Page 17 of Goode Vibrations
“Well, I can’t say much on that, I’ve been drinking since I was fourteen or fifteen.”
“Sounds like a story there, too.”
“Yeah, but that one’s got sad bits, so let’s focus on yours.”
“Right. So, it’s way late. I’m sloshed. I lost my friends, I took a cab there so I have no idea where I am, and I used most of my cash at the bar. Guys are hitting on me left and right, trying to get me to go home with them, into the bathroom, you name it. I know I’m way too far gone to be doing anything like that, so I need to get home. Only, we’re in a dead zone as far as cabs go, and I’m nearly broke besides, so I figure I can find a bus. Right? Wrong.”
“This sounds sketchy.”
“Ohhhh boy,sosketchy. I leave the bar. Start walking. I figure I’ll find a bus, a subway station, something. I got an MTA pass when I first moved to New York, because I did my research on living there before I got there, thinking I’d be this enlightened, sophisticated Manhattan socialite in no time, right? I was a sixteen-year-old girl with her head in the clouds, thinking living in New York would be the start of my rising star.”
“From what I hear, New York eats up and spits out those dreams a dozen at a time.”
“You have heard correctly, my friend. It’s a ruthless place. It’s everything you’ve heard and more, good and bad.”
“So where’d you end up?”
“I passed out on the subway. Ended up in Coney Island at six in the morning when a conductor realized I was still on the car and woke me up.”
“What does that have to do with you being a painter instead of a photographer?”
“Huh?”
“When you started the story, you said the first thing I should know is you’re more of a painter.”
She laughed. “Oh. Well, I was going to tell a different story.”
“So tell me that one.”
“Nuh-uh. It’s embarrassing.”
“I’ll trade you for an embarrassing story of mine.”
“Fine. But this is, like, true mortification.”
“Mine involves involuntary public defecation in averyconservative country.”
Her eyes widened. “Wow, I think you’ll win. But okay, here goes. You know the old trope about art students having to do nude portraits, right? It’s a thing. And itisreal. It’s not like in the movies, usually, but you get to a point where you do end up drawing someone nude. Usually it’s all very professional, and not really that exciting or titillating, after the first few minutes of your first one, at least. So, I was in this private studies track, me and a handful of other students selected by the department head. The assignment was to do portraits of each other. But it was a competitive thing. The winning portrait, as selected by our advisor—the same woman who gave me the camera, by the way—and her colleague who owned an art gallery, would be displayed for purchase in a showing. Big time bragging rights, huge for your portfolio, huge for your resumé as an artist, plus the chance to get real money for a piece of art you made. A big deal. So, you couldn’t just do any old portrait, like a typical bust portrait or whatever. You had to have an angle; you had to demonstrate your voice as an artist. And you also had to pose for a portrait of you, right? Took the competition to this whole other level, because you were competing with each other, but also posing for each other.
“And let me tell you, sitting for an oil portrait? It’s a very intimate process, especially when it’s a one-on-one thing rather than a classroom setting. You don’t just sit once; you sit for hours, several times. There was no stipulation about what kind of portrait, just that it had to be a portrait of someone in the class. So we all spent days figuring out what we were going to do, who we were going to have sit for us, and then scheduling things so we all had time to sitandto paint.”
“When does this get embarrassing?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes at me. “Momentarily, trust me. So, there were two girls in the class, me and Avril Galloway, and three boys. We’re none of us professional artists, but we are art students. Nudity in art is a whole different thing. Because, like, it’sart, you know?”
I nodded. “Sure. I’ve done some portraits. I’m not formally trained, so I’ve never done any classwork, but I know what you mean.”
“Wait. You’re not formally trained?”
“I also don’t have a degree. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be able to work for them like I do. How I got in is a whole other story, and—”
“That part has sad bits in it too,” she surmised.
“You guessed it.”
“Short version?”
“My mum was a photographer. Did work for Nat Geo, Getty Images, AP. One of her best friends was an editor at Nat Geo. My mom, uh…well, she was in a position to ask this friend, this editor, for a favor that he could not refuse, because of…circumstances. Her favor was that he look at my photography. He did. But I was just a kid at the time and had nothing but stuff I’d shot around the house and neighborhood on her old Leica. Nothing even close to good because shit, I was twelve, but he was a good sport and looked. Was very encouraging. Gave me some real gems of advice on pro shooting like he was taking a likely young buck under his wing, things I’ve never forgot to this day. So then, fast forward six or seven years, I was in a bar in the Netherlands, and I was real pissed, like way deep in the bag. Meaning, drunk as a skunk.