Barbara Strigel
In the Leeway
My husband Wolfgang and I came together later in life, having already learned some things about being married. We were matched up by an algorithm and would never have predicted we'd be as compatible as we are. This project, initially conceived as a book, consists of figure studies of us and a series of statements that describe how our differences in temperament have created tensions but also made us interesting to each other. The photographs are shot in silhouette and digitally collaged into architectural spaces suggesting that it is possible to know someone very well and still find them mysterious.
The collage process involves improvisation and the joining together of disparate elements into a unified whole. There is certainly a parallel to the way a marriage evolves over time. In the Leeway refers to the allowable margin, the space we give each other to be ourselves.
*leeway:
1. freedom to act within particular limits, the allowable margin
She never tightened lids.
He could not, for the life of him,
figure out how to put the fitted sheets on the bed.
She was cautious- crossing only at crosswalks and stopping at yellow lights.
He drove, in the words of her father, like a maniac.
She broke a glass at least once a month.
He had a European approach to holding his fork and cut his food with precision.
People said her piecrust was the best they ever tasted.
He was loyal,
always buying the same brand of underwear and keeping his shoes for decades.
She was tolerant of the mayhem of children.
His persistence with computer problems was remarkable.
Both were list makers.
She was a fast reader.
He was a thorough reader.
She had a photographic attraction to peeling paint.
He made her laugh when they did the laundry,
describing the missing socks as long term or short term problems.
In the summer, they ate lunch on the balcony.
He was a graceful swimmer and enthusiastic dancer.
She listened to a lot of music that he didn’t really like.
He was completely uninterested in spectator sports.
She was always temporarily losing things and digging in her giant purse.
He spoke 3 languages and a bit of a fourth.
She gave up on German when the verb tenses got tricky.
He climbed up a 30 foot ladder to install a clothesline
because she liked the smell of air dried sheets.
They almost always liked the same pieces of art.
He liked the challenge of deciphering transit maps
and understood the structure of the Tokyo subway.
She liked to keep the surfaces clean
and sometimes put his glass in the dishwasher before he was finished.
He was wary of eggplant.
She was a restless sleeper.
He liked to grow things; built elaborate irrigation systems for the bamboo
and tried to propagate gooseberries.
She liked the idea of gardening in the same way that she liked the idea of sewing, which is to say, in theory.
They argued about the thermostat
but they were courteous and never took each other for granted.