I wrote you a letter

Nov 09, 2021

With the news that Mark Zuckerberg is now creating a metaverse—an entirely new reality for all of us to inhabit (what could possibly go wrong?)—and the fact that Instagram just locked me out of my account and wouldn’t let me back in until I submitted to facial recognition, I’m drawn with grasping fervor to our tangible reality. I want to cling to the physical world as much as I can. So, instead of the post I had planned for this week, I wrote you a letter. On paper. With a pen.

Dear One, Whenever anyone asks me how I’m doing lately I usually shrug and say, “I have no idea,” or “I’m alive and everyone I love is alive, so that seems like a win.” I say these things because the truth is too ineffable, too amorphous for casual social interaction. This week, an artist whom I’d only met once (I interviewed her about an incredible short film she made during the pandemic) sent me a sweet message on Instagram. For reasons I can’t entirely explain, when she asked me how I was doing I gave her the real answer, the messy answer, the completely-inappropriate-for-a-social-media-DM answer. “I can’t quite locate myself in space,” I wrote. She replied with her phone number, asking if we could move to text messaging because she had some images that I needed. She said this as though I’d told just her about a discrete and fixable problem for which she had the definitive solution, instead of having just revealed an overwhelming, free-floating existential ennui. But here’s the thing: she did have the definitive solution. Ten images followed, each one a lost part of me located in space, a representation of a feeling I haven’t been able put into words. There is the half-drowned car, hopelessly rusted since its time of bright utility, marooned in the forest just as I have been on the island of my couch these last twenty months. The luminarias disappearing over the hillside feels like all of the moments when the next steps have seemed clear—a faint glow of hope to guide our way through—only to recede back into uncertainty and doubt. If you look toward the horizon, you know that the pathway will be navigable at some indeterminate point in the future, but there’s no sense of how far away that is.

All images by Sophia Wright Emigh

A vintage blue station wagon half drowned in the middle of a forest, stuck in mud and leaves, all the windows blown out.

A black hillside at night with three luminarias in the foreground and numerous snaking off into the darkness over the hill in the background.

A white wall with shadows of tree branches on it. In the foreground a small hand of a toddler, points to the shapes on the wall.

A toddler's chubby hand submerged in a glass filled with cloudy liquid.

A blurry portrait of a sleeping toddler lying on the chest of their mom, whose face is only partially in the frame.

The tiny, inquisitive finger pointing at the shadows belongs to all of us trying to identify what is real, what is lasting, and what will disappear when the light fades. The chubby little hand submerged in a cup of milky liquid perfectly captures the surreality of this prolonged state of suspended animation. What the hell is in the cup? How did the hand get there? What are we doing? Does time still exist? The self-portrait of the artist, Sophia, with her child—bleary and blurry in sleep—is as though she took a photograph of my most visceral desire. After having lived my entire life pining for solitude, I now want nothing more than a close and constant proximity to others. I remember, as a child, the feeling of being woken by a violent nightmare and not knowing if I was okay until someone else’s presence, embrace, or comfort told me that I was. We grow out of this, thankfully, and learn to self-regulate, though this ability has eluded me for the past couple months. It simply left me and hasn’t come back. I’m in need of co-regulation, the comfort that only other people can provide. (It’s definitely not in scotch, Netflix, or the internet—I checked.) Seeing an image of what it looks like, clarifies this need while simultaneously soothing it. This is why I will forever devote myself to art and artists: because a single text exchange with an artist I met once has identified new coordinates on the map of my experience, has helped me better see the route that we all took in together and the road that I need to take out. Perhaps seeing art, which I haven’t been able to do until recently, is part of co-regulation for me—the best way right now that I can be in someone’s presence and feel their mysterious embrace.

Thank you to Sophia Wright Emigh for letting me use her beautiful images. Here’s a short film she co-directed with artist Jaleesa Johnston. It may help you to locate yourself in space right now if you, too, are needing a little love on that front.

And another:

We will return next week with our regularly scheduled programming.

6 Comments

RossLee

Nov 10, 2021Liked by Jennifer Rabin

Reason #3,427 we still need handwriting instruction in schools! This surprise handwritten letter is the perfect partner to both the story and the art. It all feels personal and reflects the deep connection inherent to the act of reaching out and the care we are all able to offer each other in small, quiet moments. We’ve been programmed to think of art as impressive if it’s hanging on a big white wall in a museum or gallery, but it most impresses me when it’s part of a small act of caring, communication, or exploration. We illuminate a moment and wind up illuminating each other. Thank you for sharing this gift.

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1 reply by Jennifer Rabin

ruthE fox

Wow! This presentation and articulation of inner, drifty, listlessness hit me directly, I feel seen and understood! What a fabulous piece, in both content and creativity. I will revisit repeatedly for introspection and use as ignition for boosting out of the depths of this cloudy, confused, current, semi-suspended state of being. 👌💯🌱

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I wrote you a letter