The Brooklyn Rail

I remember many firsts with Lumin, but not the first time we met. I know it was at the Guggenheim; we were both working as art handlers. It felt as if we had always been friends. Working with her was a joy; she brought out the lightness in me. Maybe it's because we shared similar childhoods—wild children of nature.

We laughed a lot and often had lunch in Central Park when the weather was nice, sitting there people-watching and laughing at the same funny sights. One particular sight always made us crack up: a nearby nursery would bring out all these babies in a red buggy, their little heads bouncing along. On rainy days, we’d sit in the café and watch the buses with tourists on the upper deck get wet and smashed by tree branches. It never got old.

The first time I rode my bike to work was with Lumin. I would ride from Bushwick to meet her at the Pulaski Bridge entrance. From there, we’d go into Queens, cross the Queensboro Bridge, and head into Midtown, into Central Park, and ride up. She was strong, riding up the bridges on a fixie bike. She even rode when she was pregnant. I thought it was good exercise, and we rode carefully.

For the exhibition Gutai: Splendid Playground in 2013, we were tasked with drawing on objects and clothes that would be used in a performance. We sat on the Guggenheim ramps in our Tyvek suits, with the words “NASA” written on them. We loved days like these.

Lumin and I shared not only work but also friendships and careers. My first two-person exhibition was with her, at Present Company. We talked a lot about what we were working on and what we might show. We only knew she would show paintings and I sculpture; the rest was open, just like our friendship. I have a picture of her lying on the floor of my studio, looking up, while thinking of the title for our show. In my lap are the words Sea, Echo, Vine, Blue, Mirror, Fold, Moss—she is speaking, maybe one of these words. We called our show Meridian Atlas, with “meridian” meaning both the pathways of energy in the body and the imaginary line passing through the North and South Poles of the Earth.

The first time I did mushrooms was with Lumin. We were at my house when suddenly Lumin came back from the bathroom holding my needlepoint boat picture. She said, “Look, it’s moving!” Watching together, that little boat gliding along the waves felt magical.

But we didn't need psychedelics to experience the world in a peculiar way. One summer, we drove to Maine together. We listened to music, talked, and seven or eight hours flew by. I remember taking a walk into the woods behind the house where we stayed; it was a lush forest with moss and shady paths. We stopped to touch the moss and closely observe the tiny new pine trees, laughing at the thought of ourselves as giants in this Lilliputian land.

Back home, walking became more important. Mornings, I would get a call or a text from her and would drop everything to join her. Sometimes, we talked about death while holding hands, teary-eyed. Mostly, I listened. I don’t know where you will go, I said, but I will always see you in nature. “It’s not the same,” she said. I nodded. I miss that beautiful person. Some days, I like to imagine her sailing, sun shining, water sparkling, and a big smile on her face.