“Woman, Chilling:” part 3 (of 4)
Why did he have to paint that portrait of her?
———
Later, at home, I took a bath, listening to my favorite EDM mix. Normally luxuriating in a tub full of hot water and bubbles was heaven. Not this time.
Understand: I hated Warren’s painting, but… There’s a word describing when you’ve got gas and your stomach gurgles and you wanna fucking belch. Not “bloated.” Something better. This feeling came from seeing his artwork on display, but not just because of how it looked.
I’ve never had the urge to create anything artistic—paintings, music, books, nothing. My biological progenitors were the same. Even something like “Woman, Chilling” came from a drive from within Warren to make something. It wasn’t “The Last Supper,” but he made the effort and put it out there for the world to see, even though, to anyone with a brain, what he made looked like shit.
I never did that.
And suddenly I wished I knew how.
“Turgid.” That’s it. The first time I saw that word I read it in a novel. It stayed with me for some reason, but it’s the perfect word to describe my childhood, my relationship, such as it is, with my so-called family, and how I felt when I saw that painting that made Warren the golden idol of the art world: “turgid.”
The word erupts from within your throat like that combination of PBR and Hennessy you had earlier that night and makes you spew over your date’s Doc Martens in front of his friends.
…Not that I know what that’s like.
From outside my window, the laughter of gentrifying hipsters passed by, probably on their way to dinner somewhere. The neighbors on the floor above me blasted a remix of Rihanna’s “Pon De Replay” through my ceiling, the muffled beats threatening to blow a hole through the plaster. In my mind, the image of “Woman, Chilling” lingered, garish colors, distorted figure and all. I sank below the water, wishing I was someplace else.
Hmm. I needed to make my own art.
Or at least try.
***
December arrived, though as usual, everybody was eager to start the Christmas season at least two fucking months earlier. One year I’ll find a way to escape it all.
I went to Michaels and bought a watercolor set, brushes, and a pad of paper. Then I spent the rest of the month trying to paint. I chose watercolors because they were cheap. When I saw the price for one tube of oil paint I nearly fainted. And an artist was supposed to have all seven colors? Plus black and white?
The dresser in my bedroom, and the clothes piled on top of and around it, were the subjects of my first still life. They resembled orange and green blobs. Whenever I applied the wet paint, the goddamn paper kept warping out of shape. And the brush hairs split.
My next six “paintings” weren’t much of an improvement.
Undeterred, I took them to Staples, scanned them, and posted them on my brand-new Etsy account. I offered fifty dollars apiece for them.
By the end of January they went unclaimed. A couple of anonymous posts called them dogs.
I kept returning to Warren. Was it simply because he had influential friends to kiss his ass that “Woman, Chilling” was a hit, or was there something in the way he painted it I couldn’t see? Martha hated it too, and she was an art teacher at Cooper Union. Yet all these so-called “tastemakers” who supposedly understood great art thought Warren was the next big thing. They couldn’t all be wrong—could they?
The more Wild Turkey I drank, the more an answer seemed out of reach.
***
A week later, I sort-of wore clothes for this Meetup group’s drawing session in a Brooklyn loft. It was oh-so-skillfully arranged drapery, but beneath it I was still in the buff. The group leader had tried to capture a Roman vibe. You know, like those ancient sculptures of people half in, half out of their togas. The drawings I saw looked good. I resembled Venus’s chunkier cousin.
After the session, a couple recognized me as the woman in Warren’s painting. I denied it at first. When I asked how they knew for certain, the girl showed me her Instagram feed on her cell. I scrolled through it until I discovered how she knew.
If only I hadn’t.
***
”What do you care about this puto anyway, man?” Pablo took another drink and set his beer down atop the bar. “He probably ain’t got that many followers.”
“Don’t you get it? He identified me as the one in his goddamn painting. Now the whole world knows.” The cheering over the basketball game on TV nearly drowned me out. “Plus, he spelled my name wrong.”
After I saw Warren’s Instagram post, I called Pablo, a drinking buddy from way back. He joined me at our favorite watering hole, a dive bar on Avenue B. I needed someone to hear me gripe in-between shots.
“Nobody cares about this shit, and if they do, they’ll have forgotten by next month.”
“Pablo, these aren’t the vatos who come to your auto shop in Sunset Park, okay? I’ve seen them put him on a podium over this painting. They’re making him a star and he’s dragging me into the spotlight with him.”
“Don’t you dig being famous?”
“Not like this!” I did another shot and slammed my head on the bar before resting it, my hair spilling over my face. “If no one knew that was me, that’d be one thing. If it was better made, that’d be another. I don’t want the credit for being his fucking muse for that painting, especially if it means having these brownnosers turn me into… into the Edie Sedgwick to his Andy Warhol.”
Pablo paused.
“Who’s Edie Sedgwick?”
I sighed.
“Never mind.”
Behind me, the basketball fans booed something, then argued over a call they must not have liked. Pablo finished his beer.
“Get up. Put your coat on.”
“Why?”
“Where’s his painting at?”
I told him.
“Wanna dish out a little payback?”
———
Final chapter March 19
I’m so ready for the payback. This is incredible and I just breezed through the whole series so far.