Rear Window – The New York Review of Books

March 15

Watching the dog across the yard has taken on new meaning, now that we arent supposed to leave our homes.

Im sorry this is such a terrible image. Im a very self-conscious person, so when I cant do something perfectly, I do it terribly instead. The white area is the dog. The yellow shapes are a long window and a glass door that leads out into the second story porch. The black shapes are the porch, the stairs that lead up to the third story fire escape, and the woman of the house, who is sitting on the steps with a hot drink in her hand. (I cant see the drink, but since she always has one, Im assuming she has one now). Ive been watching her for months, since I moved my desk from the front of my apartment to the back. But now that she and her neighbors are the people I see most everyday, beside my boyfriend and myself in the mirror, I feel especially invested in them. Park Slope looks as picturesque as a stage set: a quality thats easy to miss in real life, when youre being shoved and yelled at in the food coop.

Ive named the dog Walt, for now at least. Im not very good with names. I feel like things are embodied completely by their physical forms this deep, patently false belief is one of the many problematic things about us cartoonists and a name just adds another, confusing, wholly unnecessary dimension. Names work best in fiction, when there are no images. The names are the images. That said, Ive named the womanWalts ownerJasmine. I think shes a Pilates instructor or something. Shes very fit, and also very wholesome. Maybe forty-five. Drinks a lot of tea(?). (Or maybe, I like to think, whiskey.) She has a son, maybe twelve, whom Ive named Elias. Ive never seen the man who must be her partner, except as a fleeting shape behind the window.

Next door is Sonia, my favorite. Shes oldermaybe seventy-two. She sits huddled up on the porch all winter smoking cigarettes and talking on the phone. Sometimes, when its nice out, she reads a book. She, too, possesses a vague man who looms behind windows.

Downstairs is Beth, a vest enthusiast with a new puppy, Whiskers. Once Beth had companya blondish woman Ill call Nance. I hope theyre a couple, but Im not sure.

The gray squirrels are Douglas and Phyllistwo lovely, soft, blue-gray names. (Vladimir Nabokov believed blue-lavender-gray was the color of eternity, and I agree). The black squirrel is Rockfeller. The woodpecker is Simon. The orange cat is Frisco. The Grackles (why do I capitalize that?) are Larkin and Fly-By-Night.

Of all these names, Sonia is the only one Im really content with. Ive watched her the longest. Shes the only one who spent any time outside during the winter.

Im procrastinating working on my comican adaptation of the Book of Genesis with a childlike, female God, which I think Ill call Let There Be Light. My understanding of how my own work is going consists mostly of strong but hard-to-read feelings. The deadening boredom Ive felt since I got to Abraham must mean somethingthat Im off course. But Im not sure how, and Im not sure how to figure out how. And Im not sure whether to ignore the feelings for now and push ahead with this draft of the book, or listen to them, stop working, and consider. One relevant piece of information is that God has a much smaller part in The Torah after the arrival of Abraham. Shes the catalyst that sends him on his journey, but hes the hero (and the patriarch).

Im not interested in him. I dont understand him. A good man, savvy about real estate, very aware of the needs of strangers, but rather dense when it comes to empathizing with his wife, Sarah. He reminds me of most of the men in my family, who really have no place in my art (art is not life).

God, on the other hand. I love her. I cant let these epic heroes steal her show. Anyway, nothing is happening in the comics department. Im shading in blacks and grays on pages Ill probably end up scrapping in a month, and procrastinating by writing this journal.

March 16

My boyfriend, Bartholomew (who, to protect his privacy, is pseudonymous, and also possibly imaginary), is isolating with me at my place. All my complicated ritualsfood, caf, weekly museum, weekly day trip to Long Island, friendshave flown out the window (the metaphorical window, not the rear window), replaced by a vague, somehow calm sensation of falling down a well. For now, things are very quiet. Bartholomew and I cook our meals. We wipe the doorknobs of our apartment. We avoid people. We wash our hands. We feel guilty and worried about our parents and my grandma, whom we are not visiting. The crisis lurks around the corner. Its a bit of a relief to let the rituals goto have been forced to. My rituals were mostly about feeling freewandering around, looking at things, touching all the places at once without being touched myself. Watching people without being seen by them. An impossible thing to pull off.

I often wonder why ghosts are portrayed, in ghost stories, as sad. If ghosts existed (they dont), I think Id very much enjoy being one.

8 AM. Jasmine is in the yard downstairsBeths yard(?)throwing the ball for Walt, who stands on two legs in glee. Jasmine is holding a steaming mug again. Other people are endlessly entertaining, as long as they dont see, touch, or expect a single thing from me.

11 AM. First I saw a woodpecker. Then Jasmines man came out(!). Baseball hat, cigarette. Surprising in Park Slope.

March 17

8:30 AM. Sonia is behind her glass porch door drinking somethinga hot toddy?

The magnolia out my window will burst into flower in a couple of days.

The governor and the mayor seem to hate each other.

I believe Sonia has two floors, which she shares with the shadowy bald man. There are now a number of people in her apartment: two, three generations? Do they always live there? Or is this some kind of a group quarantine? The younger ones cook and bake, while Sonia helps out and does laundry upstairs. Sonias been smoking much less than usualeither, Ive decided, for fear of getting sick, or because her family doesnt like when she smokes.

Jasmine and her man, on the other hand, both seem to have taken up smoking with gusto. These are unprecedented times.

A note on capitalism: Ive always considered myself to be a person who doesnt particularly hate capitalism. Being paid for my art has meant being accepted by society, which is not something I take for granted. But now that society seems to be crumbling, theres less pressure.There is less of a stigma attached to not making moneyto not having work. So while I still want those things, I only want them insomuch as they will allow me to pay rent and buy food. Theyre no longer symbols of success. Without the implication that busyness equals success, Im happy to have slowed down. Im just sitting at my desk, drawing, and writing this journal sometimes.

I also like not rushing around buying things, and not being pushed and trampled by other people who are rushing around buying things. There is a lot to think about there, and lots of time to think.

1 PM. Phyllis and Douglasboth squirrelshave sex, or foreplay, or a fight.

2 PM. Jasmine is wiping down her doorknobs.

2:09 PM. Jasmine is smoking on the porch. She looks so sad.

5 PM. Went for a run with Bartholomew in a very crowded park. Swerved and dodged to try to keep the recommended six-foot distance from others, but it wasnt easy, especially as a twosome. Social distancing has been nice for me, in a way. In general, I cant stand having my personal space invaded, especially by a stranger, and am always trying to manage things so people dont touch or lunge at me on the sidewalksa losing battle. But now, Im keeping my distance for the common good. Everyone is doing it. Except the people who arent, who are irresponsible assholes.

We saw three Irishmen playing music on their stoop for Saint Patricks Day. I teared up. The world as we know it seems to have ended.

6 PM. Lonely.

March 18

Sonia ate a banana. The normal way.

March 19

One of the magnolia buds is just, just, just about to bloom.

Ive decided to name Jasmines man Peter.

Sonias man, the bald one, is more of a Calshort for Calvin. A nice, bald name.

Last night I panicked because the fairy doll I keep on my counter had lost her baby. I bought the fairy from little girls on the street a few months ago. Shy girls, and good artists. We found the baby (who is made of yarn and a wooden bead) under the counter, untouched, and reunited them. I named the fairy Nectar, and Bartholomew named her baby Seedling.

Im starting to understand why things are named. Its a way of making friends with someone you shouldnt be friends with, because that person is unknown, or imaginary, or an object.

Read more from the original source:
Rear Window - The New York Review of Books