arm and pulled me over to him. He hugged me around the waist, held onto me so hard I couldn’t get away, buried his face in my breasts even as I struggled to get free.
“Is it too much to ask for you just to give in?” he asked.
“I can’t. One day you’ll want something else, something more than we have.”
He’d want a wife. A good wife, a loving wife, someone who would make his breakfast and not resent his little habits and pack a bag for his hang gliding trips and lay out his clothes the night before. A good wife would make sure he was all neat and tidy, well fed, comfortable, pampered even. A good wife.
Who was this good wife? No matter what the contract, it always came down to the woman giving up. I felt we hadn’t made any progress at all. Maze wanted a wife. He had liked having a wife. But he was still talking.
“You always say that but I just don’t get what you think I expect of you.”
“You don’t even realize it,” I said. “But you have expectations. They’re built in.”
“You know what I think?” He nuzzled my breast.
“I know what you’re thinking about .”
“Besides that,” he whispered against my skin.
“What?”
But he never got around to the answer, only pulled me down onto his lap. That night we made love in the coop in our bed, with the stars hidden behind a slow moving layer of clouds. When we were done, a soft rain fell, plinking on the metal roof of the coop, rustling the leaves.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FERRY RIDE
When I was twenty-one, halfway through my senior year at art school I decided I had to “study abroad.” So I applied for a Fulbright grant. Because I was working with glass, I applied to go to Venice. I didn’t want to become a glass blower but at the time I was making prints from photographs. From these prints I made transfers – like T-shirt type transfers – that I ironed onto pieces of glass. When the transfer paper was pulled away, a transparent color image remained behind on the glass. In my Fulbright application, I said I was after a new way to envision images as a series of transparencies within the three dimensions of a sculptural space. Sounded very high falutin’ and, I thought, a bit unintelligible the way most writing about art does, so when my application was accepted, I was amazed. Off I went, camera in hand, a few pieces of clothing in a bag, and not much else. My plan had been to make the photographs, study glass blowing and other things that could be done with glass so I could understand how glass handled, the range of its possibilities and limitations. Problem. They sent me to Rome instead of Venice.
At the airport, my musician boyfriend from college handed me a small box with a silver ring inside.
“Wear it while you’re away,” he said. “When you come back, we’ll get married.”
This was not a total surprise. We had been living together for a year already. He had been against the Fulbright. But neither of us ever expected I would get it. When I did, I convinced myself they were short on women recipients that year. Or maybe it was the glass thing. How many applicants wanted to explore transferring photos onto glass?
I walked down the jetway to the unknown with a promise from my music man to reunite in nine months – same place, who knew what time.
In Rome I found lots of stone. Lots of monumental sculpture. Famous marbles and ceilings and church frescoes. A lot to see. But not much glass. So I concentrated on photographing the people of Italy. Anyway, I didn’t expect to come to grips with what I wanted to achieve in just nine months. But I hoped to get my mind around a vision, to realize it in some parts at least. To define what I wanted to do as an artist. To return home with a vision that no one else could or would create.
I lived frugally. No phone. No computer. No car. Not even a bike. Internet cafes weren’t in yet. I walked the city everywhere. There was a fairly large American community but I stayed away from it
“Is it too much to ask for you just to give in?” he asked.
“I can’t. One day you’ll want something else, something more than we have.”
He’d want a wife. A good wife, a loving wife, someone who would make his breakfast and not resent his little habits and pack a bag for his hang gliding trips and lay out his clothes the night before. A good wife would make sure he was all neat and tidy, well fed, comfortable, pampered even. A good wife.
Who was this good wife? No matter what the contract, it always came down to the woman giving up. I felt we hadn’t made any progress at all. Maze wanted a wife. He had liked having a wife. But he was still talking.
“You always say that but I just don’t get what you think I expect of you.”
“You don’t even realize it,” I said. “But you have expectations. They’re built in.”
“You know what I think?” He nuzzled my breast.
“I know what you’re thinking about .”
“Besides that,” he whispered against my skin.
“What?”
But he never got around to the answer, only pulled me down onto his lap. That night we made love in the coop in our bed, with the stars hidden behind a slow moving layer of clouds. When we were done, a soft rain fell, plinking on the metal roof of the coop, rustling the leaves.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FERRY RIDE
When I was twenty-one, halfway through my senior year at art school I decided I had to “study abroad.” So I applied for a Fulbright grant. Because I was working with glass, I applied to go to Venice. I didn’t want to become a glass blower but at the time I was making prints from photographs. From these prints I made transfers – like T-shirt type transfers – that I ironed onto pieces of glass. When the transfer paper was pulled away, a transparent color image remained behind on the glass. In my Fulbright application, I said I was after a new way to envision images as a series of transparencies within the three dimensions of a sculptural space. Sounded very high falutin’ and, I thought, a bit unintelligible the way most writing about art does, so when my application was accepted, I was amazed. Off I went, camera in hand, a few pieces of clothing in a bag, and not much else. My plan had been to make the photographs, study glass blowing and other things that could be done with glass so I could understand how glass handled, the range of its possibilities and limitations. Problem. They sent me to Rome instead of Venice.
At the airport, my musician boyfriend from college handed me a small box with a silver ring inside.
“Wear it while you’re away,” he said. “When you come back, we’ll get married.”
This was not a total surprise. We had been living together for a year already. He had been against the Fulbright. But neither of us ever expected I would get it. When I did, I convinced myself they were short on women recipients that year. Or maybe it was the glass thing. How many applicants wanted to explore transferring photos onto glass?
I walked down the jetway to the unknown with a promise from my music man to reunite in nine months – same place, who knew what time.
In Rome I found lots of stone. Lots of monumental sculpture. Famous marbles and ceilings and church frescoes. A lot to see. But not much glass. So I concentrated on photographing the people of Italy. Anyway, I didn’t expect to come to grips with what I wanted to achieve in just nine months. But I hoped to get my mind around a vision, to realize it in some parts at least. To define what I wanted to do as an artist. To return home with a vision that no one else could or would create.
I lived frugally. No phone. No computer. No car. Not even a bike. Internet cafes weren’t in yet. I walked the city everywhere. There was a fairly large American community but I stayed away from it
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