"I forgot to put Vaseline on him first," says Myrella. "I got the plaster on and said, 'Uh-oh. I forgot to prepare you.' He yelled. He really had to fight to get out of that sucker."
Myrella and Edwin are transparently the right and left hemispheres of a single, spectacular brain. He has his linear, infinitely measurable world of track. She has her intuitive art. Both end up dealing with the same things. "Here is a depiction of when he told me he wouldn't be able to race in 1985," says Myrella. It is a face perfectly divided between delight and sorrow, with one joyful orange eye and one shedding aquamarine tears.
Another work has dried, brown eucalyptus bark peeling from a pastel inner core. "It is image curling up and falling off," says Myrella. "Post-1984."
The Moseses seem an example of symbiosis as striking as the clown fish and the sea anemone. "We admire each other's qualities," says Myrella. "I envy Ed's discipline, his ability to be calm."
Edwin doesn't give voice to his envy. But it is surely of Myrella's future. Artists go on as long as Supreme Court justices. "And meanwhile," says Moses, "I'll be searching the rest of my life for another job."