Pieces: A Retrospective

Rachel Hasforth (b. 1968)
Self-Portrait (Beginning), 2007
Ceramic tile on canvas

The gallery was empty. Silence had burrowed into the chilly December air, the space not yet awoken by the heater from its weekend hibernation. The morning light struggled to break through the frosted windows.

Angie didn’t know why she was here. Her therapist had talked her out of it. They both agreed it wouldn’t fix anything. She wasn’t ready. But somehow Angie still found herself behind the wheel at 2am, driving for hours until she reached the ocean. The sunrise over the waves used to bring her peace. The oranges and yellows blending with the deep blue-green water created an artist’s palette that stretched to the horizon. But today all the colors mixed into a muddy gray.

The gallerist was new and didn’t recognize her. He was younger than Angie expected for this sandbar town. The retirees must have conditioned his trustworthiness, since he didn’t second guess leaving her alone while he finished some paperwork in the office. She felt safer in the loneliness.

It had been almost fifteen years since Angie had been in a gallery. Truthfully, they made her squirm. They shuttled patrons past a few paintings here or sculptures there and then spit them back onto the street once it was clear they weren’t buying anything. Angie’s public school salary barely afforded her the free wine, much less something to take home.

She looked at the first piece. It was entirely in grayscale, made out of pieces of ceramic so small they looked like stippled paint. Even in side profile, the woman was a classic beauty, her sharp cheekbones and long lashes softened by a veil. It was the kind of portrait that made forgotten, distant relatives say that she was the most beautiful bride they had ever seen. As the defrosting windows let in trickles of morning light, she could see flecks of gold clinging to the familiar tiles.

Angie had picked that pattern. She’d been looking through catalogs for months; Sears, JCPenney, Woolworth’s, and even Macy’s, though, they couldn’t afford anything in that one. She wanted something feminine and delicate, but timeless. Her parents still had their wedding china preserved behind glass in the dining room, and she wanted theirs to also endure the decades of their life. Every time she found one she liked, Angie squeezed her eyes shut and imagined how the plates would look on top of her grandmother’s lace tablecloth. Rachel’s only request was that it had gold leaf.

“It reminds me of the way your eyes sparkle,” she once said over Angie’s stack of torn out options.

Noritake’s Gramercy Park was perfect. Delicate pink and white florals nestled under gold trim encircling brilliant ceramic. It was a French Country look while still being classic enough to outlive the trend. For 1993 it was an investment, but her parents bought them the full set as their wedding present.

“Good to start a marriage on the right foot,” her mom said, squeezing her hand. “And now you’ll be able to host Thanksgiving.”

The tiles were now broken up so small and painted over in so many washes of charcoal that Angie could barely see the pattern.

Home 1 (Under Renovation), 1994-1995
Ceramic tile on canvas

They were never going to move to the beach. It’s too far from the city, too quiet in the off-season, too hazardous during hurricane season. But when they walked past the century-old bungalow resting at the top of a hill in Angie’s aunt’s neighborhood, a big FOR SALE sign leaning against the mailbox, they knew it was the one.

Angie and Rachel moved in shortly after the wedding. Because there was no marriage certificate, both of their names listed on the mortgage felt like the first time they were really married. The loan officer didn’t ask many questions, which is probably why he was well-recommended by their friends.

They were so grown-up, but so in over their heads with the work they had to do. The previous owner had lived there for forty years, only moving because it was time for more around-the-clock care, and the house hadn’t been touched in nearly as long. 

The bathroom demolition was the first time Rachel fell in love with tile. The bubblegum pink explosion was the only full bathroom and the obvious first project to tackle, but Rachel couldn’t bring herself to smash the vintage ceramic. They reminded her of her grandmother’s house, she said, and the way she smelled of roses the last time she saw her. Angie didn’t want to push her, but they also needed a place to shower.

Their compromise was no sledgehammers, opting to pry each tile off so Rachel could save them for an eventual project. Maybe a backsplash somewhere, or atop steppingstones in the back garden. The two of them spent a whole weekend delicately saving as many as they could, putting them in a box for safe keeping.

And then Rachel saw a late-night infomercial while struggling with insomnia. They were showing off decorative mosaic images made with primary-colored squares. It was the hot new trend captivating stay-at-home moms and retirees after they finished their backlog of paint-by-numbers sets.

As the only child born to a contractor, Rachel’s dad showed her how to do everything around the house. It was why the two of them felt so confident taking on the renovation themselves—Rachel had the know-how and Angie had the vision. The tiny pieces emanating from their TV screen that night brought Rachel back to when she was five years old in her childhood kitchen, the first time her dad showed her how to properly grout a floor. It would be the perfect way to preserve the pink tiles.

And now, here they were again in front of Angie. The image was clumsy, obviously the first in Rachel’s creative journey, but it captured everything she remembered about that bathroom. She could pick out the pink toilet that matched the pink tub and pink sink, the awkward layout from when indoor plumbing was first installed, the beige carpet that someone once thought belonged in the most humid room in the house.

But Angie also saw things a mosaic never could show. There was the mold they found behind all the walls, forcing them to rip out and redo all the drywall. She remembered every pattern etched into the four layers of laminate and asbestos-laden glue underneath that carpet. And she felt the warm light that poured in through the branches of the willow tree outside the window illuminating every stage of their hard work. 

And when they were all done, Angie had watched Rachel place and replace each of these tiles hundreds of times onto a canvas they bought from the local craft store, trying to freeze that summer in time forever.

This interior hung next to their sink for years, reminding them of where they had started. But Angie knew that wasn’t just a dated bathroom, it was the beginning of the end.

Storm, 1999
Ceramic and glass tile on wood board

Angie walked towards the back of the gallery. It was starting to warm up and she no longer had to cross her arms over her chest. But now she didn’t know where to put her hands, so she pulled her long, curly hair into a ponytail just to give them something to do.

She landed in front of another mostly gray image. Two rows of houses stretched down the street, everything blanketed in snow. The only colors were shades of brown that detailed windows, electrical poles, and rooflines. She didn’t have to read the date on the plaque; she knew exactly when it was from. 

It had been a mild winter. The renovations were long complete and they were starting to feel like locals. Rachel was doing odd jobs as a handywoman and had begun selling watercolors of the ocean at a store on the boardwalk. Angie was halfway through her first year as a guidance counselor at the high school on the north side of town. Rachel was begging to adopt a golden retriever and Angie was going to let her.

The storm hit right after New Year’s. The meteorologists had said it would stay east of them, but then the winds shifted and their small town was buried under six inches of snow. They couldn’t tell where the drifts ended and the waves began. It all knit together into a blanket of white.

But even if it hadn’t snowed, they would have been homebound. Their eyes were glued to the phone expecting to hear from Rachel’s doctor. Her insomnia had gotten worse over the last year, and she’d been having dizzy spells. Rachel didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, these things pass. But after her third time fainting in a day, she let Angie take her to the local clinic.
Angie tried to keep things light, make it feel normal. She spent the day cooking chicken pot pie and rented Titanic, Rachel’s two favorite things. When the power lines went down and they couldn’t finish the movie, Angie set out all their board games. They had a slumber party, snuggling under all their blankets in front of the fire.

The image in front of her now, meticulously detailed in polished pieces of sea glass and broken pottery affixed to driftwood that Rachel collected on the shore in the weeks after the storm, was what their street looked like the next morning. She told Angie that she wanted to remember how it felt that night with the two of them safe in their home, time frozen in the ice that surrounded them.

Angie looked around for the gallerist before reaching her hand towards the snow covered street. Rachel had staggered the pieces so it looked like a single sheet tucking in the whole hill. She ran the tip of her finger along the crooked grout lines, trying to create the rift Rachel’s doctor made in the snow as he trudged towards their house that morning. The landlines had been knocked out, but he walked the few blocks that separated their homes to let them know her test results. With just a few words, he tore them apart.

Flowers, Bedside, 2001
Plastic tile on canvas

The next piece was made entirely out of cheap craft store plastic squares. A vase took up nearly the whole canvas with only a hint of petals and leaves at the very top. It’s set against a stark white background that could just as easily be unfinished as an intentional choice. It’s disproportionate and strange, like a child’s school project.

Another patron may think that this was an experimental period, something Rachel dipped her toes into and then decided was too cold, too unfamiliar. They may nod at the colors and stark contrast to her other work. Maybe they’d go so far as to think about which bedside these flowers were on, murmuring their guesses about whether it was before or after.
Only Angie knows it was during.

Rachel’s doctor quickly sent them into a flurry of appointments and tests and specialists, which only led to more waiting by the phone before starting back again through the cycle. He was trying to get her into an experimental treatment program at a research hospital in the city, but they needed to know the extent of her condition before admitting her. In the meantime, he started her on chemo.

“It’ll slow the spread and hopefully give us an opportunity for better treatments,” he said when explaining the next few months to them.

Angie hated how he’d always say “us” when talking about it. As if the three of them were fighting off the hydra growing in Rachel’s brain. Angie wanted to crawl through Rachel’s ear canal and swing a sword at each and every mutated cell, pleading for it to be the last one she had to fight. But she was stuck on the outside, watching their prayers flow through IV lines and hoping it would be enough to stave off each new head.

Rachel was so scared. She was barely in her thirties. She had just run in a 5K to raise money for cancer research and finished in under thirty minutes, her personal best. Healthy people weren’t supposed to get sick, not like this. 

During a two-week stay for testing and monitoring, she held onto Angie’s hand so tight that her wedding band imprinted itself into the side of Angie’s finger. It would take days for the skin to even itself back out. Angie brought Rachel flowers every morning, letting them overflow atop the windowsill before rotating them out with fresh ones. It was the only time she saw her smile.

On day fourteen, Angie swung by the house first to get Rachel some fresh clothes before their last meeting with the doctor. They only needed to sign the discharge papers and schedule her next round of chemo, but Rachel insisted on looking as normal as possible. She had lost twenty pounds and was uncomfortable with the new angles of her body. Choosing to wear real clothes instead of a hospital gown was the only way Rachel had control.

Angie was supposed to stop at her aunt’s house to tend to her plants while she was out of town, but her aunt left a message saying her neighbor would take care of it. Angie was needed elsewhere.

When Angie returned early, her spot next to Rachel’s bed was occupied by a tall, slender redhead. Rachel was clasping her hand the same way she had been holding Angie’s.
Maybe she was a childhood friend. A college roommate. A distant cousin. But Rachel’s eyes gave her away. She only ever looked at Angie like that.

The redhead noticed her first and awkwardly dropped Rachel’s grasp as she stood. Her eyes darted to Rachel, desperate for her to be the first to speak. But Rachel hadn’t seen Angie yet.
When she finally looked over too, Angie had hoped she would be ashamed, maybe remorseful. She would have even settled for embarrassed. Some recognition that she had torn their lives apart. But the chemo left her too spent to use her facial muscles for anything that complicated. 

Rachel introduced them, names only, refusing to qualify her relationship with either woman. The redhead, Shelley, apparently, held out her hand, trying to bridge the gap growing in the room. Angie didn’t take it. She couldn’t take her eyes off the imprint of Rachel’s ring on Shelley’s finger.

The bouquet depicted in front of Angie now was the last one Rachel received during that stay. It wasn’t any of the ones Angie had given her.

Home II, 2005
Ceramic and wood tiles on canvas

Angie shuffled into the last section, Rachel’s most prolific period. But Angie didn’t recognize any of the moments captured here. None of the birthday candles, the vacation houses, the glimpses through windows. She had been gone by then.

After Shelley, their whole life unraveled. Angie quickly moved in with her aunt, only visiting their home to pack up her belongings when Rachel had doctor’s appointments. She couldn’t stomach being around her, but she also couldn’t kick a cancer patient out of her house. It took three trips to get everything out, but Shelley hadn’t waited that long before filling the vacancy she left. Her syrupy sweet perfume burrowed itself so deeply into Angie’s things she had to wash it all in the laundromat’s industrial machines to get the smell out.

That year was the toughest of Angie’s life. For months, every time she left her aunt’s house she was surrounded by pitying looks and conversations that stopped when she walked past. It didn’t matter if she was at work, or the grocery store, or the beach, she could see it on everyone’s faces. They knew what had been going on and chose silence on behalf of the young woman with cancer. 

She was happier now, they thought. It was for the best.

When the bell rang on the last day of school that spring, she was gone. Packed up and moved to the big city like a college graduate, as if she still had hopes and dreams for her future. All Angie wanted was to be anonymous when she stepped outside her door.

For ten years, almost as long as they were married, she had that. She started a new job where no one knew what happened. She went on dates and made friends and didn’t tell any of them she had been married. There was no fear of running into her, or her, because Rachel and Shelley understood that was the deal. They got to keep the house and their community and Angie got to start over in a city they’d never visit.

But these memories together had a habit of appearing behind Angie’s eyes when she tried to sleep.

She hoped coming here would bring her closure. That seeing the time they shared together against static, blank walls would make the end feel permanent. That it would justify all the time Angie spent agonizing over every minute of their relationship trying to figure out where things went wrong and what signs she missed. But in this section, the biggest in the gallery, she saw just how inconsequential their life together was.

After Angie, Rachel became an artist who showed in galleries up and down the coast. Rachel and Shelley got a real marriage certificate on a trip to Boston and adopted a dog. They made hundreds of more memories together than Rachel and Angie ever had, and now they were all hung up here for everyone to see. This was the part of Rachel’s life that mattered the most.

She stopped in front of the first piece her eyes could focus on. It was their kitchen, but instead of the avocado and harvest gold she remembered, it was a brown and beige Tuscan dream, complete with a rooster on the countertop. The tiles were a mix of wood and granite, probably leftovers from the renovation. The Rachel she knew would have hated cooking in a kitchen that looked lifted from a catalog.

But that was the point. None of what was hanging in the gallery was the Rachel she knew. It was who Rachel had been the whole time.

Self-Portrait (End), 2007
Ceramic tile on canvas

The final piece hung on the other side of the wall from where Angie started, completing a circular path through the space. It was also in grayscale, but it showed an older version of the first woman. Her sharp features were softer, her pose more casual. But the tiles couldn’t hide the exhaustion in her eyes. While in the first portrait the color scheme made her look timeless, in this one she looked pallid and frail.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? The raw honesty in her work is just breathtaking.” The gallerist was beside Angie, gazing at the piece. Angie didn’t respond.

“Sorry to leave you waiting, I was printing off new labels. Our intern, bless her, forgot to include the artist’s death date.” He held up a small stack of white cards for Angie to see.

Rachel Hasforth (b. 1968, d. 2008)

“She was such a brilliant talent. We’re thankful her widow loaned us these pieces for the retrospective. Cancer always manages to take the best of us,” he sighed. “Did you know the artist?”

Angie smiled politely and shook her head. It was time for her to go.

She stepped back onto the street, now enveloped in harsh light. Instead of turning towards her car, she followed the sidewalk to where it disappeared into sand. The crisp breeze burned her lungs as she trudged towards the waves.

She stared out across the endless, gloomy ocean. She still couldn’t make out any shades of blue.

Angie wasn’t sure if she made the right decision coming here. Her heart still skipped when she thought of Rachel and raced when she thought of returning here. Sure, she knew more about the life Rachel had had without her, but it was probably more than she wanted to know. And Rachel was still dead, no matter how much she desperately needed her not to be.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small black and white photo. It was an image of Rachel on their wedding day, the reference for the first portrait. The worn edges were soft under her fingertips. 

Angie looked into Rachel’s eyes one last time and then dropped the photo into the water. She watched as it tried to drift away but capsized under the weight of itself.

She took one last deep breath of cool, salty air, and walked back up the dunes towards her car.