The Space between Things

Are you still a fan of the space between things?

Yes, of course.

I’ve often wondered—would the ultimate result of such a stance by a writer not be a white page?

Could, I suppose.

Why then aren’t you dedicated to creating blank spaces?

Been done. You end up staring at “White on White #17” on a gallery wall and feeling ready for lunch, or a drink. But I think you’re confusing the space between things and blank space.

I know you’d love to discourse. Would you please?

Never thought you’d ask. And you know this. It’s all very simple. Everything is a cocreation. There is the artist’s creation, or the tree falling in the forest, or the memo at work, or the lover’s gaze, and there is the recipient, the observer, the other who is participating, and the act is a dialog between or among them, and the meaning exists in the space between. It’s a richly textured space.

For everyone?

I can speak only for myself.

And so you send writing into the world and it is completed only when it reaches the other?

Roughly.

What if the other really dislikes it?

That’s no fun, but c’est la vie.

Might as well jump off the cliff?

No. I’m also having an ongoing conversation with myself, and I’m a tough critic, and if I’m pleased, I’m pleased.

Is there a space between you and yourself?

It’s the same size as the one between you and me.

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