MEGAN RANDALL: The way it felt with grief is that nothing--
nothing really mattered.
And even when nothing mattered, every time I saw this piece,
I felt something.
My name is Megan Randall, and I am the Associate Objects
Conservator here at MoMA.
So this work is R.S.V.P. I It was made
by Senga Nengudi in 1977/2003.
Oh my god, how do you describe this?
It's 10 sets of nylons that are filled with sand.
And they are sort of stretched to their absolute limit,
and attached to the wall with a series of nails.
Some of them are resting on the floor, and some of them
are actually suspended from the ceiling,
in a very specific orientation determined by the artist.
In 2019, my assignment was the second floor
for our expansion exhibition.
One of the objects on the checklist was this work.
During my research, I'm looking through things about Senga
Nengudi, her works at other museums,
and read that these works, especially this one,
R.S.V.P. I, was made sort of as a reaction
to her first pregnancy.
And it has to do with the elasticity of the human body,
the changes we go through.
This was kind of an interesting point for me
because, at this point, it was early 2019
and I had been going through almost two
years of sort of struggles and difficulties
in getting pregnant.
And kind of the way it always feels
when you're the one trying to do something
and can't, kind of the whole world around you can.
And I sort of see these works and feel some amount of longing
for the changes she went through and the changes I wanted to go
through, but couldn't.
Sort of leading into the summer of 2019,
when we're going to start our install,
I find out that I'm pregnant.
And this work immediately takes on a new meaning.
I start having changes in my own body that are internal but not
visible yet, and start thinking about the weight of these works
and how they hang, and how fragile, but also strong,
they are.
Two weeks or so before we install
the work in the galleries, in August of 2019,
I have a pregnancy loss.
And everything about this work shifts for me.
Instead of being a sign of joy, it's
just, like, this physical reminder of what I've lost.
I had this physical change that was hidden,
but also this emotional change that
had shifted the center of my core, that was also hidden.
I kept that away from everyone.
So I just remember the feeling of lifting and helping
to install the different nylon components,
and just feeling like I was really holding everything
that I had lost.
The museum opens and I sort of forget about it
for a little while.
I have to check on the work every week, just
to make sure everything looks OK.
I kind of have this blanket of grief that's over me.
Something she mentions, Nengudi, is that sometimes elasticity
can go to the point where you can't change back,
that your psyche and your body, like, you're forever changed.
And it made me feel like the grief that I had,
and the hole that was at the center of my being,
wasn't always going to be a loss.
It was going to be maybe just a new shape that
defined a different part of me.
Now, almost over a year later, the work is beautiful.
It's still perfect, and it gives me a little bit of strength
every day.