Scott Joyce Wallace - Entwined: sisters and secrets in the silent world of artist Judith Scott

For my Judy,
and all those whose talents
and gifts are not yet realized.

For Creative Growth,
where Judy discovered hers.
May such places spring up everywhere around the world
and all of us be blessed.

The sheet is coldcold all the way to the edge. I stir, instinctively moving myself deeper into the bed, seeking the warmth of my sister, my twin. It may be the sound of the leafless branches of the old maple tree beside the house scraping against the shingles that has wakened me. I open my eyes to the dull gray light of a November morning filtering through the curtained window. Outside I can just make out the protective silhouette of the giant blue spruce that stands guard over our room, the center of our universe, our sanctuary from the greater world beyond.

Judy and I were joined in the wombin body, in souland yet we were different. Even at birth, the unforeseen differences between us were received by others as part mystery, part gift, part curse. Together we shared a rich, sensate landscape filled with ripe berries and moist mud pies. It was an unspoiled world where everything in the universe was alive and filled with meaning. Judys lack of language forced us to live in a realm of experience unmediated by words. Most people leave this state of preverbal communion with stones, trees, and birds by the age of two. Our first two years, remembered only as passing images from a dreamtime, are spent in a soft world of sensations, sensations without words. I remember the speckled light that moves with the curtain that hangs near our crib, our hands playing with the shadows and light coming through the bars, the softness of Judys skin. I remember her warmth, the warmth of her breath mingling with mine, the heat of her body beside me. In discovering my own body, Im discovering Judys; the presence of the two of us forms a collage of sense impressions all merging into one. When I roll over, I touch her arm and she moves closer to me. There is little difference between movement and response. My body, her body, already fused in our sense memories.

I recall most of our early life as being lived in a sandbox. It is a small yard all its own, surrounded by chicken wire, with an old broken wooden gate latched with a twig. To us, it feels like home, as much our home as our room and our bed. In our sand-and-earth world, Judy and I scratch and dig; we play with sticks and leaves, and with stones brought up from the creek. We make plates and cups from the green catalpa leaves. We scrape designs in the sand, make stone soup, and pour water into holes. In handling our stones, we discover a kind of counting, but mainly we discover the joy of sharing. The feel of sand and grit in our toes and teeth is deeply satisfying. I can peel a stick, taste a stone. Together, we collect the mulberries that fall from the giant tree just beyond our gate. We smash them, eat them, paint our faces with their juice. We put the wandering box turtles in with us and paint their shells to be like us. We collect tadpoles from the pond, keep fireflies in jars, our small hands reaching toward their blinking, ever-moving lights, so often just out of reach. For years, this was our world.

In the cool night, we sleep curled together under our blankets; in the warm night, our skins are damp together, the smell of our bodies mingling, becoming one. Judy and I, always cocooned together. We sleep like spoons, small curved spoons, soft twin spoons, keeping each other close and warm. But now I feel coldvery cold. I reach out my hand across the bed to pull her closereach furtherand further still. She is not there beside me.

I slip quickly out of bed, my bare feet hardly touching the floor, and tiptoe to the bathroom, wondering if she might be there. The towels from our last nights bath are still lying damp on the floor and our yellow duck that we pushed back and forth in the tub lies on its side, abandoned. But she is not here.

For seven years, Judy and I are blessed to wander in our own private Eden, a land of endless wonder and discovery, rich in sensation and the currency of love, always in a world without words. Outdoors or indoors, Judy wants to sit beside me and do what I am doing. For a long time, we do the same thingsplay with mud and mulberries, dirt and dandelions. Later, as my play grows more complicated, I can only pretend our games are the same and imagine rules without knowing quite what each of us means. Later, we may mean different things, but still it feels the same. There are no words, but we need none. What we love is the comfort of sitting with our bodies near enough to touch.

Where we live, with our three big brothers, Wally, Dicky, and Jimmy, it is almost countryside, and the confusion of downtown Cincinnati is far away.

Behind our house are sheep pastures with woods nearby, a little creek, and a pondso many worlds to explore. In the field behind us, we find bunnies in the spring, their nests disturbed by cats. We try each year to save them, but they always die, and I feel sadder each time. We have an animal graveyard with a section just for bunnies. They fit in little shoeboxes with a layer of grass for a bed, and sometimes we make them a cushion for their long sleep. We make tiny crosses out of twigs, and my best friend, Kathy, sometimes says a little prayer.

We live surrounded by a continuous mingling of friends and neighbors and, above all, neighborhood kids, who come and go, constantly circling in and out of each others homes and yards. We feel bound and safe. Where we live, we are never afraid, even though sad things, sometimes bad things, happen. Like Aunt Helen falling on her sagging porch next door and breaking her hip. Or Gramma losing her mind and thinking my name is Teddythat was the name of her dog that died a long time ago. I dont mind. I love her and love how she loves me as Teddy. Teddy was her best dog, her very best dog. And I love how she peels apples for us with just one long, swirling peel, which she promises shell teach me one day.

Long before she welcomes us into her world, it seems Aunt Helen has always been old. Tall and thin, never talkative, she is formidable, but always kind. When we are not in our sand yard or our room, we like to be at Aunt Helens, that is, until she falls and goes to the hospital. Beside Aunt Helens dilapidated back porch, but not as far as the barn, there are rows and rows of purple violets every spring. More violets than my plump, sweaty hand can hold. I pick them with the sun beating down on my dark head. I pick them with purpose and intent. Judy helps me sometimes, but mostly she pulls them too short, with no stems. But its okay. We pick and pick, with small beads of sweat dripping down our faces, turning bright red in the Ohio sun.

Later in the evening, we go with Daddy to the hospital. Judy and I are not allowed to see Aunt Helen, but we ride across town with Daddy and wait in the parking lot. All it does is rain. We wait in the car with the drops sliding down the window pane beside us. Judy wants to be on my side, next to me. We both kneel on the seat and put our fingers on the inside, up against a drop and follow its downward course. It isnt a race really, not with us. If anything, I want Judys drop to win, and Im not sure she cares. Were snug side by side. Its dark inside, dark outside. Sometimes a car comes by, lighting up Judys face, the drops, and our fingers pointing on the pane. With the light, Judy sometimes forgets the drop and looks at me instead, poking at my face and giving me a little shove. We giggle and get silly. We know Daddy is coming back soon.