Marissa's Friday Presentation

STEPPING INSIDE THE BUBBLES
I’m still jet-lagged; our interview about my “dreams for the future” keeps getting interrupted when I blurt out stories from the recent trip. I babble and stare off into space, trying to account for my professional ambitions while my imagination lingers several time zones away.

“Where do you want to be?” she asked.
“Geographically, you mean?”
Perhaps that sounded like a silly clarification, but geography seems out of my hands. It is foolish to make such fantasies tangible: I will go where a good job is, just like I have always moved in search of work or school. Ties to family, friends, places, relationships seemed secondary; I learned early on that to be an achiever meant to give up sentimentality, that to be “realistic” meant setting aside romance, that cutting ties means you are smart. I have moved nine times in the last sixteen years.

Sometimes, I just want to stop moving.

HELSINKI, FINLAND: KIASMA MUSEUM OF CONTEMPORARY ART
I am supposed to be on a group tour with thirty other people, American and Finnish students joined together for a two week course. The concrete floors and high walls create an echo, and I have difficulty understanding the guide. She is thoughtful and articulate, but the space is more compelling than the loose collection of words I can piece together from her talk. My classmates chatter excitedly; the galleries fill with sound. I want to block out them all, be in the space, see into the artwork – uninterrupted.

In one gallery hang three large plastic bubbles. I gather you are supposed to stand in them, one person at a time. People line up, continue to chatter, pull out cameras. I stay to the edges, overhear the guide explain – the artist worked with a perfume maker to capture her scent impressions of three cities important in her life – Paris, Helsinki, and…was it Budapest? I am intrigued, but I absentmindedly glance through some photographs I can no longer recall, then the group is whisked away to the next gallery. I don’t stand in a bubble.

I try to catch up with the group, be a good student, listen to the guide. But, they move so fast – walking through the galleries, the way I often go through a mall – get what you need, and get out. Snap a picture, read the label, comment to a friend. Next. I can’t keep up. The galleries loop around, connect. The bubbles are now empty.

Three spheres hanging in the space. A diagram on the floor tells you where to put your feet, like those instructions for ballroom dance – stand here, feet together, be still. Bend down, step inside, straighten up.

So, what does Helsinki smell like in the bubble? I don’t have good words for smells, they seem so abstract, but Helsinki in a bubble was definitely different from Paris in a bubble, and you have to be there, stand right in that spot, feet on the diagram, to tell. Be there. Pause. Inhale. Cameras, Facebook updates, blogs can’t capture this. For a moment, I am alone. I relish the bubble, though I can’t stand the perfume. Time to move on.

What would my bubbles be?

SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS: REFRIED BEANS, DRY GRASS, FABRIC SOFTENER
Boredom, confinement. Need something more. Age fifteen: my grades and ability to take tests earn me a spot at a prestigious math and science program, at a university 300 miles away. Do I like math and science? I like anything that means I can leave. Breaking up with my high school boyfriend is devastating, but I understand it is what you do if you are smart. You don’t let attachments hold you back.

HELSINKI, FINLAND: THE FINNISH NATIONAL MUSEUM OF PHOTOGRAPHY
Our hosts are the overachievers of the class: not content to plan just one outing, they organize five, split up the members of our group so we each have a custom, individual tour. We are to work alone, consider themes of familiarity and belonging. At this point I’m confident enough navigating the tram, no longer too embarrassed every time I have to say, “I’m sorry, I can only speak English.” Armed with a carefully marked map courtesy of Elsa, I set out.

Eventually I find my way to the building I am supposed to be at, but since I can never seem to follow directions exactly right I end up at the wrong door, for the third time. I land in a museum instead of artists’ studios, find no one to strike up a conversation with as directed. Except for the kind woman at the desk, it is empty and quiet.

We are supposed to be investigating ideas of “gaze.” Funny to do that in the photography museum, where the gaze has been partly predetermined for you, and where you feel under immense but invisible scrutiny for the part you determine yourself: what am I looking at? Why? Am I really the one choosing?
Finland really has seemed magical – so clean, so polite, so full of light. I’ve been on a break from real life, where as a tourist it is easy to wander and end up mostly in places that seem engineered for your comfort. Helsinki bustles with activity like any modern city, but a sense of calm undergirds everything; life’s urgency is restrained. The people are just so nice.

Then there was the exhibit – just one, tucked in a corner, a secret, as if perhaps the museum’s board wasn’t entirely sure they should let you see it. A sign posted at the entrance gave some warning to children and sensitive patrons, but as it is my practice to ignore such signs, I went right it. It is also my practice to embrace stoicism; I don’t cry at movies.

I didn’t cry at the exhibit either, didn’t hold my breath, felt only a twinge of anxiety as I watched the young woman in the video installation draw a razor across her knee. Oh good, its on a loop, I can stop watching now. The photographs were clearly staged. This boy is a model, this is an artist, not a photojournalist. How did she get the makeup right for those bruises on his spine? How long did it take to get the duct tape just so across his hands, to pose him, motion limited, on the floor like that? How did she get permission to photograph that baby for this project? Wait, what’s up with the toilet in that photograph? That’s not a sparking Finnish, low-flow dual-flush toilet. That looks more like what you’d find in the storage room –turned restroom at a tiny highway gas station somewhere in Texas…
Well, maybe I held my breath a bit. After two weeks of being the last one through the museum, the one dangling at the back of the tour group, the one wanting for just a bit more time to be present, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out. The gallery was small, probably 10 pieces in all. I was stuck. Rooted. Had to walk around and around, staring, one eye open and the other one shut tight. The artist mocked me, screaming: You want Finland, lady, this is Finland! You want social welfare? It can’t catch everyone! You think the best health care and education on the planet makes us safe? Screw healthcare – does this look healthy? You like polite? This is what polite does at home. This is our home, this is someone’s home.

This is your home.

DENTON #1: VOMIT, CARESS BODY WASH, CLARK HALL CHEESEBURGERS
Anxiety, 4.0, more anxiety, 18 credit hours, A is for anxiety achievement afraid. Afraid of myself so I sleep on the floor of my friend Julia’s dorm room, two doors down from mine. She sees me through crisis after crisis, reveals the secret I don’t yet have words for, gently secures my freedom. But, no one stays at North Texas unless they’ve failed. Moving is the expectation. Julia transfers to UT, but I need even more distance.

CLAREMONT, CA: SWEAT, INCENSE, RAIN
It takes me a year to catch up with everyone – they’ve all been together for two years, I feel like an imposter thrust into a tight-knit club at my small college. I’m the young one, book smart but experience dumb. One at a time they leave to go abroad; I stay to finish my degree “on time.” At 19 I’m the youngest in my graduating class, but this is like being the baby bird getting flung from the nest too soon – I only just barely keep myself from smacking into the ground. I don’t want to leave, but I have a degree now so there’s no way to stay. Moving again.

ROVANEIMI, FINLAND
I’ve walked this trail for five days now, back and forth between hotel and university, minus a few mornings once the bus arrived, and that one time at the end of the day when I was totally exhausted and a new friend pulled off the road, ran over to the trail, surprised me, offered a ride. I still can’t pronounce his name correctly.

This morning I sleep in, deliberately miss the bus. There is a side trail, an arrow and I word I can’t understand carefully printed on a wooden sign to point the way. I’ve passed this sign at least nine times by now, never allowing the luxury of an extra moment to see where it goes. Silly, really. It can’t be far, we are at the edge of the water and there isn’t much land left for a trail to meander through. It always seemed unnecessary. This morning, I revel in the unnecessary. It is my last chance to take it.

The short trail leads to a small lookout tower after only a moment. I climb the steps, and like everything in this country, the dimensions seem off. Each step is a little too short for my size 42 feet, the distance between them requiring my knees to lift ever so slightly higher than I am used to. This tricks me into feeling unbalanced, despite my certainty that the stairwell is solid and level, like so much here.

For the first time in a week, I feel like I can breathe. I’m in a city, of course, but the scenery is beautiful. I can see the buildings rising up on the other side of the pond and hear occasional road traffic behind me, but that doesn’t diminish the effect. Someone remembered what was here before the city showed up, was careful that some of it remained. A bench sits at the rear of the tower, calling to me. I have reading to do; this would be the perfect place to contemplate phenomenology.

The mosquitoes, of course, have other ideas. Perhaps they were sent to keep me from retreating into academia yet again, focusing my energies too narrowly on what Gallagher and Zhavi have to say about perception. The mosquitoes call me to my own perception of what is now (buzz), what I remember (my jacket still smells like the bug spray that I’ve brilliantly left on my dresser), what I imagine could be (becoming someone’s blood-feast.) I stay standing, pull my sleeves down over my hands and constantly shift my weight back and forth, eyes focused on the horizon, then the ducks, then the initials carved by generations of Finnish teenagers, many of them probably desperate to get away from this small town. Approaching midsummer, I think, you don’t know how lucky you are, A. G. and R.T.

LAPLACE, LA: SPIT, ANTIBACTERIAL SOAP, CHINESE FOOD
I love teaching but am miserable in my classroom. Emily and I rent a house, are clearly outsiders, commiserate about teaching, but she is more graceful than I am. My students provide the kind of challenge I crave, but the situation breaks me. A mysterious seizure lands me in the hospital; the ensuing medication rollercoaster makes work impossible. I get a medical leave. Regret. U-Haul. Regret.

DENTON #2: DEAD CRICKETS, CIGARETTE SMOKE ON MY CLOTHES, SWEATY HAIR
Admitted to Cal Arts; declining, it felt like a loss to give up California and the fantasy of a reunion with my college friends. “We think you have a lot of potential to contribute to the field,” they said in my interview; thus I am back in Denton, this time, at the other university, this time, on my terms. MFA in dance, sealing the deal that engineering is off the table. By my final semester I finally feel settled, confident, connected. Then they give me a degree, time’s up, move on. I spend my last summer there house sitting for my professor; she and her daughter have a brief weekend at home before leaving the country, and a barbecue on their back porch fills me with longing.

SUOMENLINNA ISLAND, HELSINKI, FINLAND
I pull the thin pink scarf across my face and lean back onto the rock surface. The sun has sapped my energy, yet I have no desire to move indoors, little desire to move. For once, I’m with a large group of people and they too seem content to stay put: stretched out in shorts and bikini tops, their bodies anchored to the rocks, cameras nestled safely inside tote bags. Later we will justify this as an excursion to study the visual culture of the city, but really, we know it was an excuse to hang out on the beach. I’m not complaining.

Yesterday Sauli passed around his iPhone with pictures of a smiling baby; today, he passes around the actual baby. I marvel at how relaxed the parents are, handing her around a group of strangers. I push myself up, squinting; Baby Liina lands in my lap. I am surprised by how solid she is; its not so much that I am holding the baby as I am sitting there and she is holding herself and just happens to be temporarily residing on my lap. I’m content with this arrangement; it keeps either of us from getting attached and reassures me that she’s strong enough to keep her head upright.

Later, leaving the island, I’m surprised at how difficult pushing a stroller over the rocky walkways is, and our conversation breaks as we meander in search of smoother ground. I’m more surprised, though, at how relaxed everyone is. The baby has fallen asleep despite the bumpy ride, and we chat about school, work, plans for the future, about milk and gas prices and why Americans think we need so many cars. Departing the ferry, we say our good-byes; I think about family and fear, about the tightness that comes up in my throat whenever I think about wanting a child, and the fact that I couldn’t see a trace of it in Liina’s mother.

CLEVELAND, OH: DUST, CIGARETTE SMOKE ON HIS CLOTHES, CAT POOP
The bathroom in my apartment is so tiny you have to hold your thighs together when sitting on the pot in order not to burn your leg on the radiator. Three months into my job, I realize that it is a glorified internship and I’m not really there to do what I signed up for. I’m broke. Student loans are coming due. I have to negotiate nightly with my neighbor for a parking spot. It’s freezing. I come home from the theater exhausted. My cat shits in the bathtub since I don’t clean his box enough.
Then I fall in love.

Dream job posted, brilliant cover letter, phone interview. Breakfast in Pittsburgh, high on the promise of escape. Offer. UHaul. No time for regret. He helps me move.

CHARLOTTE, NC: BASIL, MELTING CRAYONS, EGGPLANT PARMESAN
He says he will come in six months. I don’t trust myself enough to believe him.
I finally have a grown-up job, doing work I love, that I’m good at. The randomness of past jobs and schooling gels, makes sense. He does come, though, gets a good job too. Occasional cooking replaces frozen pizza. I plant a container garden on the porch. Our rent goes up and we consider buying a house.

Job posting on the email. Cover letter, sample syllabi, new suit, two-day interview. “All I know is that if I were young, and wanted to get into academia, I would be a fool to pass this up.” Tearful resignation letter. We move together.

ALTA, NORWAY
It is the warmest day all year, the waiter tells us. My toes feel suffocated inside the wool socks and responsible shoes I packed for the Arctic – why did I leave my Chacos behind?

Stretching out from the deck of the museum is some of the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen. My friends compare gift shop finds, postcards to send home; they pose for more photos against the stunning backdrop. My piriformis nudges me with tension. I am standing at the edge of the Arctic Ocean and the most prominent thought in my head is that my right butt hurts. The deck looks like a good yoga space, and I sit down, ease into stretch. The air invites me to relax. Too soon, another well meaning, over-informed guide beckons those of us tagged with blue stickers. Time to move on.

Carefully carved trails deposit us at strategic points to observe the ancient rock carvings. Twenty or so people, cameras around their necks, huddle around a stone. From where I’m standing, its nothing special. The guide explains that the carving is of a reindeer and, is it a boat? Her eager voice floats past me, all I see is a flat hunk of rock.

Moving on. The next rock has carvings in red, so I clearly see a human figure, a reindeer, a boat. I catch bits of the explanation – the curators have been experimenting with pigments that will not damage the rock, that will last – that will reveal the shallow carvings to rushed and impatient tourists. (This, of course, she states more diplomatically.) I’m thinking, now who is shallow here? But I smile and nod, “amazing,” to the camera-wielding couple next to me. Reindeer and hunters and boats and sun gods, all revealed before us. Amazing.

Amazing that when the group passes, I go back to the first rock. I know where to look now, but it takes some time. I have to close my eyes, open them anew. Breathe. Let my vision hover over the rock face, wait. (Patience has never been one of my virtues.) Eventually, I make out parts of something that could stand for a human figure. My imagination fills in the rest. I want to reach out and touch the rock, feel the cracks that crisscross the carved surface, run my finger into those grooves made thousands of years ago to mark – I look up. The group is way ahead. I quickly snap something as I am pushed out of the way by the next gaggle of tourists. Moving on.

I want more than a moment. I am greedy about space and time. I don’t like the vacationers next to me, and I detest the rope separating me from the rocks. I want to be present in this landscape, let my attention fall on the complete picture – rocks, carvings, moss, trees, ocean. Breathe it all in at once. Work at it to climb to the higher rocks, the hidden rocks, grip them and pull myself up. Work at it to let my eyes find their way into the space where the carving merges into smooth rock. Work at it to imagine what meanings these artifacts might have – to the people who made them, to the ones who uncovered them, to us who see them today.

The package of tourism doesn’t seem to care about my body, the wanderings of my mind, my cravings for space. Tourism doesn’t want me to have to work, offers preplanned ease and timed comforts. My desire to linger cannot be accommodated, lunch is ready. I feel as if I am trying to slow down my breath and the nurse at my side is inducing hyperventilation. The trail takes me right where it has been determined I should be – quickly and efficiently carved up this space, convenient to visitors. What is wrong with me that I can’t take my art in quick does, experience my nature efficiently?

CHATTANOOGA, TN: ROSEMARY, OFFICE AIR CONDITIONING, CURRY
We only sign a six month lease on a cookie cutter apartment. Tall trees abound. My mother gives me a luggage set for Christmas; it gets well used in my new job. We think we will scope out the area, then buy a house. “Marriage = Man + Woman” bumper stickers scare the shit out of me. I never call a realtor. A few boxes remain unpacked. I can’t find a nice bookstore. I cynically write “Crappanooga” on my address.

We get married but I remain the only one in the office without children. He adopts my system for organizing grocery lists: Produce, Dairy, Frozen, Packaged, Bulk, Miscellaneous; we buy a bread machine. After two years, I start writing out applications to PhD programs. I make friends at a yoga workshop, get invited to dinner, celebrate acceptance letters. How many cities can you kayak through downtown, or have a hiking trail in your backyard? I realize I will miss it.

COLUMBUS, OH: RUBBER, BUS EXHAUST, PAPER
We volunteer one rainy Saturday for a community graffiti cleanup. One of the longtime residents chats: the economy will pick up, the governor’s new plan will bring lots of jobs, why don’t you buy a house? Columbus is a good place to live and raise kids. If only I could.

I am assigned to work on a group presentation about Columbus to present to our Finnish classmates. Everyone else shares stories of OSU football games, walks through German village, sites on their bike ride home. I don’t know about these places, these markers of Columbus in the world. On my bike ride home I often pass more private markers: the bungalows in Clintonville, modest homes with cheerful landscaping and the sounds of laughing children coming from the backyard, those signs of a familial permanence just beyond my reach. Columbus to me is like everywhere and nowhere rolled into one; sometimes I walk out of the Target on Olentangy River Road and I can’t remember where I am. Now I’m getting ready to go abroad and have nothing good, nothing interesting to tell about where I’m coming from.

HELSINKI: STRAWBERRIES, LICORICE, SOAP
A recording announces that the museum will soon be closing. I am the last of our group to leave, and even then I find myself skimming through some exhibits. It takes me so long to just be there, be present.

On the tram I sit at the joint where two cars meet. I don’t realize this, and am surprised when my body moves and my feet don’t; a moment later the second car turns and my feet swing to catch up. It takes awhile to get used to this sensation, but it doesn’t bother me. It does, however, make me acutely aware that I am in a place that is not, and never will be, home. I am clearly a visitor, a tourist.

I visit the home of another student for dinner. Her apartment is small but cozy, filled with artworks she has collected and made. I am grateful for the home cooked meal and impressed with her generosity. But unlike visits to the homes of American friends, I don’t feel envious. In American homes I think about who lives there, how long they have been there, if they own the house or not. I fantasize about being in a settled space. But in Helsinki, I can’t imagine being in her place, don’t want to be. I’m free to just enjoy the evening, untethered to longing.

That, perhaps, is the ultimate magic of this trip – finding a space so foreign that it never could be home, frees me from the nagging question that follows me everywhere in my own country – “could this be it? Is there a university in this town? What are the schools like?...” and on and on, as if I could take other cities into the fitting room and try them on, tuck price tags under my armpit, give a little twirl, imagine myself there. But European sizing is different and I don’t feel like trying anything on.

Here in Helsinki, then, I’m just an admirer. An admirer who has been confused by the roads at odd angles, who has relied on graphics more than ever, who was jarred and unsettled by art, who stood in the Baltic Sea until her toes went numb. This amounts to far more than window shopping, far more than a casual gaze. Something of Finland will stay with me - the affinity for salmiakki, perhaps, the urge to literally run to the exits with my elbows and knees at perfect sharp angles as commanded by green signs, the humility of hearing my native language spoken flawlessly by those who learned it as their third or fourth.

Finally, in a place I could never settle, do I begin to sense what I can’t ever stop moving long enough to notice: I’ll be OK wherever I end up.