David did not appreciate my pieces. He suggested this could be the end of my serious artistic career; no respectable curator would take my paintings seriously if I presented a toilet as art. I explained Duchamp and the urinal, Fountain. I was not doing anything particularly new or shocking. I simply thought it was amusing. I told David I would not enter the pieces with my name, since I had no interest in them being associated with me. I would come up with a silly name, like Duchamp did, a joke name. I came up with Baba Blakshi. My serious painting would not be affected (I was wrong, of course, but for reasons different from the ones David mentioned).
The pieces were not only the hit of the exhibit — the other works in the show were childish — they were talked about for months afterward. There was more interest in the works of Baba Blakshi than there ever was in those of Sarah Nour el-Din. What I thought was a joke took on a seriousness all its own. Baba ridiculed the hypocrisy of the art world and the perfidious art world swallowed Baba up.
If I were to do it again, I would not have given birth to Baba. I allowed myself to be carried away by the attention directed toward Baba, thinking it innocuous. Slowly, but surely, I began to bestow upon Baba’s work a respect it did not deserve. Baba pervaded my life, every aspect of it. Cynicism is a cruel, parasitic mistress. It seduces; like a succubus, it drains its flunky of any creative energy, redirecting all toward its own survival. Baba was nothing if not cynicism incarnate. No wonder she flourished.
I never had control of Baba, nor did she ever remunerate my efforts. Most of her work was difficult to sell (with the exception of Jesse-in-My-Toilet, which sold in an instant for more money than any other “piece” of art I had produced). Since Baba was ephemeral, she received more attention than her creator. I finally lost Baba a year and a half ago, at my last exhibit. To further a joke that was no longer amusing, I asked a few artists to come up with Baba works. They produced a number of pieces which the gallery liked more than my originals. My Baba exhibit included nothing of mine. She is going strong somewhere now, but has nothing to do with me. The art world still loves Baba, although she does not ridicule hypocrisy much anymore. Baba’s work has become less funny and more cruel, a natural progression.
I lost David during the transition from Sarah to Baba. He did not leave me because of it, but there was never any doubt that he disapproved vehemently of Baba. He considered her tacky, classless, and contemptible. I cannot blame him for that.
~ ~ ~
As a young girl, I always felt my life was being filmed for posterity. I thought of myself as an actress in a documentary or a piece of cinéma verité. I imagined myself being the subject of a future episode of This Is Your Life. I even practiced it. I sat in front of the mirror, trying on different facial expressions. Shock at being considered worthy of a retrospective of my fabulous life, surprise for when they called my elementary school teacher, tears for when they called my mother, Janet, and glee for when they called my father.
The practice sessions stopped as I grew older, of course, but my self-focus never allowed me to diverge from the belief that my life must be recorded.
Goethe said:
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it;
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
I begin.
~ ~ ~
If I were to write our love story, no one would believe it. My real-life story is unbelievable. I tell my friends, but they dismiss my love for you as puerile, inconsequential. I tell them what happened and they consider me foolish. Perhaps I never manage to convey how much I loved you. I say it: I love you. I love you so much, my heart aches, a physical hurt. But what does it mean really? Words, nothing but words. If I could show them how much I loved you, how much I love you still, they might see why I stayed, how I let the story unfold. If I could show them, I would be able to explain how I let the cruelest man in the world destroy any remaining dignity I might have had.
So how? How can I describe to a passerby the way I felt about you? I can’t tell stories of what we did together. We did nothing. We never went anywhere, an entire relationship spent in my bed not having sex. Do I describe in loving prose how you look? Do I tell how you held me, how I felt in your arms? I don’t know how. It would have to be something different. I can talk about how it felt when I knew it was over.
In front of a painting. That’s how I knew. Titian. The Flaying of Marsyas. Apollo killed the satyr Marsyas by skinning him alive. His muscles exposed, every vein and sinew seen. Repulsive. Left with nothing to hang on to, no honor, no decency, shamed. I opened myself to you only to be skinned alive. The more vulnerable I became, the faster and more deft your knife. Knowing what was happening, still I stayed and let you carve more. That’s how much I loved you. That’s how much.
~ ~ ~
On an exceptionally hot evening early in August, I stood on the sidewalk in Beirut waiting for a taxi to take me home.
The Mediterranean sun was still blazing and I was about to faint.
I had recently recovered from a nasty bout of bronchitis and was just beginning to realize I should not have gone out.
Beirut is detestable in August.
Even the air is filthy.
I wanted to be home, in my bed.
It was 1976. The city was beginning to look damaged.
I could feel the ripening sun burn my skin, pale from having spent most of the summer indoors.
I was too skinny, my stepmother said.
Too sickly.
I wore a black linen dress.
The linen was perfect for the weather, but the color was not.
The dress was covered with tiny colorful flowers, a happy motif.
The black was a stark contrast to my skin.