Heavy Boxes
February 2, 2005
Last year, when Stephen Sprouse learned he was sick and that the prognosis wasn't good, he asked me if I'd undertake the overwhelming task of sorting and organizing a warehouse full of his things: clothes, designs, furniture, photographs, prototypes, press clippings, posters, records, CDs, books, et cetera. He didn't have the energy, nor the emotional detachment, to look through any of it himself, and I'd worked with him long enough that he trusted me to do it for him.
The warehouse was a mess. Overstuffed boxes sagging, gaping, some teetering on top of impossibly high stacks, others squished underneath. Most of them had been open and resealed dozens of times. In addition to the boxes, there were paintings of all shapes and sizes, some stretched, some rolled, furniture hidden in corners, and clothing hanging on racks. With a blanket of dust covering all of it.
Everything had been consolidated into the one location only a month or two earlier. For ten years, much of it had been stored in a Pennsylvania barn. The barn was exactly what it sounds like: a red barn in rural Pennsylvania, complete with bats, mice, and hay. Not the ideal way to store things made of fabric and paper, and much of it had turned into irreparable, moldy scrap. Although Stephen had given me carte blanche to do whatever needed to be done, including throwing shit out, I didn't always trust my own judgment. After all, what do you do with an irreplaceable artifact that's been eaten by mice? So we devised a system where I would take pictures of the items in question, describe their condition, and we'd discuss what to do.
Back and forth, back and forth, the project dragged on and on, but I didn't care; I didn't want it to be over. I felt that, as long as the project was going, Stephen would keep going, too. He couldn't die; we were working together on something.
It didn't happen that way, of course.
When Stephen's family came to New York for his memorial service, the warehouse was still a mess--perhaps even more of a mess than when I started, since so much of it had been unpacked to be categorized. But I had a good grasp on where things were and what was what. So when Stephen's family considered the difficult task of going through the warehouse, they asked me to pick up where I'd left off. To say I was happy to do it sounds odd, I mean, I didn't want to go near the warehouse ever again. I couldn't imagine lifting all those heavy boxes of sadness. But at the same time, I couldn't imagine not doing it. I felt protective of that mess, and besides, above all else, Stephen was my friend.
In any case, the next time I went to the warehouse, I wasn't alone. I was with Stephen's brother, Brad, and his nephew, Brandon. I'd never met them before, but after a few solid, emotionally and physically draining days, I felt like I'd known them for years. Working together made the whole thing bearable. We even managed to laugh.
We didn’t go through everything the way Stephen had wanted; there was no longer any rush. But now Brad knew what he was dealing with, and we organized things to a place where we could comfortably pause.
Brandon got in touch with me recently. He called out of the blue, and we had a nice talk about everything under the sun, like a couple of old war buddies. He told me about finding my blog and had a lot of nice things to say about it. He complimented me on my writing and then complained about something he'd written himself recently: three essays for a school application. I guess they were personal statements of some sort because he said, "I have a really hard time talking about myself in such an upbeat and positive way."
“You’ve seen my blog. You know I can relate.”
Anyway, what's the point of this story? There isn't one really. I'm just thinking out loud. I wanted to say something nice about Brandon. I wanted him to know I'm glad he called. I'm glad he stayed in touch. And if he ever needs help writing about himself again, he should come to me. I have a hundred upbeat things I could say about him.
