Self-Portrait with Boy, page 15
I was impressed by George Washington’s posture. He was carrying himself with a degree of presence I’d never seen in him before. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! the boy playing Hamlet said with an overwrought gasp, and Lief stifled a laugh.
From the costume shop I could heard the low buzzing of sewing machines. I stepped back into the hallway and glanced toward it; the door was open.
It beckons you to go away with it, read Lief.
I turned back to the stage to watch the two boys act out their scene. Strangely, as I watched, the world around me—the buzzing sewing machines, the painters, Lief Zuckerberg, my own body—seemed to dissolve. Mark me, said George Washington. He delivered the line with a hint of pain in his voice. He spoke too quietly for the stage—Speak up! yelled Lief—but I was impressed by his nuance, by the urgency in his eyes. I was engrossed. My hour is almost come, when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up myself.
The language was strange and musical in his treatment. It was hard to tear my eyes away. Not because of George Washington’s performance or because of Hamlet—although that boy said, O my prophetic soul! My uncle! with such a wild roll of the eyes and head that he looked almost as if he were starting to seize—but because of the story itself. Mark me, the ghost said, and although it was George Washington Morales who had delivered its line the words gave me a chill. The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, and ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire: Adieu, adieu! Remember me.
Mark me. Remember me. I stood limply, half leaning against the wall, those two directives ringing in my ears. I was so distracted by them that I barely noticed Lief Zuckerberg noticing me. He waved at me while the boy playing Hamlet continued to chew the nonexistent scenery and raised his eyebrows as if to ask whether I was looking for anyone in particular. I stood up straight, pushed up my glasses, gave him half a smile, and shook my head—No! Not at all, no. Spooked I made my way out of the theater and back into the fourth-floor hallway, where the costume teacher was just leaving, throwing on her coat as she pushed open the door to the stairs.
Though it was late in the day there was still a student in the costume shop, busy at one of the sewing machines that sat in regular intervals on a low shelf around the perimeter of the little room. I went to the door and stood there for a moment before knocking. She was small for her age and wore large glasses and her red hair was pulled back in a lumpy bun. Her old T-shirt had been cut liberally around the collar to expose her bra straps and show off her sizable breasts. Was she trouble or was she meek? Probably both or somewhere in between. She looked up at me briefly before going back to her work.
Do you know where I could find some fabric? I asked her.
Up there, she said, jerking her head toward the ceiling. I looked. Probably a hundred rolls of fabric had been stuffed into three or four deep shelves built into the walls high above the sewing machines.
I’m looking for the kind they use for blackout curtains, I said.
She was training a hem steadily through the machine. I don’t know about that, she said.
There was a stepladder leaning against the open door that led to the backstage area. I opened it and climbed it and reached up to run my hand over a few fabrics that looked promising. Here was a deep red velvet. Here was a black silk. What would be warmest? What would be darkest? I didn’t want to take anything too expensive. I climbed down and moved the stepladder a few feet and climbed back up. Here were the thick wools and felts. I found an ample roll of dark blue felt and yanked it out from the stuffed shelf.
I don’t think you’re supposed to take those, said the redhead casually.
It’s for an art thing, I said vaguely.
She shrugged, still focused on her work. Whatever.
The roll of blue felt was new and probably twenty pounds. I carried it down the back stairs to the first floor. Although it was not even half past five it was already dark, and it was snowing again. I turned to the security guard, a good-looking Jamaican guy. I asked, Do you have a trash bag or something I can put this in so it doesn’t get wet?
He said, Let me see what I can do. He left me waiting there by the front desk. I positioned the roll of felt behind me just in case. I stood there with it for several minutes. A small group of boys in shorts and sneakers passed me, carrying gym bags and laughing loudly, faces flushed, hair damp. The basketball team, maybe. They opened the door and cursed at the cold that filled the lobby but did not stop to put on their jackets. I watched them tumble outside, their bare skin exposed, and let the door shut slowly behind them.
The security guard reappeared with a couple of black garbage bags and helped me fit the roll of felt into them. When it was covered he opened the door for me and I walked out into the snow protected.
I spent that evening securing the felt to all my windows. I started with the window that Max, or his specter, had broken. I cut a swath of fabric and nailed it to the walls around the window frame. It was not quite wide enough; I cut another swath and nailed that too, letting it overlap the first. Then I duct-taped it securely around the perimeter. It looked almost ominous. But I believed it would dissuade him from coming back—and I noticed it cut the draft considerably. I poured myself a vodka, turned on the stereo, plugged in the space heater, and got to work nailing and taping up the rest of the fabric over all the other windows.
When I was done my home looked like an insane asylum. But for the first time in weeks it was not freezing cold. For the first time in weeks I could take off my coat. I could breathe again. I felt almost safe.
Since I’d lived at River Street I’d never had to set an alarm. I’d always been woken by the light in the sky, the light dancing on the river, the calls of the gulls above me, the screeching of garbage truck brakes down below—or, lately, by the tapping on the window. But with the thick blue felt over all the glass my loft was almost as quiet as it was dark. I could sleep again. When I woke again the next morning it was past ten, and I was late for my shift at Summerland.
After calling Cherrystone Clay enough times I began to get a sense of their schedule. The gallery opened at ten. Jessie took a lunch break around one thirty. If I called between one forty-five and two fifteen the chance of Fiona answering the phone was a little higher.
I started being more strategic about my approach. If I was working at Summerland I would take my own fifteen-minute break when I guessed Jessie would be out getting her salad, and run over to the subway entrance at Borough Hall, where there was a pay phone. If I was at the 24-Hour Photo I’d try the pay phone by the bus stop on Fulton Street. If I was at KCA the journey was shorter: there were two pay phones on the wall by the art room across from the elevator.
Sometimes they were occupied and I’d have to go back to work without talking to anyone. More often I’d get through, but not to Fiona Clay. I had hung up on Jessie, an art handler, an intern, a junior staffer I didn’t know, and Chuck Cherrystone himself before at last I recognized that quiet, commanding voice. I was in Fulton Mall. A preacher was yelling. He was an African guy, a Jew for Jesus, tall and thin in a gray-and-white pinstriped suit and a down jacket left open to the chill. He was standing on a milk crate around which he’d arranged a display of pamphlets. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk: a couple of bored shopkeepers, skeptical women with baby carriages, and an outspoken grandmother who seemed to have taken it upon herself to argue with his premises.
I had called and hung up so many times, and was so distracted by the preacher, that I almost hung up on Fiona Clay when she said hello.
Fiona! I blurted. I’ve been trying to reach you.
Who is this?
Lu! Sorry, it’s Lu. Lu Rile.
Lu Rile.
You came to my studio for a visit back in September.
I remember.
You saw my Self-Portrait #400 and told me I should print it large.
Yes, well—
I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I wanted to let you know that I printed it large and it’s magnificent.
Jessie delivered the message—
It’s better than magnificent, Fiona. I don’t know if Jessie told you this. I told her to tell you but I don’t know if she— Listen, I don’t overuse this word: It’s a masterpiece. It’s my only masterpiece, but it’s a masterpiece.
Across the street the Jew for Jesus was getting heated up. One! Sovereign! God! he yelled, thumping a copy of the Old Testament. Existing in three persons! Father! Son! and Holy Spirit! Perfect in holiness! Infinite in wisdom! Unbounded in power! Measureless in love!
Are you . . . in a church?
I’m on the street. I’m in Fulton Mall. I am—on my lunch break. There’s a guy out here. It doesn’t matter.
Lu, I’m sorry, I’m sort of in the middle of something.
No no, I’m sorry—but I’m so glad I caught you. Please listen to me.
Lu, I—
You don’t understand—
I do—
No, you don’t. You think you do because you know so many artists, but you don’t. You’re a gatekeeper. And I understand how hard that must be for you—making potentially life-changing decisions for so many people, answering calls from crazy frantic women in the middle of the day—
She laughed uneasily.
But gatekeepers have one job and the people on the outside of the gates have another. I didn’t just make this thing because you suggested it, but you did suggest it—and you were right. The print is amazing. The print is—I worked three jobs for it and I’m not sorry. For months I haven’t slept. I’ve made sacrifices, real sacrifices—and all I want is for you to take a look. I’m not crazy; I don’t believe you’ll see it and necessarily think it’s god’s gift. If you don’t like it, fine—you don’t have to like it. If you don’t like it, I’ll leave you alone. But if you do—
We believe in everlasting blessedness! the preacher was shouting. In the bodily resurrection of the just! and the unjust! The saved will find everlasting blessedness! The lost everlasting punishment!
You fulla shit! the grandmother barked back.
I just want you to take a look, I said.
Lu, came Fiona’s voice in the crackling handset: I’m sorry, but I’m finding this extremely disrespectful. You have called here a hundred times. You have spoken to my assistant a hundred times—and actually I’m quite impressed with her equanimity given your—tenacity. If you haven’t gotten the message yet, I don’t know what else to tell you. We’re just not interested.
You can’t not be interested in something you’ve never seen.
Actually I can. The fact is we do things a certain way here. You don’t have a track record. Your CV is just so paltry. You’ve been in zero group shows. You have gotten zero grants, zero residencies. The number of times Cherrystone Clay has taken on an unknown like you—I’m not going to say it’s never happened, but it’s negligible. Negligible. What makes you think you should be a special case?
The work! I exclaimed. The work. It’s as good anything you’ll see at the Guggenheim right now. At the Whitney.
She let out a sharp frustrated sigh.
I’m serious. I wouldn’t come to you like this unless I truly believed I had something incredible, Fiona, something that would shake foundations, that would get people talking—talking not just about me but about Cherrystone Clay—about you! This could be as good for you as it is for me.
The Holy Spirit is eternal! He participate in the creation of all things! He convict the world of sin! He regenerate! He sanctify! He baptize! He illuminate! He bestow His gifts upon all believers!
Fiona, I said, I just. I have to get this photograph out of my apartment. I have to get it out of my house. You don’t understand.
Excuse me, interrupted a recorded voice on the pay phone. Please deposit five cents for the next two minutes or your call will be terminated. Thank you for using NYNEX. This is a recording.
I’ve really got to go, said Fiona.
I was digging in my coat pocket for a nickel. All I needed was a nickel. Wait, I said. Wait! Just a minute really. I know I have a nickel—
Lu, this is crazy. It’s not that you don’t have talent; it’s that you’re still just so green—
And Jesus the Messiah will return! In body! His body will come back to earth! And He will fulfill the prophesies of His kingdom!
Excuse me Please deposit five cents for the next two minutes or your call will be terminate—
I found two nickels deep in the inside pocket of my coat and dropped one of them into the coin slot. Taking a deep breath I said: All I want in the world is for you to see it. I would give—I would give—
I fumbled wildly.
I have nothing to give. I would cut off a foot, both feet, my left hand—
Oh please—
If you see it and you don’t like it I’ll never bother you again.
It isn’t that I don’t want you to bother me, Fiona said. It’s that I want you to bother me once you already have some traction. Once you have an established career. Do you see? There are steps to this process. You can’t just skip these steps.
I said: This photograph is my traction. This photograph is my career. But in order for it to do what it is going to do it needs to reach an audience. Showing it in some gallery in Williamsburg or wherever isn’t going to get it the audience it needs. I have to show it in SoHo. That is the only way it’s going to make any kind of splash. Do you remember the image?
Liar! the angry grandmother spat at the preacher. You ain’t a Christian! You a liar! And you’ll burn in Hell with the rest of them! Jesus sees you! she yelled. Jesus sees you!
Even if I wanted to make another trip out to Brooklyn, Fiona was saying, I simply don’t have the time. I’m busy all week preparing for an art fair and I leave town on Friday until mid-January.
Do you remember the image? I repeated.
She was quiet.
Do you?
I do, I do.
So you know what I mean when I say it needs to reach a certain audience.
An older man who’d been watching the preacher from the doorway of a discount shoe store stepped forward to try to reason with the grandmother. She hit him with her beige pocketbook. Liars like him, they must be stopped! she told him. What do you do for Jesus?
I can get it to you today, I said. If you can arrange for someone to be there after hours I can deliver it myself.
I can’t—I can’t be there. I have a dinner tonight. And I can’t ask Jessie to stay late again.
Tomorrow then. I have to work at nine but I could bring it early, seven or eight—
No, Lu. No. This is crazy. God, this is crazy. You know, just for the record, I don’t like this at all.
I know, Fiona. You won’t be sorry.
This is not how we do things.
I know. I know! When’s best for you? I’ll quit one of my jobs, I don’t care. I’ll quit today.
Good grief! Please don’t—
It’s fine, I have three of them! I have jobs to spare.
I’ll send a courier. I’ll just send a courier to pick it up.
You’ll do that?
There was a pause so long I thought perhaps she’d hung up. The godforsaken recording came on again—Excuse me Please—and I slipped the other nickel into the machine. I watched the shopkeeper try to reason with the grandmother, who had gotten so worked up that even the preacher had stopped to listen to her rattle on.
Hello?
I’m here, Fiona sighed, and I could hear a certain degree of exhaustion in her voice. She had been beaten. I was just fetching a pen, she said. When should I have him come by?
Tonight, I said. Tonight! Any time.
It will have to be tomorrow. When tomorrow?
Before nine?
Your address?
Two twenty-two River Street 4D.
All right. He’ll be there tomorrow morning.
Fiona, thank you! Thank you, thank you.
All right. Lu—
Yes?
No promises.
No promises. I understand.
The line went dead.
* * *
The courier knocked on my door at eight forty-five. Again I had overslept. My windows were covered with felt and I had no overhead lights. I yelled, Just a minute! and flicked on the battery-powered camping lanterns and set them out on the table and floor. Their weak light barely reached the ceiling. It was weird in there.
I opened the door to a young skinny kid, maybe not even twenty, with long black hair. You Lu Rile?
I am.
He blinked as he stepped in, accustoming his eyes to the dark. Whoa, he said.
The photograph is under the bed, I said. I hadn’t had a chance to put on real clothes. I was still wearing the ratty sweatshirt, sweatpants, and thick socks I’d slept in. He followed me toward the futon where I slept, behind the busted shoji screen.
As I dragged out the photograph he wandered over to the window that faced the river and ran a hand over the dark blue felt. You probably got a million-dollar view behind this fabric.
Yep, I said.
Why do you keep it covered like this?
Hiding from a ghost.
He squinted at me.
It’s my darkroom, I said.
Crucial, he said in a tone of respect.
Hey, so this isn’t secured by anything, I said, holding the wrapped print. I mean I don’t have anything to keep it in besides this cardboard. Can you be absolutely sure not to bend it?
For sure.
I was in front of the paper screen and he was standing by the window. There was a muffled thud on the fabric covering the vacant windowpane behind him.
