object permanence

PDF. 32 pages; 8 images.

(18+) contains violent sexual themes & adult language.

Cheryl Graves crashed on my couch twice last year: once while recovering from her orchiectomy, and again when getting sober. I won't comment on our intimacy (or lack thereof); that's neither here nor there. Shortly after her stay, she seemingly vanished off the face of the earth, leaving behind several journals and a flash drive. Presuming her  dead, or perhaps finally living out her dream of apprenticing as a tattoo artist in New York, curiosity got the better of me. Everyone who knew Cheryl knows her more for her conceptual art; we'd discussed collaborating on a zine back in 2023, but plans fell through after her polycule imploded.  Perusing the contents of these notebooks revealed another side: dozens upon dozens of pages worth of flash fiction and short story drafts, as well as an unfinished outline for a science fiction novel inspired by Evangelion and Haibane Renmei. While rough around the edges, she showed remarkable promise as an author, which made her sudden disappearance all the more heartbreaking. Unsure of what to make of these fragments, I stored her writing in a safe place, making plans to compile selections, which I never followed through, thanks to a series of personal misfortunes.

This was for the best. Earlier this summer, briefly after publishing my collaboration with Rue A.D., I received a voicemail from a number I did not recognize. Thinking nothing of it at the time, I was shocked months later when, as I was clearing out my messages, I recognized her voice. She explained how, following an altercation with fascist punks, she had hopped onto a freight train and wound up somewhere out west. Long story short: She had spent the last couple of months in "adult entertainment" (apparently she'd been laid off just hours after leaving the voicemail), saving up money for an experimental new facial feminization procedure I can only describe as convoluted. When I finally returned her call, it was like no time had passed. We quickly fell into familiar rhythms, cracking jokes and laughing, when an awkward hush fell between us as I finally breached the subject of her diaries.

"Oh yeah. Right. That shit. I forgot."

She told me I could do whatever I wanted with them, so long as I didn't use her real name and give her a 66.6% cut of the profits. Accepting these generous terms, I spliced together my favorite of her pieces here. 

The name comes from her exhibit at the Walker Art Center of the same name, which, at her request, has disappeared without a trace off the internet. "Object Permanence" was an installation where the paintings and sculptures on display had been created with perishable organic material and would progressively decay and rot as exhibit ran its course. Citing "the inevitable heat death of the universe" as her driving inspiration behind this body of work, the show was nonetheless viewed by those in the local art community as a failure. The transient nature of these pieces did not lend themselves to a buyer's market. Nonetheless, the gallery spoke to me on a deeply profound level, enough to seek the recluse out. 

I wasn't very hopeful. Cheryl, ever the iconoclast, refuses to create anything resembling a social media presence, going so far as to avoid having her picture taken (she suffers from scopophobia following a prolonged "mental health episode" at her old job as a crime scene photographer). Luckily for me, I managed to run into her on the long walk home through the sculpture garden. I stopped to smoke a cigarette when a stranger asked me for a light. We talked for a while about transgressive '90s lit (she commented on my BLACK DRESSES shirt; I still can't remember what about that specifically sparked this particular topic) before telling me her name, which I recognized from her placards. She suggested heading back to her place for the afternoon. Over weed and wine I quickly discovered that we had a lot in common.

Cheryl Graves currently lives in Hollywood, California. She's making movies now.

— Natalie Tautou