Revisited is a series in which writers look back on a work of art they first encountered long ago. Here, Catherine Lacey remembers her first visit to Houston’s Cy Twombly Gallery.
If one accepts that love is at least one part disaster—if one accepts that love cannot be effectively diagnosed or measured—if one accepts that a person cannot predict or control when such a feeling might take root—if one accepts that a person in love frequently behaves in a manner that others see as irrational—and if one accepts that it is difficult, if not altogether impossible, to explain those feelings—then it may be possible for a woman of twenty-two to be in love, however briefly, with an entire building and all of its contents.
Once, I was an art student living in post-Katrina New Orleans—lonely, malnourished, diligent, and not such a nice person to be around. Approximately four people could tolerate me, and all four were in love with other people, actual people. They all held hands beneath the table during our elaborate potlucks as I worked on deepening early frown lines. The city was still absent of locals and filled with transients—students, migrant workers, real-estate developers, and demolition teams who’d come to salvage the wreck. Women were in scarce supply, and I was regularly asked out by men twice my age who were passing through town. I must have looked a little like a woman, a little like a flooded house. Read More