Martin Brick - Self-portrait in words (not my medium)

Martin Brick

Self-portrait in words
(not my medium)

How do I draw myself in a medium I don’t use? I am product, not process. My state of being is a state, not an attitude, not a philosophy, not a demeanor. Paint on canvas. Dried.

Maybe it will be more productive to discuss who I am not.

Sophie lies in my bed and asks so many questions. She reads the label of a bottle of ink. Made in the U.S.A. Where in the U.S.A.? The label does not say. There’s no state that comes to mind as “the Ink State.” Do you think it’s made in New York? No, things made in New York are up-front and proud of it. They say Made in New York. Things Made in the U.S.A. are made in Missouri or Delaware. Must be. What the hell else does Delaware do? They don’t make cheese or steel or thoroughbred horses, so they must handle all the things no one notices, like ink. Small town, 2,000 people. Half the population works at the ink factory. What kind of jobs would there be in an ink factory? Mixing? Packaging? Labeling? Some people watching gauges and twisting valves on a steaming monstrosity of pipes? Research and development? Marketing? These are questions she poses to fill the void. This is not me. I’ve never “stopped to consider.” I consider it hard to “consider” when she asks. What I wonder is why she asks. Is this really what it is like inside her head, or are these questions a conscious effort, a need to engage me vocally at all times?

My apartment does not have a shower, so I take baths. But I am not a guy who takes baths. Sophie says I am, because I linger. A true shower-man would get in, get clean, and get out, but I stay for an hour sometimes. Lie and smoke cigarettes. She says she understands. It’s great to unwind. I honestly don’t think I know what “unwind” means. I am not a person who winds or unwinds.

In a week Sophie seems to forget we ever had a conversation about my bath, and then mentions how she finds it appropriately bohemian that I have a tub. She assumes I must read a lot while bathing. Camus, she predicts.

I am not a person who reads in the tub. I’m not a person who reads much.

She wonders what I do in there. Do I think or dream?

I don’t know. I’m just there.

Blank, she assumes, how meditative. Zen.

But no. I am not a person who seeks emptiness or anything higher. That sounds so conceptual. For me, there is no beauty in anything that does not look or feel or taste good.

I am not one who worries about cancer. I do not think much about death or misfortune in general. This has its advantages. For example, in the middle of a summer night when the windows are open. Sophie hears noises. When the drapes billow into the room she imagines an intruder entering my apartment. I have the advantage of not falling for those illusions, but I also give no thought to the sound of her feet leaving. Whether it is after a fight or for a practical reason (early work, perhaps) I might hear, but will not regard until morning, when I am fully conscious. Sometimes then, it is too late.