Fanny Pack: 1919, Portland, Colorado
Laura Bylenok
After Christina Fernandez’s María’s Great Expedition, 1995-96, five gelatin silver prints, one chromogenic print, one ink-jet print, and bilingual narrative
The staged detergent. Unironed apron and El Rey’s white gloves. Linen starched and thick and stiff as a neck. I wanted that neck. I wanted my mother’s neck. I wanted to be my mother’s neck and her mother’s and hers. Behind me the collars buttoned and neckless, a blouse of history I could almost wear. If I were smaller, unaging. If I could burrow into my belly and come out again. If I could stage a motion picture. SCENE 1: The detergent box is open on the floor. My hands are in it. Cut. SCENE 2: I gather a handful of grains of soap like seeds cupped in my palms. Cut. SCENE 3: I hold up an old shirt. Cut. SCENE 4: I ball up the shirt and tuck in my blouse, against my abdomen. I prod it, prompt it. The camera holds still. It warms against my skin. SCENE 5: I wait. I wear it like a belt, a fanny pack. SCENE 6: The shirt comes out. As this happens I think about my neck. The way a neck can tell your age. The audience, of course, can’t see that I’m disturbed. I inspect the collar and the cuffs, their filigree of bright embroidery. I find a stray thread. Cut. If I could find that thread it would be red. I read the documents. I found the blood and scrubbed. I pinned my path up with a clothespin. I checked my waist. I rectified my neck and I placed my hands around the empty fanny pack.