Immaculate Conception

by Ling Ling Huang

This was the first lesson Mathilde taught me: artists create works of art; geniuses curate an emotional response.

“It’s a simple idea, maybe even childish, but it gets to the heart of where we’ve been and where we’re going. It questions whether humans have done the right thing by constantly building, progressing. But it’s also beautiful to look at, and so tactile. I love the way the textural components draw me in.”

For weeks, newspapers and websites publish these pictures and accompanying articles about Mathilde’s revelatory depiction of grief as a maze you can get lost in, smoke shrouding everything.

“Don’t hold originality up on some pedestal, Enka. Who does originality actually serve? Not the public. The public needs to be shocked and reminded of their own feelings, which everything else in the world seeks to numb. Whatever the purpose of art is, it isn’t to be original for originality’s sake.”

A week later, we watch as the city slowly drains from the car window. The sky bruises, buildings shrink, and apartment complexes are snatched away by distance as we speed into greener and wilder spaces. The surrounding cars desert us and bright highway lights blink on, reminiscent of a Seurat, blurring into the loose freehand of a Munch landscape as we approach the secluded forest.

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of my past, my present, and my future. I relinquish the power you have over my life. Amen.” A chorus of amens follow.

I had believed a lie I told myself, which was that I have always been my best, my most fulfilled, when I was envious. Really, it was love that has always made me my best. It has been my love for her that has most fulfilled, most fed me. The SCAFFOLD, like everything new, promised I would know her completely, but to know is to cease wondering. If jealousy was like a well, I’d never reached the bottom, hadn’t realized the well was a tunnel to the mother of envy, which is awe.