Deconstructing a Darkroom, The Solitude Chronicles, Day 4

My darkroom had always been a retreat for me in my late teens. Dad built it for me in our utility room when I started college as an art student at seventeen. No matter what time of the day or night, no one would question my presence in that space. Due to the light sensitivity of the items in the room, no one dared open the door while I was working. It was the perfect hideout where I manipulated light to create beautiful images while I shut out outside noise.

Since my dad became sick a year ago, things have been rough. My mom's been alone and I am now faced with one of those adult choices I don't truly want to make: Keep my place and independence or move in with mom so that she doesn't feel quite so lonely. I know what's right. Still, I have been fighting it in my heart and now must make the choice. So yesterday I went there to tackle the clutter in my mom's place and get ready for a move in the near future.

We spent hours sorting through items that have little or no monetary value. They filled what once was my old art studio and the utility room I used as a darkroom all those years ago. Buttons and baubles, clothes, art paper and brushes, dad's old computer shells - at least twenty of them, little figurines that my mom collects ranging from dollar store junk that I wanted to toss to the little cloisonne style boxes I love to touch and open as if a mysterious surprise was waiting for me within. Then we came to the darkroom.

I took my deepest breath and thought about each item in the space. There were chemical bottles dating back to the '60s and '70s. I took a picture and posted it to Facebook. Surely someone would like to make something out of these antiques. I set aside the apothecary jars that I loved to touch as a child. My favorites had glass stoppers and felt cool and slick. I ran my fingers over them and smiled remembering the patience dad had shown when I broke one. Inhale... Exhale... Continue... Then came the enlarger. My dad had printed pictures of my mom and her sister with their smooth skin and hair - magical, suspended in a time and place that has since melted in the fabric of space. He'd printed a picture of me and my uncle on the beach. I remember he stood there calling to me from a few feet away, challenging me to take a few steps into the water. possibly meet him half way. It was chilly and its depths frightened me. Yet I knew that if I could only reach his arms, I'd be safe in the midst of the ocean's mysteries. Later that very enlarger had become my own. The catalyst of freedom in my secret space. It was better than the little one my dad had purchased for me at the photo place and he had it cleaned and re-calibrated for me when he saw I was serious about the craft.

I was forced to make some choices. There were things I'd give away, with enough value to be worthwhile to another artist but not sufficient value to sell for a significant amount. Then there were the things I'd sell to help mom with the costs of replacing her crumbling roof. Her insurance is demanding the replacement and she's caught between a rock and a hard place. Then there would be a set of things to keep, the sentimental stuff that is irreplaceable if lost. Would you expect me to part with it all? I certainly hope not.  I would have to deconstruct that which was built for me by the only person who ever truly had faith and saw value in my art, that sacred space that had been preserved for decades untouched other than to pile garbage into the the perimeter. I could feel my guts twisting into a variety of knots that could be the envy of any scout.

And why should I have to do this? Because I know the sting of loneliness. In my case, the one that's come in lieu of settling for the sake of having company. That's not good enough. I deserve better and will wait as long as needed for that to change. But it's not my solitude that I am concerned with, but my mom's. A mom who may not have understood all about the depth in me but made continual sacrifices in every respect to ensure my health and well being during my formative years. She worked overtime to pay for dance, gymnastics, a modeling portfolio, and thousands in art supplies. How can I ignore her solitude now when my dad is living in a nursing home with little or no chance of recovering his autonomy. She is utterly alone and it has to be painful even if she refuses to admit it to me when I ask how she's doing.

So I will fold my darkroom into a neat little rectangle like the notes I once wrote before the terror of technology invaded our planet. Deliberately folded with a little tab that reads 'Pull Me!' I will put it in my pocket and save it for a day when I feel the need to visit my familiar space. Like my cousin Jorge said, "the point is that he built it for you. That's all you need to remember."

Though I felt like crawling into bed after that and drowning in the warmth of my pillows, I didn't. I showered, dressed my best, slathered my face in make up, and headed out with my kids to learn about a volunteer opportunity at a girls' rock camp this coming summer. There, my son, daughter, and I connected with friends and shared interesting, funny, and sometimes heated conversation over what I must say is the best pizza I've ever savored. I shared some of my dad's pictures with them, my son showed off his artwork, my daughter made her glasses wiggle, and I smiled at the fact that I'd just engaged in a long fought battle with solitude and won. I pray you find the strength to do the same.