8/1/2016: Dustin & Whitney

welcome to the new wirehouse co. effort: WIREHOUSE DAILY. our hope is to invite artists of various mediums to share a piece of work, once a day, for 30 days. we thought we'd start this experiment for the month of august with the two of us sharing written pieces in any form for 30 days. some we'll create day-of (like today, day 1) or some we'll share that maybe we haven't shared previously or very publicly. if you're interested in being an artist for a future wirehouse daily month, awesome- please email us at wirehouseco@gmail.com with your work and what you'd do to fill the 30 days. 

we hope you enjoy.


UNTITLED NO. 1 by DH Currier



by whitney lamora currier

Whitney takes MALE and FEMALE from front row of audience and stands them together center stage. She hands the man a small camera. She asks them to smile. Whitney sits in one of their seats and directs the dialogue toward them.

We ended up there because we had just walked from Brooklyn to Manhattan and didn’t know where we were or what to do. A visit to an un-air conditioned Starbucks followed by passing a deluge of lunch breakers hovering in the shade of a government building’s gate led us down one street and up another until we got to those people who wear foam Statue of Liberty hats as a job.

Would you like a tour?
No, no we won’t be needing a tour.

I was 15 when it happened so what I remember was a school announcement, an early day, a trip to McDonald's and the park - neither of which I was supposed to visit. I remember someone pointing out the lack of airplanes in the sky.

We approached the pools and I felt a rip in my gut and a tear in my throat I hadn’t expected. Sure, it was our tragedy but I never felt like it was my tragedy because I laughed in my 2nd hour classroom at the absurdity of it and because I was fifteen and didn’t know anyone in New York.

They’re massive, the pools. Like the shoes they have to fill they span across the grounds and I stood there and thought how? How? How did they actually do it?

How the fuck did they clean it up?

Lines snaked through roped off barricades like the entrance to a gala or otherwise highly priced ticketed event. A highly priced ticketed event.

A Highly. Priced. Ticketed. Event.

I cried a fraction of the tears I owed them in the last fifteen years, finally feeling a piece of what I should have felt then- now fifteen years older and standing under the weight of the rubble that once was here.

[The MALE holds out the camera toward WHITNEY.]

As we turned to leave a husband and wife stopped us.

Will you take our picture?

Of course.

And they leaned back against the monument in the pristine courtyard, they wrapped arms around waists. And they smiled.

WHITNEY takes photo, [Shutter Sound]. She extends the camera back to the man. As both of their hands touch it, lights snap shut.