I was approached by an aging artist outside of the Phillips de Pury art auction last Thursday. She asked for a cigarette, then informed me she didn’t smoke. She then reprimanded me for not lighting the cigarette for her. I lit it, then took hold of her umbrella as well. The very weight of the looming black wired monstrosity looked as if it would crush her tiny frame. We talked for only the duration of our cigarettes. By the end we had exchanged contact information.
I went on a location scout today for a shoot my company is about to embark on. We needed a gallery and I knew Ruth had one. I called her and she told me to stop by immediately. Thirty minutes later I stood on her front stoop on 14th Street. She noticed me from the window and motioned for me to enter.
Her space is a large studio gallery. In the main room the walls are covered, almost every inch, with paintings. There was a subtle shimmer to all her work. The room glowed as the light lazily reacted to hues of subdued foil. Interspersed between the more modern works were classic images of Christ and the Virgin Mary. All functioned harmoniously. The modern art, in essence, was the landscape halo for the religious pieces.
Her first words: “boy why have you been crying?” It reminded me immediately of Peter Pan. I didn’t answer. I hadn’t been crying in at least a day. But when I had been, the tears had been so abundant and unending that I still feel as if I have depleted a great reserve. This has been a week of change, atop two other weeks of change. With such uncertainty and fear of loss, tears were an acceptable reaction.
Ruth and I had never touched upon anything in my life in our previous conversation. But, she took liberty now. “You looked fresh last time I saw you. Fresh in many ways. Devilish even I’d say. And now you look weak and your eyes look tired. I give you the benefit of the doubt that it isn’t drugs.” And she winked. “Love traveled a great distance. Oh, it is a beautiful boy. You are a romantic. An idealist. How sweet. Let’s smoke.”
I offered her a cigarette and lit it in her dry, bone hands. She sat down and introduced me to her two cats, one black and one white. She explained her paintings to me. We discussed business some. Then I told her I had to return to my office.
Her cigarette had gone out. She stood up and pushed the cats aside. She offered to show me her private art collection. I heeded. When we reached the Mapplethorpe I informed her of my obsession with his photos. She sighed. “You would have loved Robert, and chances are he would have taken you with him. He took my best friend, Sam. They were lovers. I introduced them and now they’re dead. It was the last time I ever introduced a couple. But Robert took others with him as well. Perhaps he knew he had it, but he would put on his leather outfit and bring his camera and boys like you would follow. They followed perhaps too far. You share his birthday, November 4th. So did Sam. You are all very similar, but Robert was a maniac. Don’t be.”
She bent over and lit her cigarette by her stovetop. Her hair was faded, but kept its ginger in the healthy light from her rear windows.
“Love for the person, not their art. You do this with the one that you cry for. But really, you look so sad. Time is time, distance is distance. People are perhaps anything but people. Grow little boy because the others in your life will not wait. And stop drinking and smoking too much because it just makes you look worse.”
We had reached her door.
“Call me later and we will talk about how much money this space should rent for and how many of your people we can fit here.”
I told her I would. She ushered me out and I wrote this all down.
