“Woman, Chilling:” part 4 (of 4)
Why did he have to paint that portrait of her?
———
Pablo had done a couple of years behind bars, so I knew he could do what he proposed. Not that I ever needed him in this capacity before.
While I waited in a nearby cafe, he scouted the gallery’s building—the street-level boutique, the stairs of the fire escape above, the design of the roof. He came back and shared his plan. Later, around midnight, we returned to SoHo.
He gave me a pair of gloves and left me a block from the gallery. He said to wait for his signal. I put the gloves on and walked up and down the street, trying not to look conspicuous while I froze my ass off. A half hour later, he texted me. I rushed to the boutique below the gallery. Pablo waited behind the oaken side door, now ajar. He stuck his head out the crack, waving. I couldn’t guess how he did it, but he broke inside the building. I looked both ways down the street, then followed him in. We went upstairs.
The gallery door was open. His backpack, full of tools, was on the floor beside the entrance.
Pablo and I met through mutual friends. He became somebody to kick back a few Heinekens with and bitch about our jobs. He and I never discussed his past. All he’d say was that he served his time and was allowed to start over in life.
He never mentioned whether or not he repented for the things he did, either.
At the moment, that didn’t matter.
“Woman, Chilling” hung in its previous spot. With gloved hands, Pablo handed me a knife.
I gazed at the painting in the darkness, with the streetlights reflected on it. For a moment I remembered all the people, strangers and acquaintances alike, who sneered at me whenever I wore a swimsuit to the beach, whenever I enjoyed a slice of cake for dessert, whenever I had the nerve to wear a mini-dress. It took me a long time to find the strength to tell myself they didn’t matter. Once I did, I was liberated. Being a model means artists have to look at me, to study my love handles and the flab under my arms and see me, without snickering. In many cases they make me look beautiful.
Warren made me look like the old me. He didn’t do it intentionally. But he did it all the same.
Before I could reconsider, I slashed his painting, ripping gashes through the canvas.
I took a moment to admire what I’d done. Then Pablo and I split.
***
Days later, I had a gig at the Art Students League in midtown. Snow flurries fell all morning. I left my place bundled in three layers of clothes. The Delancey Street subway station was a freezer. The studio, however, was toasty. The instructor made sure of that. After the class ended, I kissed his cheek.
I had a late lunch at Shake Shack when my cell rang.
“Hello?”
“It was you, wasn’t it, Frankie?”
My avocado bacon burger caught in my throat. I swallowed.
“How’d you get my number?”
“The agency. Answer my question.”
“Why Mr. James, whatever do you mean?”
“Okay, okay, I don’t really expect you to admit it. I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Huh?”
He chuckled.
“‘Angst art!’ That’s what they’re calling your portrait. My curator says ‘Woman, Chilling’ now has a visceral, potent energy reminiscent of Francis Bacon, while being a raw anti-misogyny statement at the same time. She thinks I might’ve started a whole new movement!”
I dropped my burger onto my tray and slumped. Diners came and went all around me while bad nineties pop music played on the speakers, but I was no longer aware of any of it.
“But… you didn’t intend any of that.”
“Who cares? If I can milk this hard enough and long enough, I can ride this gravy train all the way to MOMA! Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to add your name as co-creator. It’s the least I can do. I’ll never forget you for this, darling. Ciao!”
He hung up.
***
Now do you see where I came from when I began this story? Art is subjective, I get that, but sometimes, the people who define it—no, the people who get to define it—can make all the difference.
On my bed, I sprawled my watercolors in a semicircle in front of me. My palette lay on the dresser to my left, along with my brushes, paper pad, and a jar full of water. I held my paintings in both hands, ready to rip them in half.
I stopped.
Trying to market them wasn’t the point of making them. I made them. For the first time in my adult life, I had expressed my artistic self. Hell, I didn’t know I had one. They didn’t resemble Georgia O’Keeffe or J.M.W. Turner or even Bob Goddamn Ross. But that was okay.
They were mine.
And always would be.
I stacked the paintings and set them aside. Then I swirled a brush around in water, applied some blue on it, and began a new one.