“Woman, Chilling:” part 2 (of 4)
Why did he have to paint that portrait of her?
———
A month later, I woke from my futon and slipped out of Reggie’s grasp… or was his name Dwight? Staggering to the bathroom, I tripped over an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. The music from last night’s club echoed in my head but it faded by the time I started pissing.
A minute later, I kicked Tommy out. He didn’t look as hot as he did beneath the strobe lights and neon. Wasn’t all that bright, either.
Yes, I’m making up for the time I lost when my self-esteem was in the gutter. And it’s not like I have much time left before dudes like Jake are no longer willing, much less able, to screw me. Deal with it.
I showered, dressed and left the house.
I currently live in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, though the way rents keep rising, it won’t be long before I have to move again. My second job as a waitress barely gives me enough to get by. My last roommate had to go back to Minnesota. Anybody wanna split a one-bedroom in a third-floor walk-up?
Lots of artsy-fartsy types stroll through from SoHo or the Village. And that has made me recall when I made art, way back in school.
We’d create landscapes in acrylics or self-portraits in fingerpaint or dioramas made from construction paper and old National Geographic magazines. However, my “biological progenitors” (a friend came up with that; I haven’t called them my parents in years) never encouraged what little ability I may have possessed.
With exceptions, most of this artwork was crude, raw, you know—childish. People accepted them for what they were.
These days… I once saw, though not in New York, an exhibit of the artwork of an eight-year-old, arranged by her father as if she was Frida Kahlo and the otherwise mundane gallery was the Louvre. The art was nothing original or unique. Props to Daddy for loving his brat and supporting her, but what if everybody did this?
People made me believe I wasn’t worth shit because I didn’t have a figure like Anna Nicole Smith. Then one day I stopped listening.
Did anyone ever tell that kid her artwork was just okay, or not as good as Jenny's or Sarah’s? If someone did, I’ll bet Daddy beat the hell out of them for daring to criticize his little angel.
I wonder if that kid noticed.
***
That afternoon, I posed for a first-year figure drawing class at Cooper Union. At one point the heater broke and I insisted on wearing my robe the rest of the session.
Afterward, I hung out with Martha, a teacher who works there, at The Bean.
“I found a recipe online,” I said. “Making stuffing for your turkey looks doable. What’re Jackie and Nick bringing?”
“They’re still bickering between pumpkin pie and apple. I'm gonna have to put my size-nine down and choose for them. I’m partial to apple.” Martha emptied another package of sweetener into her cafe au lait. “I should’ve asked Liz to bring dessert instead.”
“I don’t care, as long as I don’t get lost finding your house. Martha, explain to me why Queens has ‘drives’ and ‘roads’ and ‘lanes’ in addition to streets and avenues?”
“Because we’re special.”
“Yeah, like the Special Olympics.” I rose from the table. “I’m getting another chocolate croissant.”
“Whoa, save some for the college kids.”
“They can bite me.” As I approached the counter, I noticed the bulletin board on the wall. In addition to the usual postcards and flyers for bands and movie screenings and crap like that, one had a picture of Warren’s portrait of me.
I inched closer. He had an opening for a show at a Spring Street gallery.
My portrait was in it?
I hustled back to the table and put on my coat.
“C’mon,” I said to Martha. “We’re leaving.”
“What? Where to?”
“SoHo.” I explained en route.
The gallery was above a boutique. We climbed the stairs to the second floor. From the hall, we peered through the open doorway. The gallery resembled another in a bunch of chichi SoHo spaces, but boy, was it crowded.
Martha straightened her glasses.
“Wow. He got a Spring Street exhibit?”
“I know, right?”
We stepped inside.
Men dressed in Armani, women dressed in Prada. Maybe two hundred people swarmed the gallery to the sound of the classical music I heard in Warren’s studio, chatting, snickering, holding cocktails in their hands, speaking different languages. They admired his abstract paintings lining the walls.
On one side of a pillar was my portrait. Everyone treated it like the Mona Lisa.
The title was on a card beside it.
“Woman, Chilling”?
Martha smirked.
“Another ‘Birth of Venus.’ And in practically no time at all.”
Sheesh. I grabbed a drink and gulped it.
“Do you see your friend?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t call him that, but nope.” I had to raise my voice. “Maybe he left?”
She shrugged, then looked around.
“I recognize some of these people.” She pointed. “He’s from Artforum. The guy in the cap runs some podcast about lower Manhattan. And I believe she’s a trustee at the Whitney. What's-his-face has connections, I’ll give him that.”
No doubt.
A ruckus formed from the office. Warren emerged. Sycophants surrounded him, calling him brilliant, a genius, et cetera. What was with these morons? Just because someone had an Amsterdam Avenue address didn’t make him the next Rauschenberg.
I began to leave.
“Frankie! You came.”
Shit. I exchanged pleasantries with him, trying not to grind my teeth.
“So what do you think?”
Careful. His check hasn't cleared yet.
“Um, I… didn’t expect you to open a show so soon.”
“Once the curator saw my portrait of you, she offered this space.” He stood by it. “You’re a hit.”
“Oh no. I don’t need any credit for what you created. All I did was pose.”
“Don’t be so modest.” He clapped his hands and raised his voice. “Everyone! I’d like you to meet Miss Frankie Smith. She posed for ‘Woman, Chilling.’”
“Smyth.”
They applauded me. Then they crowded around, giving me drinks, asking for autographs, taking pictures with their cellphones. On the one hand, the attention gave me a tingle in my chest. This wasn’t like the kind I got as a classroom model. Then I remembered what “Woman, Chilling” looked like.
I backed away. Then I rushed out the door and down the stairs, with Martha following.
We stopped on the street. She looked above us.
“Perhaps they’ll make memes out of you.”
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Next chapter March 5