That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet.
-Romeo & Juliet
I can still recall a conversation about changing my name as a nineteen-year-old bride-to-be. It held little appeal since I had a strong fondness for the name I was born with. For a period, I envisioned my future in tv news: it seemed to be a more practical alternative to my passion for acting, and my middle and maiden names made the perfect alliterative pair. Sometimes I would pull out my broadcast voice to hear the sound fall from my lips: “Reporting live, this is…” Yet, a gentle nudge by my fiancé persuaded me that the symbolic gesture was important and I bent at this slightest pull.
Fifteen years later, when the marriage dissolved, I was given the opportunity to reverse back to my maiden name. I had already flirted with the idea of changing names, but not as a way to return to the past. I thought about women such as myself who were named from fathers and then surrendered them to husbands; how such an important part of one’s identity relied on the presence of a man and how so suddenly, when a relationship changes, that fragment of yourself becomes foreign. Regardless, I weighed more towards the practicality of keeping documents and bank accounts as they were, especially while traveling abroad.
If you read my post from a few days ago with Gustave Baumann’s art, perhaps you noticed the imprint as part of his signature:
“On every woodblock print, Gustave Baumann printed a hand within a narrow heart between his first and last names.
‘What you put your hand to, put your heart behind,’ Baumann was known to say.
The printed symbol was his promise of authenticity and sincerity, something he wanted each and every print to reflect. When he sold them to collectors and families all around the country, he wanted each piece to mean something.” By: Alison Graham
Perhaps that practice was in the back of my mind when I discovered a red string beneath a stool where I ate breakfast only an hour or two before and was now assembling artwork at the counter. Its placement perplexed me. The bright red seemed impossible to miss, especially knowing I had been sitting in that precise spot. I mentally walked through all of the clothing I packed to confirm I own nothing with a fiber like that. I’m residing in an open loft that is not much larger than where I lived most recently in India: this is not a sprawling, cluttered home with nooks and crannies packed with surprises. Also, this space had just been rented out through an extended holiday on Airbnb, so it had been emptied and thoroughly cleaned only a few days prior. I’m doubly certain of that because I travel with odd belongings like spices, a typewriter, and my trusty robotic vacuum, Herman, who had done a clean sweep of the space.
I playfully moved the string, trying to create a circle, a spiral, a something. There was a crook in the middle making each of those shapes awkwardly impossible. Ideas began taking form. When placed in such a way, this red string resembled the letter “A”, the start of my name which would never change. It was a forward arrow, upright like a mountain, a baseless triangle (not quite fulfilling Hindu male energy; a symbol initiated after the female triangle had been ascribed). It is the mouth of a bird or a spiritual ascension.
Instinctively, I positioned the string in place of a signature. Often, I don’t sign my work (or do so al verso) because I feel it takes away from the visual presentation. In this instance, I strongly felt it added something to the piece. Elements of my story, my synchronicity, my spirit are embedded in that string. While I’m sure I’ll never stumble upon another quite like it, I intend to seek out a red pencil, or ink, or wax as a way to move forward with a transformed identification.
I’ve added the original work to my shop that houses this synchronous thread. Visit the Store link above or click here to add a piece of my story to your collection.
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