The Unmade Bed
In 1998 The Tate Gallery in London exhibited a work entitled “My Bed.” It was indeed a messy double bed, which was considered a work of art and shortlisted for the coveted Turner Prize. It did not win. It did however sell intact and its creator, Tracy Emin, went on to bank two million, five hundred and forty-six thousand, and five hundred pounds – British Sterling.
Hubby and I were living in London at the time and went to see this absurdity. What about a messy, unmade bed is art? Perhaps we should define the word “art”. I am not being sarcastic. Honestly!
The Oxford Language Dictionary says that “art” is (and I quote) “the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as a painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.” Tracy explained that the bed was a symbolic representation of a failed relationship and her wallowing in depression in that bed for four days.
I get it! I did not, then. But I do now. Each time that I enter my bedroom and look at my own bed, I see something similar. I see chaos.
Hubby and I had a ritual for many years. We would make the bed together. He on his side, me on mine. He was shockingly fastidious about the sheets and blankets. When I think back on those days, I recognize the beginnings of his O.C.D. (obsessive compulsive disorder), which overwhelmed him as his memory began to falter.
When I look at that same bed today, I fully expect a friendly gremlin to crawl out of the lump of clothing intertwined with the sheets. I keep saying that I will straighten out my bed, my clothing and my room, but it is the depository of my exhaustion. If only I had a day with nothing else to do. I would love to finish removing my summer wardrobe and replacing it with the winter one neatly deposited around the room, now stored in large zippered bags, awaiting the light of day. If only.
Last night I was awoken from my slumber with the excruciating bellowing of my name. Over and over, my presence was being demanded by Hubby. Last night was actually 4:30 AM. Violet was sitting with Hubby trying to calm him. He demanded “BARBARA”. He said he was in terrible pain. He has been having headaches ever since his last fall. He only trusted me, at that moment, to give him pain killers that would not kill him. I am being literal. He said that he did not trust “that girl” to give him meds. Under normal circumstances, he adores “that girl.” His headaches come and go, as does what we believe to be tinnitus… horrible noise in the ear and the head that cannot be controlled. He often cannot express the word for a discomfort. He was in a kind of agony that could easily have been caused by either a migraine headache or a screeching sound in his head. The later has no cure. The former can be mitigated with pain medications. His brain sometimes becomes overwhelmed by pain and then it suddenly vanishes.
As I write about this, I see a flash of a scene from the Old Testament. Samson is standing between two marble pillars. With his massive strength he brings them shattering to the ground. Hubby’s nickname when he volunteered for the Israeli army was “Shimshon” (Hebrew for Samson), because of his muscles, and his perceived strength. Samson’s two pillars last night, were Violet and myself. He brought us crashing down into a million pieces. She sent me back to bed after about an hour of trying to calm him, waiting for the medication to help reduce his pain and help him relax enough to sleep. I did as she instructed, and crawled back into my messy bed. My side of the bed is accessible. The side Hubby used to inhabit is stacked with winter clothing awaiting my attention. Indeed, it is not dissimilar from the Tate exhibit.
My bed is not just a place to sleep. It is MY space. It is the ONLY place which is actually mine at this moment. I can do what I want with my space. I don’t have to make the bed perfectly now. I would actually love it if someone would do it for me, but my woman-cave is off limits to visitors.
When I look at the definition of art, and look at Tracy’s exhibit, I finally understand. Art at its most creative can be an expression of the human condition. Her bed expressed her grief at the end of a love. My bed expresses a form of grief as well. It also reflects the mental state of a wife who cannot accept even one more requirement of her. Not making the bed each day is an expression of my mental state. When I crawl under the covers at night and draw my delicious pink blanket up over my body, I am comfortable with the small space that is still available to me.
Suddenly I realize that when we shared this bed, when Hubby was well, he took up two-thirds of the width. I have always slept in a small space close to the edge of this bed. Perhaps there a part of my subconscious which is more comfortable with the lumps of clothing next to me, where Hubby used to sleep. Perhaps the bed is truly a reflection of our inner selves, and deserving of the accolade the art world afforded it!
This is not at all where I thought I would end this entry, Dear Diary. Introspection reveals much that is unexpected. Sigmund Freud would have had a wonderful time analyzing a spouse caring for their loved one with Dementia. I am willing to wager that he never bothered to do so. Perhaps one day, someone another world-renowned psychiatrist will be up to the challenge. In the meantime, you…my reader…have me!
I cannot help but ponder, might the Tate Gallery be interested in my new expanded artistic project: “The unmade bedroom?” Surely the entire bedroom would fetch a higher price than just the bed on its own! The imagination is a delightful place to inhabit.
