From the wonderous Yoshiki, who sent the keys wrapped in his physics exam, on which he scored excellent marks.
Dear Beth,
Here is my key…
It may bring you luck…
It may bring you sadness…
It has brought me both…
I guess it evens itself out…
It is quite ordinary…
But very special also…
The key has traveled with me for many, many years now…
From here on out it will travel with you, my dear Beth.
Much love,
Lorraine
Dear unknown Beth
I’m rather at a loss how to start this. Quite some time ago now, I read your blog asking for other people’s keys. I absolutely loved the idea of collecting the keys— so full of symbols!— and stories of complete strangers.
That day, I decided to send you my keys of Failure and with them my (tearful, rather childish) story of how I failed to learn playing the cello. Then life when on, and I met people, making a new friend (a rare thing for me); and she fully understood and convinced me it’s not easy to keep practicing a difficult instrument, especially as a full-time student, and made me go on.
That day, I decided to send you my keys of Success. Again, life went on, and I never got around to actually writing this letter. I write it today though, not because of my struggle with music that I’ve found out will probably never end, and that’s o.k. It’s o.k. (you probably taught me that.) I will practice and I won’t practice, and if I can keep a balance to these phases, it will be alright.
I write this now to take my mind off tomorrow. This side of the globe, that’s a Monday; and I’ll start my secure job in a huge library in the department of medieval manuscripts and early printings. I’m studying this stuff, and I love old books, so it should be heaven. But I’m a bit scared, too. No, that’s wrong. I’m completely, utterly terrified.
I’ve never worked at such a place, and I’m bad with people and unfamiliar surroundings. I’m afraid at doing mistakes and embarassing myself. And I wonder if this feeling ever stops? I’ve turned 22 last week, still living at home, never worked at a serious place. My heart is racing when I think about tomorrow, and I know it will be worse when I’ll be there, it will be horrible, sweaty palms, thumping heart, tiny voice, trembling hands. Every step on my way up those huge stairs, I will wish to just be home again.
But, and that’s basically why I write to you, why I’m telling you this (and not, say, call my best friend and open my heart to her), somehow thinking of you and all your second family of artists out there makes me feel better. It makes me feel better to know that it’s normal to make mistakes, that this doesn’t go away, miraculously, when you grow up. It makes me feel better to know that I can always turn around again in my life and choose a radically different way. I can don fancy clothes and become a librarian, or I can cut my hair, dye it pink and turquoise again and sell my own fashion line. Or do something else instead, like write all those unfinished novels and live on a houseboat in Amsterdam.
I know I can do this because you showed me it’s possible.
And so… I’m sending you the keys of Self-doubt and Fear and Hope. They’re the keys to my cello case, which I’ve never locked. Turn them into something beautiful.
xxx
Deike
July 20th 2009
Beth-
Enclosed are a homemade set of lockpicks that I made when I was fourteen. To try to prevent me from sneaking out, my mom put a lock on my bedroom door with a double sided keyhole—and she had the only key. Of course, she underestimated my desire to get out of her house every night.
I’m all grown up now and have no more need for them, but for some reason I’ve never been able to just throw them away. Thus, they have made their way to you.
So, not a conventional key, but they unlocked the door to freedom all the same.
Love,
Rebekah
(note: it’s worth pointing out that Sylvia K, who sent this key, is a tremendous artist. she is modest on the internet, but her work is worth seeking out, and she did a beautiful portrait of me that can be seen here.)
Once upon a time, in a small town in Italy (constantly plunged into fog), there was a little girl in a pretty red coat. She felt lost, lonely, clinging tight to her stuffed animals. All the time, she drew. But she was somehow ashamed of it, and hurriedly hid her sketches in a locked drawer. No… that little girl was me. I have been sharing my art (in fact, giving it away too… I own very little of it) for years, and it’s the most beautiful feeling ever. Therefore, I don’t need the key to my secret drawer anymore. I’m sure you’ll have a better use for it.
-Sylvia K
