were excited. Despite the reality before us, we were optimistic the way only the young can be. The great thing about youth is that you have so much life before you, it isn't that irrational to dream big. There simply is such a vast horizon of time ahead even the most self-doubting soul knows a lot can happen. You can dream regardless of the current situation.
So, we unpacked the Mustang and hung up Lloyd's paintings in an apartment so dark, they were never really seen except under the tint of dull yellow bulbs.
And we put the stereo on the dresser in the bedroom and put in one of the only two 8-tracks that still played--Meatloaf and John Denver--and life was good. At least life was good until a fitted sheet came off my bed in the night and once again I was faced with what I was actually sleeping on. That happened often, and frankly, it was horrifying, as was the smell left after the carpet was vacuumed.
Outside was better. The apartment complex was U-shaped and there was some lawn between the wings. On the other side of the lawn was a Pepsi machine outside the office that emitted a crisp light that shined in the night. I liked to look out the living room window--one of the only two windows in the apartment--and see the clean glow. I put many quarters in that machine. The Pepsi was good; the short journey was better. If only for a few moments, it got us outside, and in a sense, away from poverty. Perhaps that is why people who live in motels hang outside at night on lawn chairs resting in parking lots of gravel and shattered glass. Poverty is less present with the smell of magnolia trees heavy on the wind. Florescent light, and the moths flickering around them, provide a clarity not found under the dull yellow light inside.
Oh how I loved sticking two quarters in that machine and hearing the thud of a cold Pepsi. It would have been much cheaper, of course, to just buy a six pack, but a lot less therapeutic. We then used the empty Pepsi cans to solve a problem. We only had one real window in the place. It didn't let in much light due to the small courtyard and the balcony walkway above us. Yet, the sidewalk to the complex ran right by our window. We were basically living in a Motel 6. If we left the drapes open, anyone walking by could stop and watch us like two fish in a tank. If we closed the heavy, yellowed cloth drapes, all natural light vanished. So, Lloyd decided we should build a screen of evenly spaced Pepsi cans. We laid out a row of cans stacked three high, one-can width between each column, placed a 1" X 4" board across that, and started the process all over again until the window was filled. It worked and looked cool. Of course, it blocked out some light, but not near as much as closed drapes. Of course, it didn't block out all possibility of seeing in, but at least we weren't living in a department store display window anymore. It was a good compromise between light and privacy.
Still, outside was better. Behind the apartment complex was a half-asphalt/half-gravel, pot-hole pocked parking lot with little bits of broken glass. Behind that, was a story-high cinder and gravel covered berm topped with railroad tracks and an occasional passing train, and on the other side of that, there was a big open field of weeds. That field became my brother's art studio. There was space, and there was natural light. Of course, some days there was also wind and flying shit, but he made the best of it. Besides a few twigs and leaves stuck on your canvas can sometimes create momentum, some sort of active dialog between artist, nature and the canvas. And so he worked, as all great artists do, regardless of circumstance.
Still, we were excited. Despite the reality before us, we were optimistic the way only the young can be. The great thing about youth is that you have so much life before you, it isn't that irrational to dream big. There simply is such a vast horizon of time ahead even the most self-doubting soul knows a lot can happen. You can dream regardless of the current situation.
So, we unpacked the Mustang and hung up Lloyd's paintings in an apartment so dark, they were never really seen except under the tint of dull yellow bulbs.
And we put the stereo on the dresser in the bedroom and put in one of the only two 8-tracks that still played--Meatloaf and John Denver--and life was good. At least life was good until a fitted sheet came off my bed in the night and once again I was faced with what I was actually sleeping on. That happened often, and frankly, it was horrifying, as was the smell left after the carpet was vacuumed.
Outside was better. The apartment complex was U-shaped and there was some lawn between the wings. On the other side of the lawn was a Pepsi machine outside the office that emitted a crisp light that shined in the night. I liked to look out the living room window--one of the only two windows in the apartment--and see the clean glow. I put many quarters in that machine. The Pepsi was good; the short journey was better. If only for a few moments, it got us outside, and in a sense, away from poverty. Perhaps that is why people who live in motels hang outside at night on lawn chairs resting in parking lots of gravel and shattered glass. Poverty is less present with the smell of magnolia trees heavy on the wind. Florescent light, and the moths flickering around them, provide a clarity not found under the dull yellow light inside.
Oh how I loved sticking two quarters in that machine and hearing the thud of a cold Pepsi. It would have been much cheaper, of course, to just buy a six pack, but a lot less therapeutic. We then used the empty Pepsi cans to solve a problem. We only had one real window in the place. It didn't let in much light due to the small courtyard and the balcony walkway above us. Yet, the sidewalk to the complex ran right by our window. We were basically living in a Motel 6. If we left the drapes open, anyone walking by could stop and watch us like two fish in a tank. If we closed the heavy, yellowed cloth drapes, all natural light vanished. So, Lloyd decided we should build a screen of evenly spaced Pepsi cans. We laid out a row of cans stacked three high, one-can width between each column, placed a 1" X 4" board across that, and started the process all over again until the window was filled. It worked and looked cool. Of course, it blocked out some light, but not near as much as closed drapes. Of course, it didn't block out all possibility of seeing in, but at least we weren't living in a department store display window anymore. It was a good compromise between light and privacy.
Still, outside was better. Behind the apartment complex was a half-asphalt/half-gravel, pot-hole pocked parking lot with little bits of broken glass. Behind that, was a story-high cinder and gravel covered berm topped with railroad tracks and an occasional passing train, and on the other side of that, there was a big open field of weeds. That field became my brother's art studio. There was space, and there was natural light. Of course, some days there was also wind and flying shit, but he made the best of it. Besides a few twigs and leaves stuck on your canvas can sometimes create momentum, some sort of active dialog between artist, nature and the canvas. And so he worked, as all great artists do, regardless of circumstance.
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