Cecily Brown, The Picnic, 2006
I think SF is the prettiest city in America. Cool gray evenings, pastel houses, jasmine in the spring. I meet with R and have a glass of white wine to take the edge off at the little bistro with velvet curtains. Sometimes I think I’m all edge—if you scrape it off there’s nothing left. No substance. When I was a kid sea monkeys were all the rage. Remember those? Brine shrimp eggs that sprung to life once they were put in water. “Instant life” was the marketing term. I feel like a sea monkey—I only come to life in the presence of other people. When I’m alone, I don’t know who I am.
I’m not used to collapsing boxes, figuring out whether to recycle styrofoam, opening wine bottles, setting up bedframes. I bought a pale green vintage Ikea sidetable from the Netherlands. I bought a wall-mounted coat hanger shaped like a dog. My bedroom is flooded with birdsong in the morning and I don’t have curtains yet. I like waking up with the light, spending the whole morning yawning. I haven’t figured out how to turn on the hot water in the shower.