Save Big Money!

Making, metamorphosing, and a trip to Menards.

I haven’t taken a picture in over three weeks. Made. I haven’t made a picture. I prefer that word because it feels creative instead of reductive, as though I am adding something to the world instead of removing something from it. I can’t remember when I started phrasing it this way, but it’s what I do now, with only occasional slip-ups. I like to make photos, not take them, much to Grammarly’s chagrin.

But I haven’t made a single picture in over three weeks.

I’ll tell you what I have made—trips to Menards. For anyone outside of the American Midwest, Menards is a home improvement store. It is gargantuan and contains any tiny tool or supply you could ever need. In the land of DIY, Menards (whose color palette is green) stands apart from its competitors, Lowe’s (blue) and Home Depot (orange). I have frequented these stores countless times and attest that Menards is the best. In particular, the Midway location in Saint Paul, Minnesota.

The Midway store has two levels with a long, moving walkway between them. You can push your cart on (come with me on this journey) and slowly ascend in the quest for lighting, doors, cleaning products, what-have-you. As you climb at a speed on par with an airport security line on Thanksgiving Eve, you may glance down at the Christmas decorations on display since August. Inflatable snowmen and festooned trees twinkle at you as you ride higher and higher toward the cavernous warehouse beams.

At the top of the moving walkway, to the left, waits a baby grand piano. Disembarking onto the upper level, you’d be forgiven for assuming it is for sale, given Menards is a big store that sells big things. But, au contraire! Menards has placed this piano here to serenade you while you shop, whether you wish it or not.

The first time I ever heard the piano, I was on the lower level, inspecting planks of pine so twisted, if you put your ear to them, you could almost hear maniacal laughter coming out of the grain. At this point in my creative life, I was still making pictures, unlike now, where nearly a month has passed since I’ve made anything.

“They’re playing piano music,” I mused aloud to Will, who confirmed my ears did not deceive me.

A typical trip to Menards is usually soundtracked by generic pop songs interspersed with the store’s signature jingle encouraging you to Save Big Money! The gentle piano arrangement I was hearing didn’t quite align with what I’d come to expect from a store that, in addition to lumber and drywall, sells giant tubs of cheese balls.

We picked up a straight-as-we-could-find 2x4 and loaded it onto the flat metal cart.

“It's probably a self-playing piano,” Will said.

Having seen the empty-seated piano on more than one occasion, combined with the precision with which the notes effortlessly flowed through the speakers, his theory added up. This made it all the more surprising and delightful when, on yet another Menards excursion, this time for trim, we witnessed a gray-haired man bent over the piano, his nimble fingers expertly darting to and fro.

“Whaaaat?” I sang with glee—a response I believe adequately sums up my feelings about this musical happening.

This is why the Menards on Midway is a step above the other home improvement stores: on weekends, they get a pianist to come in and serenade shoppers. Depending on the day and the pianist, you’ll hear music ranging from Chopin’s nocturnes to Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.” Once, I swear I heard “Bring Me To Life” by Evanescence.

At a time when there is so much to grieve and grip my fists and gaze in disbelief at, both in America and beyond, I’m grateful for the musicians whose weekend gig is playing the piano at Menards. It doesn’t change anything or ease the anguish or outrage. (How could it?) But it’s a glimmer on an otherwise dark, almost black pool.

A glimmer. September 2023.

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Our little house is slowly metamorphosing. In the three years since we bought and started renovating it, we have scrubbed and sanded, painted and re-painted, torn out, chiseled, installed, and embarked on copious endeavors to bring new life to an old, neglected space. Aurora House, the name we gave it, refers to Sleeping Beauty.

The Upstairs, as it’s deemed, soon to be Will’s music studio, has been the most time-consuming project to date, on par only with the summer we spent scraping lead paint off the exterior—an event I have more or less blocked out. Despite the challenges and the incredible amount of patience required at each stage, we’re close to completing the brunt of the work, after which we’ll have time to tinker and fine-tune until we either move or die, whichever comes first.

To say I feel fortunate to live in a relatively safe part of the world in a home that, though modest by American standards, is solid and has everything I need is a vast understatement. It is a privilege I’m constantly aware of, one that often chafes while at the same time compels me to be more conscious.

Owning a home is not something I ever thought I’d be in a position to do, and even now, I have a hard time claiming I own or have ownership over anything other than my being. I feel more like the house’s caretaker, someone responsible for ensuring it stays upright and clean and feeling loved until one day it carries on without me, as either a place for new memories or a heap of debris in a landfill.

All structures are unstable is a phrase that Will and I have taken to saying to each other, whether it’s about a particular identity or outlook or—the bane of my existence—chipping paint. All structures are unstable. Meaning: all of this could go away or change at any time. The molecular makeup of the world in which we live is inherently volatile. So don’t grip too tightly. Stay pliant. And know that when things break and fade, as they’re going to, that’s okay. That’s standard for this world.

And yet… and yet… everywhere I look, creativity abounds. Buildings rise. Murals, like plants, bloom. Babies burst out of birth canals, screaming with life. Gardens grow and tattoos teem. Breads swell. Even amid disaster and uncertainty, it seems humans can't help but make things. Our universal nature demands that we do.

Whenever I'm feeling pessimistic about my ability to create, I try to remember that I am part of the universe, and if the universe is creative, which it is, then by extension, I must be, too. Even if everything I create or build dissolves to dust one day, the act of making is essential to who I am as a human being. Regardless of outlet or outcome, there is a sense of aliveness which only making provides. Wonder. That which was once only a wisp of imagination now has form.

Making things—yet another glimmer, keeping me sane.

Will in his soon-to-be music studio. November 2023.

This brings me to picture-making and my recent lack thereof. Sometimes, that’s just how it is. I go through phases, often days or weeks, where the well runs dry. I don’t feel like picking up my camera or writing or doing hardly anything other than being. During these periods, all I want to do is rest and cook and go for coffee with Will and walk in the woods and run errands and stand in the lumber section at Menards, contemplating life, and watch 90s sitcoms and scroll through Pinterest and read and try to weatherize our house and assess my clothing situation before winter comes.

In the past, this used to bring me incredible distress, and I would get all in my head about it and feel like I was wasting away. (Not creating = worthlessness = malaise.) Now, I accept that’s just part of my process. I need time to live and not make pictures, even though making pictures brings me joy and seems to fulfill some universal purpose.

Sometimes, I need to lay low and trust that the desire to create with my cameras will return eventually. When it does, I’ll hopefully have more to offer.

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Time has passed, and again, I’m taking making pictures. In an effort to document more of our work on The Upstairs, I decided to photograph some details from Will’s soon-to-be studio and other spots around our home. Regretfully, I’ve not made nearly enough photographs of our progress on film over the years, though I have plenty of pictures on my phone. It’s one of those things I always think to do but then feel too tired, dirty, hungry, or absorbed in a project to follow through on. “Next time” is a phrase I utter far too often. With attention and a little self-forgiveness, I aim to remedy that. 𓇢𓆸

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