“In a way, that’s the point,” Margie responds with a reassuring smile. “We don’t expect the public to know the nuances of the art being created. Our job is to find the artist who can tell the story of our work here in a way they’ll understand. Take a look at theseimages and see what speaks to you. Who would best tell the story of NASA?”
“The artist you recommended made it into the round of finalists, but you don’t know the artist personally, right? It shouldn’t be an issue, but this information is important to know up front so we’re making a fair decision,” Kenneth says.
The woman handing out sketchbook paper at the installation comes to mind. But there was no way I could confirm that she was Red String Girl.
I shake my head. “I don’t know who Red String Girl is. This artist works anonymously.”
Nick rubs his hands together. “NASA is all about discovery. This time, instead of discovering something new in space, we’re discovering talent right here on Earth. What a thrill.”
I attempt to mirror Nick’s excitement by giving him a thumbs-up. It comes off as awkward as one would expect. I reach for the red pen to keep my hands busy.
“Let’s review our top three contenders,” Margie says, pressing another button.
I direct my attention to the screen. Margie guides us to the next slide featuring an artist who specializes in charcoal drawings. From a distance, they look like photographs while maintaining a not-quite-real quality. It’s stunning how an entire image can be conveyed through varying shades of gray. But this doesn’t feel comprehensive enough.
Without overthinking it, I find myself saying, “There’s a nostalgic element to this artist’s work. A throwback to the original astronaut portraits.”
The group nods in response and take notes on their packets.
The next few slides reveal the paintings of an artist who doesn’t just capture people and places but who paints their souls into them,too. I see how the vibrant colors of the paint could capture a person’s imagination. This artist could be interesting.
“And now, your recommendation, Red String Girl,” Margie says.
Pictures ofEntangledshine on the screen ahead. The installation is as impressive as it was when I first saw it. A familiar sinking feeling weighs on me when Margie shows us the next photo ofEntangledin cut-up piles. I stand and lean forward to get a better look at the images, my fingers spreading across the conference table. I look at the timestamp of the article. I still can’t believe I was so close to seeing this in heaps instead of as the artist intended.
“Looks like it was taken down that same morning,” she says, reading off a news article that’s also projecting on the screen.
I think of sitting with Rooney in her Spot. How I encouraged her to go see it. She never would’ve been able to. I probably sounded like I had made up the whole thing. Sometimes it feels like I made up the entire night.
I’ve witnessed this piece of art in what feels like another life. No. Another dimension. But how I know it is, in fact, real is that I have a piece of the installation in my wallet, documenting that short-lived moment in time. At this point, it’s probably something worth recycling. And yet, the wrinkled note stays where I put it that day.
“I saw this in person before it was taken down, which is why I recommended the artist. The piece changes as you interact with it. It’s tangible,” I explain. “I liked the incorporation of science into the work.”
“Looks like it also integrated fate,” Kenneth says, referencing his notes. “The interplay of fate with FATE is cheeky. There’s something there. Maybe the artist will be inspired by that.”
Next to the photograph ofEntangledis a sketch of a different Red String Girl installation. Margie taps to the next slide with more information.
“We pulled this from Red String Girl’s website. There was a list of other installations that she’s done over the years, but there were only photos ofEntangled. And there’s this concept sketch of one calledGravity.”
The sketch depicts an island platform between subway train tracks, the string forming a grid with a giant heart in the center. It hovers above a string-made dip that looks like the downward momentum of a bounce on a trampoline.
“If gravity is the curvature of time and space—” Nick starts.
“Then love is the curvature of time and place,” I finish.
Margie gasps. “That’s why it’s at the subway station! It’s the beating heart of the city.”
“How very clever,” Kenneth says. “Subways literally push and pull people through the city. Sometimes we just pass by each other, and sometimes we’re on the same train.”
The conversations Rooney and I had over the course of our night come back to me. “Gravity is invisible, but we can measure it. What are the gravitational effects of fate but people being pulled toward their destined soulmates?” I ask out loud.
“Jackson, that’s beautiful,” Nick says, sounding surprised.
“No, that’s—” I start.
“And you said you don’t know anything about art!” he exclaims with enthusiasm. “If that’s what this sketch made you feel, imagine what an entire in-person string art installation will do to you.”
Margie hums as she thinks. “This is compelling, but just to voice what we’re all probably thinking, is anyone else concerned that Red String Girl only has photos of one installation? She hasn’t done anything new since”—she checks her notes again—“February.”
