MARRIAGE DISH
“I was mistaken about the marriage dish’s slogan.”
Emma Tourtelot might be persuaded to give up this significant object… but we’ll need your help. Read the following nonfiction story, then SUBMIT YOUR PERSUASIVE RESPONSE HERE.
When Rob and I purchased our first home together, the sellers each came to the closing with a separate lawyer and sat on opposite ends of the huge glossy table. The ex-husband didn’t make eye contact with anyone. The ex-wife smiled sadly and said, “The soil in the yard is amazing. You can grow anything there.” I had the distinct feeling that they both hated us. (It wasn’t like we held hands at the closing—we weren’t that insensitive—but we were in love with the idea of our new life together, and that was hard to hide.)
That afternoon, we let ourselves into the house, which was empty—except for a small dish I found under the kitchen sink. The shallow kind you might keep on the windowsill, a place to put your rings while you rolled out meatballs. It had a quote in French: Le mariage est un duo et un duel. Marriage is a duet and a duel; there should be enough wiggle room to do battle, but not so much that you end up divorced. “We should keep this,” I told Rob, “as a reminder not to turn into those people.” Newlyweds can be such arrogant pricks.
The dish looked tacky and mass-produced—probably in China—and my heart hurt a little for this estranged couple that had never even made it to Paris. It was years before I caught my misreading. The dish actually says, Le mariage est un duo ou un duel. Marriage is a duet or a duel. You’re supposed to pick just one, I guess.
Not only was I mistaken about the slogan, but I later discovered that the dish is Henriot Quimper pottery, hand-painted in France. This was disappointing; I'd always liked the fact that I had attached such meaning to a piece of tat. It felt more personal.
Two decades on, I’m inclined to think the dish got it right: A couple has to choose between duet and duel. When I was younger, I assumed that choosing the former meant never fighting. But the whole point of a duet is that there are two contrasting parts. Choosing the duet simply means you both agree this isn’t a solo performance.
I am allergic to anything that would qualify as a knickknack or trinket, and now that I’ve learned its lesson, I might be ready to let this misunderstood dish go. For now, I keep it on the windowsill in our kitchen. It’s where I put my rings when I make meatballs.
— EMMA TOURTELOT
Please SUBMIT YOUR PERSUASIVE RESPONSE HERE.
You can commune in person with this object (and 10 others) at solo exhibits in Kingston (NY) from August 15–September 1, and at a group exhibit — at Camp Kingston — from September 3–10. The object essays will be read aloud, and the most persuasive responses announced, at the GIVE IT UP project’s wrap-up party (open to all) on September 10. Join us there!
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What an interesting misperception. After more than 50 years of marriage, I recall some periods that were more duel than duet. But if we couldn't harmonize, we would not be together today, knowing we'd do it all over again.
Having lived for seven years in a rowhouse that held onto the stubborn melancholy of a previous couple's divorce, I say let this artifact of these people go. I say this as a nostalgic who hangs onto just about everything--*except* objects attached to sorrowful people, no matter how nice the things are in and of themselves. Why did they leave it behind anyway? An accident, or deliberately? If the latter, there's something intriguingly fraught about the move--and I get the sense they did not necessarily wish you well (though not necessarily ill, either). Find or commission a new little handmade tray to put your rings on, one that you love, one that's made by kind hands in your town or a souvenir of travels together, something that evokes a different feeling and thought pattern every time you touch it and look at it. That's my take!