Varhaus No. 3

12/12/27

Somebody told me this series was breaking their brain. If you’re new, you may want to start from the beginning. A broken brain is one thing, a fractured story is another…

Varhaus No. 1

Varhaus.

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December 12, 2027
6:30 pm

The invitation arrived weeks ago. Before Thanksgiving. A wrapped white package leaning against your front door. No return address. You opened it on your kitchen table. A blue painting. Flipping it over to look for a signature, you found a message embossed in white lettering on blue labeling tape, like your grandfather’s shop organizers.

Merry Christmas, Sara
Join us on 12/12
5 pm until 10 pm
Look dope.
Bring only the name of the person you most worry about.

Confusion. How did they find me? Bring a name? What the hell? More questions than answers.

---

You’re driving downtown. The town is dead. Yesterday’s snowstorm has made the city silent. Sure, there’s traffic, but it seems every car is passing through to somewhere else. The storefronts are dark. Parking is available everywhere. Amazon Christmas.

Further on, to your left, fifty cars parked in front of an amber snow globe. You didn’t get dressed up for nothing.

You parallel park a block away, rueing the certain salty ruin of your best pink soles. You organize your purse beneath the seat and step out. At the rear of your car, you keep your eyes down, avoiding the slush. A valet stands quietly until you look up from your shoes. He’s wearing gray coveralls with white pinstripes and a Varhaus logo. He holds out his hand as you reach the curb.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Ms. Douglas. I’m Mike. Merry Christmas from Varhaus.” Mike offers his arm and escorts you over the only dry sidewalk in the city.

“When we get inside, I’ll hang your coat. You’ll need this. Your job is to enjoy yourself. There will be a ten-minute program at 7:12. Did you bring a name?”

You smile and confirm you’ve done your homework. One-handed, you pull the lanyard over your head and look at it. “Prima”? Mike opens the door and ushers you inside. You hand him your coat, and he takes it away with a smile.

You pause to gather yourself.

The spray-painted wall. “Be not conformed” in pink, drippy Rust-Oleum. A familiar face smiles and offers you a flute of champagne. She’s wearing the same jumpsuit as Mike, but with a string of pearls and heels.

“Merry Christmas, Sara. You look amazing.”

“Merry Christmas to you, Ruth. Thanks a million for having me. You even look classy in a mechanic’s outfit. This place confuses me so much. What the hell is going on?”

She laughs as if thrilled by your confusion.

“I cannot tell you. I mean, I can’t enunciate it. I’ll tell you this. Tonight’s event is the closest we get to an explanation. We’ve been working on it for a year. Varhaus is something to be understood individually. Describing it ruins it for people.”

“The mug.”

“Yep. The mug.”

To the right, a banquet table: Collectors. Handmade wooden boxes, all different, with red bows. Wood-burned logos on the face of each box. A branded Brand. The largest box, centered on the table: Sara Douglas.

You look back at Ruth. She shrugs and extends a hand, inviting you into the party

---

Entering the festivities, Varhaus is unfamiliar again.

The main room was long and rectangular. Now it is square, crowned by a hanging four-foot disco ball. Two adjacent rooms are fully opened to the party and brightly lit: the paint studio and the workshop. Ruth’s furniture collections are raised above the crowd and occupied by guests. The far wall is obscured by a suspended curtain of traditional Christmas lights, the sort that only look good when there are too many.

You almost bump into a man playing cello in a jumpsuit, red kerchief, and matching fedora. Somewhere unseen, a piano answers him. The crowd ebbs, revealing a woman with a violin strolling through the sea of conversation.

Sidestepping the cellist’s chair, you look left and observe the guests at a 1950s kitchen table rise from their seated positions. The cluster of people mingling in front of them misses the gesture.

You make a few quick observations about the staged furniture settings. The themes are the same as you remember: grandma’s kitchen table, the MCM lounge, the full-blown content creator’s workstation. Actors. They have actors. At grandma’s table sits a family of five dressed like the cast of My Three Sons. On the mid-century couch and chairs, eight stylish men and women in lounge coats and cigarette pants smoke pipes and look sophisticated. At the computer desk, a twenty-something works while five monitors show a Zoom call with what appears to be hundreds of people. He’s wearing coveralls and audio cans.

When the family rises, the music stops. The conversations continue. Unnoticed, the violinist steps onto the platform beside the actors. She gives an exaggerated nod. Her bow slides across the strings like the first loops of a knitting needle beginning a winter sweater for a loved one.

A voice from nowhere:

“Gloria.”

And the standing family answers in harmony:

“in excelsis Deo.”

Guests whip their heads around, searching for the singers. They turn toward the kitchen as the stylish men and women rise behind them and sing the first verse a cappella, forcing the room to turn again. The piano and cello join. The music caresses the spectators from front, left, and right. Surround sound. They back themselves into the dead corner of the room, trying to position their ears to take it all in at once.

After three songs, the littlest boy in the choir is helped onto the kitchen table by the violinist.

A lone cherub singing in the wilderness: Silent Night.

The music ends, and your feet still have not allowed you to join the party. Your wine is nearly gone. Can a girl get a drink in this place? You move right, toward the painting studio. The crowd gathers to congratulate the players.

A man sits alone in the studio beneath an unfinished painting, drinking from a mug. His face holds only the satisfaction of the first cup of coffee on a winter morning. You have not seen Jason since your first visit. He is wearing gray Puma sweatpants and aquamarine New Balance 574s.

“Are you hanging with all your friends?” You jest.

“Hi Sara. Welcome home. Looks like you need more bubbles.” He smiles, stands, and shakes your hand. Then he reaches into an ice bucket on his worktable, tops you off. “There you go. Thanks a million for being here.”

You’ve wanted to ask him all sorts of questions. You decide you would not receive a straight answer to any of them.

“I love my mug. I love the idea on it. But I still don’t understand what you’re doing in this building.”

He deliberately misreads the statement-shaped question.

“What am I doing? I’m thinking about how much work we’ve done to get to today. I’m counting my blessings. I’m thinking about what to do next.”

“You’re not enjoying the moment? This amazing event? The culmination of your work?”

“I already enjoyed it while making it.”

You make small talk. He escorts you back into the party and introduces you to art collectors, local artists, a retired priest, a real-estate developer, and his wonderful wife.

When he introduces his wife, you observe his joy for the first time.

---

7:12

“May I have your attention?”

Ruth steps onto a small stage. Behind her hangs a fire-hazard curtain of gaudy holiday lights. No dais. No props. She holds a Varhaus coffee mug. She stands a head taller than most of the gathered crowd.

“Merry Christmas. Welcome to Varhaus. Thanks a million for being here. We have three things to do in seven minutes. Two speakers and a half-done art project we’d like help with. Please welcome Jason.”

Jason climbs the step to the stage. He has not changed his clothes.

“Thanks a million.” He does not smile. “I’d like to recognize two people.

Camron is our first YES. Thank you for allowing us to fill your building with art and philosophy. I intend to repay your trust.

And, our first-ever visitor to Varhaus: Sara Douglas. She is our second YES.” Jason gestures toward where you’re standing. A warm round of applause. You blush. You had no idea.

“The philosophy of Varhaus is manifest in this building. The rules are a coffee mug. The operating agenda is a Bible verse spray-painted on a wall. The why is greater than the what.

That’s all the explanation you get.

I’d like to introduce our partner and reveal our project. Everyone, meet Andrew, my friend and favorite metal guy...”

---

He is standing next to you. He looks like a ready-to-work lumberjack drinking coffee, waiting for the go-ahead. He wears a graphic T-shirt that reads: Hail Mary full of grace, punch the devil in the face. He is wearing Vans. You think he looks dope.

When your name is announced, he touches your shoulder. You are surprised to be recognized and slightly embarrassed, but his smile says: that’s so fucking cool. You love him immediately.

When introduced, he grabs your hand and pulls you onto the stage. He points at you.

“Number one!”

You step back down into the crowd.

“We think the rosary is the most powerful prayer in the world. We believe only God can save us. Our goal is to amplify our service to the world by building a traveling prayer. Jason, Ruth, and I teamed up to make a crazy idea.

Before Jason was an artist, he made a five-day retreat in a monastery. In the woods of the enclosure was an old shed. The Rosary Shed. People walked from the chapel to this ramshackle one-room pull-behind trailer to say the rosary. Many visitors wrote the names of their prayers on the wall. I visited a few months ago and found it still standing. I found the names of thousands of people who had been prayed for.

So we made this shed. We want to send it around the world. We want to fill its walls with names.”

The gaudy curtain of Christmas lights goes dark and rises, revealing a Tom Sawyer white garden shed, too big for a snowblower and not big enough for an art studio. You guess it to be twelve by sixteen feet.

The entire venue blinks pitch black. Everyone silent. One spotlight strikes the shed, its white skin throwing back an ethereal glow.

You stare at it as if you’ve never seen a garden shed in an art gallery before.

The spotlight clicks off. Still silent. A single candle burns inside the shed. You can see it through the sliding glass entry. In the flicker, a shadow. A murmur from the shape casting it.

A man kneels near the candle. You cannot make out the words, but you went to Catholic school, so by context, you know. After a moment, the whole building lights from within. The soffits beneath the roofline ignite too. A shining shed on a hill.

You forget where you are.

The kneeling figure is the priest you met earlier. Ruth walks to the glass door and slides it open. The prayers emerge.

“We welcome you to come inside and see our shed. We call it The Joyful Mystery. There are paint markers. We invite you to write the names of your prayers on the wall. You may join Father. If you know the rosary, you may give him a wine break. We only ask that you respect the solemnity of others.

Sara, as our most honored guest, we invite you inside first. We cannot thank you all of you enough for being here. Mike and his mother assembled the most amazing sandwich bar in the workshop. Jason will be in the studio. I am here. The music will begin again.”

“Wait!” someone in the back yells. “Tell us more about what you’re going to do with the shed. Where’s it going to go? How will you fund it? How can we get involved?”

Your curiosity about the shed is already pulling you toward it. You hear the questions. Absentmindedly, you call over your shoulder:

“Figure it out.”

Jason doubles over laughing.

“SHE GETS IT!”

---

You pass through the open sliding door. You are struck. Looming above the kneeling priest, a crucifix of nails.

The cross runs from the peak of the shed to the floor. An untreated I-beam. Rough and used. Chalk marks and handwritten measurements remain from craftsmen who put it to its first purpose. You imagine steelworkers fitting it into a building fifty years ago. Above the body: INRI.

But the body. The corpus. Holy s...My Lord and my God. There must be ten thousand nails arranged in the shape of Christ. The sharp tips point downward toward his feet, except for the crown of thorns and the spikes securing the Messiah. The brutality of metal shaped into flesh weakens your knees. You sink onto the kneeler beside the priest. He pauses.

“Who do you want to pray for?”

“My Aunt Jenny. And, if you don’t mind, and, if it’s not too selfish...”

He finishes your sentence.

“I have already prayed for you tonight. When you get home, will you pray for me?”

“I will. Thank you, Father.”

You rise and grab a paint marker. Then you fall back to your knees and reach toward the cross. You write her full name on the I-beam beneath Christ’s feet. You pray. You kiss the priest on the cheek.

Ten people wait behind you, craning their necks to see what you’ve seen. Others write the names of their whole families on the outside of the shed. You decide to have a sandwich and find your champagne flute.

You give up on the glass and enter the woodshop. Ridiculous sandwiches.

A sixty-year-old woman in a Varhaus jumper points a spatula directly at your stomach.

“You look hungry. You’re Sara, right? You and me are going to make you the best sandwich you ever ate. Look, I shaved this beef tenderloin so fine. I sliced this chicken from my neighbor’s coop. It has rosemary and thyme. I pickled these beets and made my grandmother’s special relish. I have seventeen cheeses and nine meats. Three kinds of bread. Jason calculated that with all the toppings and meats, we can make 5,287,680 unique combinations.”

You walk away shaking your head. Roasted pork loin. Rosemary chicken. Goat cheese. Smoked gouda. Wax pepper mustard on warm fresh sourdough. Now you’re looking for water.

You set your food beside a pleasant couple at the MCM table. The woman smiles and says hello. You spend an hour talking about life and art. They flew in from Fort Lauderdale to see Jason for this event. They own several of his paintings and just bought another. They bring up the abstract painting inside of The Joyful Mystery. You admit you missed that part. Mostly, you talk about the cold and how to drive in snow.

---

You are preparing to leave. Shoulder tap. You remember him. He was sitting at the workstation with all the monitors.

“I have some people who want to meet you.”

He lifts your glass from the coffee table and guides you toward the office-stage setup. Jason and his wife are seated at the desk with headphones and microphones. It hits you.

“I thought you were a prop. An actor. You work here?”

“Um, sort of. I’m a broadcaster of sorts. Currently we’re livestreaming to 127 people in four countries. I’ve been meeting them for months. They’ve been asking to meet you. As the first visitor, they want to know your impressions. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“It’s easy. Just be yourself. You’ll figure it out.”

Jason and his wife wave bye to the streamers. They stand and greet you.

Mark fits you with headphones and a microphone. You sit down. 124 webcams wave. 72 coffee mugs rise in a digital toast.

“Wow. Hi, guys. Thanks a million...”

---

One week later, on December 20, Camron hosted a gala at Varhaus for his business and the community. Ruth represented Varhaus and its interests. There was no spectacle that night. The people were the attraction.

Seven paintings sold for $42,000. Jason donated a large black-and-white to the live auction. Another $22,000 was raised for the food bank. Ruth sold two furniture arrangements.

Just in time. The new year was coming.

Varhaus needed room.

---

Next…

Varhaus: Built in Imagination First

I’ve been building Varhaus in my mind for years, long before I had names for any of this. Before Million Dollar Garage, before newsletters, before pricing ladders, before trying to explain what I was after.

Million Dollar Garage was the first version. It was necessary. Small. Personal. A place to learn what could be made with limited means, stubbornness, and whatever happened to be within reach.

Varhaus is the bigger endeavor.

A place for doing cool shit. Art. Food. Experience. Motion. Surprise. Attraction. A destination people hear about from someone who says, you have to see this place. A room that keeps changing. A business that earns its keep. A place where discovery is part of the product.

Maybe it can be built. Maybe it can’t be built on an artist’s paycheck. That part is still unresolved.

So I’ve decided to build it first in public imagination.

The work becomes energy. The output becomes momentum.