Penny Post #52: As If Struck By Lightning

Suleika Jaouad and Anne Francey's The Alchemy of Blood at the ArtYard.

*All photographs included are from The Alchemy of Blood Exhibit at the ArtYard, artwork courtesy of Suleika Jaouad and Anne Francey.*

The moan of the fan in the hallway lulls me to sleep. We’ve kept it going at full blast after one of the hottest weeks on record. Regardless of the fan’s power, my skin sticks to the sheets throughout the night. I toss and turn to find a cooler inch of the covers, yet there are none. It is far more unbearable to be outside; my room’s soft eighty degrees pale in comparison to the upper nineties beyond our front door.

The sun shines powerfully, yet there is a muggy quality to the air outside. You can feel it like a slow motion slap to the face. It hits you and then sticks to you—hair frizzing and skin reddened from the impact.

The day gets hotter and then hotter still before the sky, as if unshackling itself from its own burden, cracks. Distant booms of thunder first. Dark black clouds that descend next. Sharp bolts of lightning after. Followed by, naturally, a torrential downpour that leaves your dogs cowering beneath your feet. The sky unleashes its power night after night, the heat enough to make the clouds sweat, too.

I was just about to leave for Suleika Jaouad and Anne Francey’s The Alchemy of Blood Art Exhibition when I heard the first sounds of thunder. It was a two hour drive, so I tucked myself into a rain jacket and prayed that my hair would maintain its carefully heat-trained style (spoiler alert: it didn’t). I raced ahead of the storm, the speed limit fast enough to outrun the sky.

I arrived safely, avoiding the rain, yet stepping, again, firmly into the heat. I’d given up on my hair at that point and traded in my ticket for a cup of white wine to ease the anxious beating of my heart.

I’d been waiting for this event for months, having reserved a spot when first announced earlier this year. Suleika’s writing has accompanied me through many moments and her medium-defying artistry is a wonder to observe. The thought of meeting her made me sweat as if mother nature’s heat wave slipped beneath my skin instead.

I didn’t know what to expect. With what Suleika had meant to me, I assumed she might be sitting on an elevated, bejeweled throne on a balcony above the exhibit. At least I thought that is where she belonged, waving with pageantry to the crowd below. And yet, there she was—as I rounded the corner to the last room of the gallery—standing on her own two feet, no throne, no pomp, just gratitude and generosity.

She was a vision. And I, hair frizzed and armpits slippery, froze. Tears immediately came to my eyes. I was enchanted by her beauty and our proximity. It completely overwhelmed me. I had to retrace my steps back to the entrance, try and fail for some “fresh air” in an increasingly humid night, and chug the rest of my white wine. If anything would give me the courage to walk up to my idol and tell her my name, I figured it existed in liquid form.

Now, of course, I don’t remember a single word I said to her. I know she was kind and patient and generous and gave me a hug, though I cannot, for the life of me, tell you what I told her. The heat stole my voice. And, you know? I’m okay with that. It was enough for me to be in her presence and share her space and marvel at her talent. It was plenty enough for me that I disappeared into a bathroom to cry some more.

I’d worn waterproof make-up for this very reason.

I emerge from the bathroom, miraculously finding a deeper well of courage to introduce myself to her no-less talented husband Jon Batiste. By then, I’d lied to myself enough times that I was “okay” and that no one could tell that my cheeks were tear-stained and even if they could, I’d blame it on the heat.

I introduced myself to Jon, sharing my name and my ambition to become a published author, much like his wife. He repeated my name by singing it and started laughing as if just the two of us were in on some joke and the rest of the world wouldn’t understand. It was as if I, and his beautiful wife—whom he kept sneaking longing glances at—were the only people in the room.

Need I remind you, Jon, that your wife currently has a line of hundreds waiting to breath her air? I, abashedly, one of them?

No need to remind him. For if anyone in that room loved the woman we were all there to see, it was him. He proudly wore a pin that read “I Love My Wife” that, once I spotted it, lodged itself into my heart as if Cupid’s Bow.

He sang my name. Jon Batiste, Grammy Award Winning and Academy Award Winning Musician. Sang. My. Name. As if it belonged anywhere near his lips. He made my non-melodic name melodic before raising his palms, as if in worship. I wanted to beg him to stop, for my confidence obnoxiously inflated to where I thought his open palm was an invitation for a high-five, and, what’s worse, a hand grasp.

If hugging Suleika Jaouad couldn’t get any weirder, I high-fived/tightly grasped Jon Batiste’s hand? I dare hope my palms were dry.

I disappeared into the bathroom to cry some more, before much deep breathing led me to Suleika’s parents, Anne and Hédi, equally generous and thoughtful. How had I ended up in this beautiful place with such kindred spirits? Also, Anne and Hédi, are you accepting petitions for adoption? [They aren’t at this time.]

I proceeded to meet the lovely Ashleigh Bell Pederson (who has guest written this stunning essay for The Isolation Journals) and Nadia Albano, Suleika’s make-up artist and photographer. Both were as kind and supportive as anyone I’d ever hope to meet, encouraging me to keep writing and soak it all in, especially the electric heat that seized me with every breath.

The night got hotter and then hotter still as I passed around my name to anyone who would listen. The sky was preparing for its unshackling. Distant booms of thunder. Dark black clouds descent. Sharp bolts of lightning.

Both I and the sky were overwhelmed by the electricity, the magnetism, the MAGIC of his event, that—as I unshackled my eyelashes from the torrent of my tears, the clouds were preparing to do the same.

I hobbled my way to the car, not ready to leave the company of such beautiful creativity, and as I drove away from Frenchtown, New Jersey and the marvel that is Suleika Jaouad and her team, the sky erupted in solidarity.

Until next time,

Kiera