PROJECT HIGHLIGHT

A HOUSE FOR MARILYN MONROE

by Charles F. Pigott (UK)

 

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR PRECEDENT A Day in the Life of A House for Marilyn Monroe Being a guided tour by the First Lady herself, from the other side Good evening. Or good morning. It is hard to tell, from here. The light comes in from above — it always does, in this house — through openings in the ceiling that Mr Eisenman cut for me, each one exactly 2380 by 900 millimetres, which is the size of a very serious thought. Peter is very serious. He is also very funny, which is the same thing. Welcome to my house. It is the White House, of course. But it is also — and this is the part they don’t put on the tour — a memorial. To what? To the dream, darling. To the dream. The day begins early because Theodore says it must. Theodor Adorno is in the Library — the oval room, top of the plan, you can see it highlighted in pink — and he has been there since before any of us arrived. He is writing. He is always writing. This morning he has written: “Freedom would be not to choose between black and white but to abjure such prescribed choices.” I told him that was very good and he said he knew. He does not find this house funny. I find this house very funny. By nine o’clock Mr Lincoln has taken his position on the stair. He always does this. He stands on the landing and looks up through the stelae ceiling and says nothing. He is very tall. The stelae are also very tall. They understand each other. I have asked him what he thinks about. He says: the quality of light. I believe him. At ten, the corridor fills. Jimmy Carter arrives first because Jimmy Carter always arrives first. He is punctual and decent and the corridor — the long one, with the rooflights running the full length of the second floor — suits him exactly. He walks it slowly. He approves of the brickwork. There is no brickwork. He approves of it anyway. Barack and Michelle come in together. They always come in together. Michelle looks at the stelae ceiling and says it reminds her of something she can’t quite name. Barack says: it’s the Memorial, Michelle. She says: I know what it is, Barack. Ronnie comes in with Margaret on his arm. Ronnie is happy. Ronnie is always happy. Margaret is not unhappy — she is simply operating at a frequency the building cannot quite accommodate. She looks at the repeated columns of the stelae, the rhythmic grid, and she approves of the repetition on grounds of discipline. Ronnie waves at everyone. Nobody waves back at Kanye. Kanye is standing in the Library — the grey room, the heavy room, the room where the ceiling presses down — and he is looking at the ceiling and he is thinking about Kanye. His other half stands beside him in the teal dress and she is also thinking about Kanye. It is a large thought. The room accommodates it. George W. Bush is lost. He has been lost since the second corridor. The stelae all look the same, which is the point, which is something George finds genuinely surprising each time. He is not distressed. He has a good heart. He will find his way to the East Room eventually. He always does. Bill Clinton is in the corridor with the balustrade — image eight, the one with the long railing — and he is leaning on it and smiling at everyone who passes and everyone who passes smiles back because that is what happens with Bill. At noon, Jack arrives. He comes in from the south entrance — the portico, the columns — and he stands for a moment in the light of the great window, the full-height aperture that faces the garden, and he is very handsome in the light and he knows it. He looks for me. I am already there. I am always already there. I am standing in the corridor — the grey one, image six — and I am wearing the dress and my hair is the hair and I am looking at him and he is looking at me and the building is the building that Peter made out of the plan that James Hoban drew in 1792 and the stelae are the stelae that are 2380 by 900 millimetres and this is the White House and this is Berlin and this is America and this is the Memorial to the Dream. Happy Birthday, Mr Precedent. In the afternoon, Donald walks alone. The long corridor. The check-grid ceiling. The columns repeating to infinity. The light coming in from above, cold and even and without preference. He walks and the building does not respond and he walks and the columns continue and he walks and there is no crowd and no sound and no mirror and the corridor goes on. This is not a punishment. It is simply the building. It is the same corridor that Jimmy walked and Barack walked and Ronnie walked with Margaret and Bill leaned against and George got lost in. It is the same corridor. The building makes no distinction. At the end of the day — if it is a day, if there are days here — Theodore closes his notebook in the Library and he says: “The whole is the false.” And Marilyn Manson, who has been sitting in the corner the whole time and whom nobody noticed, says: “I know.” And I say: “Gentlemen. Ladies. This is my house. I was born on the first of June. The International Day of Children. Look at what they made of me. Look at what I let them make. Look at the house. Is it not beautiful? Is it not exactly the right size for a dream?”