"The Fire of
1989"
This instance will be referenced in
various places around the site, usually regarding artwork that is
damaged or lost.
Here is the story behind it all:
My best friend from Alabama and I decided
to move to Rockford --she had a job offer, I wanted the hell away from
my family-- and so in May of 1989, we
packed what crap we had (along with my cat Miaous, photos of whom will
be eventually posted on this site) and moved into a very old and crappy apartment
in the heart of downtown Rockford, on 7th Street.
The place
had been built in 1902 as business
offices, and the first floor was still a clothing store --the
owner was our landlord. There were two floors above that, and we were
way up on
the third. With the 12-foot ceilings on each floor, we were as high up
as a modern fifth floor. There were three apartments per floor, and each one was oddly pieced
together. Our place had likely been converted from three different offices
--we had three outer doors (two were nailed shut) and there were
actually windows looking into the hallway (frosted glass, fortunately)
that once had business names on them. There were bare
light bulbs hanging down on long wires, a single tiny closet (we had to put clothing racks
in a back room), and a stove that was literally made in the 1920's (the
oven didn't work and replacement parts didn't exist). There was no insulation
or air conditioning, and barely functional radiators (there was one
heat controller per floor, and it was in someone else's apartment), so of course we spent
the summer frying and the late fall freezing. And neither of us was
making much money so moving was rather moot point, especially since the
rent was pretty cheap.
The only piece of luck we had was that
the store directly across the road was owned by the Nielsen's (parents
of Rick), and my roomie became quite close to them. We ran into Rick
now and again, which was massively cool. I drew and wrote like mad during the time we lived there, and
a large part was artwork for Cheap Trick.
But the building was, as
you know, very old and had
shoddy wiring and no alarm system or sprinklers and you see where this is heading...
On November 30th, 1989, at approximately
2pm, I woke up from a strange dream (about gods and priestesses burning
herbs on a hillside over a cave, rather prophetic of me...) because of a phone call
that turned out to be nothing -- no sound, no tone, nothing (I still
believe it was the fates at work, waking me up). I decided it was
useless to return to sleep as I had to be at work in a couple hours
anyway. While in the bathroom I thought I smelled smoke, so I went into
the hallway and looked around. There was a railed opening between the
second and third floors, with a skylight up above it all. And there was indeed smoke in
the air. I looked down, and saw the windows of the back apartment on
floor two was filled with smoke.
I panicked and began screaming "FIRE!" as
loudly as I could. I ran back into my place, dialed 911... and got
a recorded message saying that "911 was not yet available in the area" (I
am not kidding, it wasn't implemented until several years later).
After laughing hysterically, I dialed 0 for an operator, gave the info and prepared to
run.
I grabbed my cat, shoved
her in her carrier, and
ran down the stairs to the second floor which was already filling with
smoke. The stairs down to the street were completely filled. I
had no choice but take a deep breath, get on my ass, and scoot down the
steps one by one (or sometimes two or three, which left my hip bruised
as hell and Miaous banged up in her carrier). But I stumbled out onto
the snowy sidewalk virtually into a fireman's arms, and was taken across the road
to the Nielsens' shop. I didn't realise 'til then that I'd gone out
without coat, socks or shoes.
From their shop, I watched water shooting
into my windows, and I could see pictures I'd drawn get blasted off the
walls. The store on the first floor had mannequins in the window, and
they were melting like wax. Then the store window exploded, and you
could actually feel the heat from across the road while still indoors.
It was very impressive. And I fainted, as much from shock as prior smoke
inhalation. The Nielsens promised to handle Miaous, and I was hauled to
the ER. The whole thing made the front page of the paper, full colour. My cat and
I got a brief mention, as well as a statement from a neighbour who'd
been asleep and was awakened by my screams -- he'd had to jump onto the
roof of the next building to escape. I still have the article somewhere.
The weeks after this are too garbled and infuriating to detail right now. Suffice it to say, the place we moved
to was just as crappy --a dank basement with one warped window looking
into a hole into the ground, and, unbelievably, the same landlord (he'd
felt a bit guilty, and we'd already paid the next month's rent). Neither
my roomie nor I was able to function enough to work for nearly a year,
so we were on welfare, food stamps, etc., and in therapy as well --PTSD
mixed with bipolarity (both of us, btw) isn't a happy cocktail.
During those
first long weeks, I pined deeply for my
lost artwork. It was many years of work, years of love and labour and
expression. All gone. But as fate would have it... the building still
stood. Condemned of course, and considered extremely unsafe, especially
the upper floors.
And then I dreamed again, of a ladder
reaching up to the top of the building and a man in white climbing it to
go inside. I awoke with a passion. Unsafe or not, I didn't give a flying
fuck. It was MY STUFF. I deserved to look for it. I would follow that
probable guardian angel and climb that ladder.
I met up with two previous tenants
--including the man who'd jumped out a window to safety-- and we broke in, removing the nails placed in the doors by the
fire department, and went upstairs with backpacks to collect what we
could. It had snowed hard that winter, and melted, and snowed again, and
the mess was truly impressive. We got covered with wet soot and tar
(the roof had melted and fallen in) but we made it safely to our own rooms. I dug
through bricks and boards until I got to my art desk --there was nothing
remotely salvageable. Anything hung on the walls was disintegrated. But when I got to that one tiny closet where I kept my portfolio, I
was stunned to find it was virtually untouched. The spray from the fire
hoses had saved it from burning. Everything inside was soaked and
stained and beginning to mold. But... it was in my hands again. Miraculous.
Back in our new place, I spent days peeling papers apart
carefully, spreading them all over the floors to dry. I realised that some
things would be forever marked but acceptable. Others were bad, but
could be traced and re-done if I wanted. Other things were simply gone
forever, and I had no photocopies of them as I did with some other items.
I had only two paintings but the frames were so warped that I eventually
scrapped them --I didn't have money to reframe them, the skill to do it
myself, nor the sense to keep them for later on. A lot of bad decisions
got made that year...
Most of the recent
artwork, that done for Cheap Trick, was beyond hope. I'd
used cheap marker pens, not India ink, for the comics --"cheap for the
Cheap", you see-- and these had bled out like they'd been murdered. The only other copies in existence belonged to
the band members themselves. Thus a visit with the Nielsens,
and a phone call they made to Rick, who came by very quickly with everything I'd ever given him.
I copied it all and returned his copies
within the week.
Last I saw
him was 1994, I believe. Even if I never get to speak to him again, I
hope he understands just how deeply that still touches me.
And now...
Any work that survived well
enough, but has damage... it all stays in that condition and the viewer must
accept it. It has some special character now that it might not have had
otherwise.
I feel I was meant to return to that
building and dig for my works, I was meant to find all that I did to
prove something important. I too am marked for life. But I'm alive. My
artwork will always reflect that, regardless of the subject matter. It
is a testament. What we create lives on, somehow, somewhere. And I am
one of the lucky, to have some of it back in my hands, in my lifetime,
and to be able to show it again to others...
...No matter how crappy it is ;)
hexxennea [at] gmail [dot] com
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