So after two weeks of the book taunting me, I decided, fuck it, this book will be a journal, my memoir. I haven’t really lived an exciting enough life to have a memoir, but it who knows, I may from here on out.
There. Page one is filled.
June 15th
I had this idea that if I committed to the journal it would help me with self-improvement or understanding myself. Or I could go back when I’m old and gray, when I’m a superstar painter with a super handsome, successful husband. I’ll look back at this record of my early twenties and think fondly on my shitty apartment, shitty roommates, all of it.
It’s so annoying living with a couple. Technically, Kyle doesn’t live here. He has some mythological apartment somewhere. But since he sleeps here every night and eats all my food, I doubt it exists. And as glamourous as sharing a railroad apartment is—and listening to them fight and fuck all the time—I would love to get my own place. Or maybe they’ll move out together and I can get a nice, normal roommate who isn’t a messy sculptor, with dust and debris everywhere from making a ten-foot-tall vagina tree while her poser boyfriend “collages” shit.
I mean, I don’t want to sound like a snob—but it’s my journal, after all—and their work is terrible. Gina is my friend, don’t get me wrong, I love her as a person, but her art? It’s gotten too Judy Chicago feminist. It’s derivative. And Kyle is a poser, always scheming, always schmoozing. And I know all he sees is potential contacts. Kyle’s dad is some bigwig professional artist and professor at Pratt. Kyle’s mom is some old money socialite type. Gina could meet the right people, get in anywhere. It’s depressing, the whole system is depressing. Between working at the restaurant all hours and then coming home and trying to paint—when exactly would I have time to schmooze?
I’m trying not to lose the dream. I know I just graduated and it all takes time, but how much time? Best to work on my paintings. I feel like I’m really on to something amazing—so I’ll just keep at it. And if it’s good, good things will happen. Or, worst case scenario, back to art school for my Masters and more loans! (Joke—sort of.)
Anyways, enough whining for one night. I hear the roommates in the hall. Have to go be social . . .
June 20th
Okay, so something weird happened with Kyle. Can’t talk to Gina about it, or any of our other friends, really, since they all know Gina and have big fucking mouths . . . but this could be major.
So, the other night I was at home. I actually had the night off. I’ve been really into this new series I’m working on—my poor bedroom’s so jammed with canvases it’s pretty much a fort in here. So I’m working on the big Red one, no title yet, but this whole realist/futurist thing. Anyway, I’m in a painting frenzy, music loud, in the zone, when Kyle comes in.
Now first off, I didn’t know he was home. Second, I didn’t hear him come in, or even knock to come into my room. Yeah, the door’s open, but that’s not an invite. On top of that, I’m in my usual painting attire, which, if no one is home, is just an oversized man’s shirt and undies. So there I am, in my underwear, in my room, and Kyle comes in, and he seems a bit nervous. Finally, I ask him what he wants, and he’s all cagey at first—making weird pleasantries, and in my head I’m just begging for him not to hit on me or do anything weird.
Finally, I say something to that effect, and he blanches and gets all defensive. Eventually, he spits out that he met a gallery owner and art dealer that was interested in my stuff. Which is weird, since I hadn’t sent any galleries my new stuff . . . then he says that he took the liberty of photographing them and showing them to some of his parents’ associates.
Now, this is fucked for a couple of reasons. The main one being: why behind my back? Kyle says he was worried nothing would come of it—didn’t want to get my hopes up, but that feels like a lie. Finally he confesses that he didn’t want to piss off Gina, whose work won’t sell. Ha! Vindication.
It all seems weaselly, but at the same time, it’s nice he believes in the work, right? And as much of a slime as he is, it’s still a bit flattering that he wants to help, that he believes in me. So I agree, and he’s excited.
Anyways, he tells me about the gallery that was more than just interested. Apparently, it’s in Chelsea, and has a small but solid reputation, but the director’s a bit off. This is all so fast—I feel like this series is unfinished. Kyle says he’ll put it all together, contact the gallery, and in the meantime, I should be painting like a maniac and getting together a statement, titles for all the pieces,
I keep stepping back and looking at my paintings. Especially the Red one, which is my baby at the moment. I don’t want to brag, but it’s amazing. I can honestly say that. Its scale, the vibrancy, and the portraits of myself within it are really . . . uncanny. I think it’s good, but good enough to show? Good enough people would want to buy it?
Ugh. What have I done? I hate to admit how excited I am, but I am. If I can get a show, it will be so major. It’ll show everyone that I wasn’t just wasting my talents trying to make a hobby into a career. Mainly it would show Dad that I’m doing it and he can be proud of me. And I’d dedicate the show to Mom—she always believed I could do this. If she were still alive I’d be telling her all of this instead of writing it in a stupid journal, and she’d be ecstatic.
Better get working. Kyle will check in soon.
June 25th
So things are moving fast, and I had a minute and figured I should scrawl in the damn journal so I have a record of this shit. (How many times have I jokingly done something crazy “for the memoirs.”) Anyway, the gallery director scheduled a time to come and look at my paintings. I want this so bad. I look at this dump, imagine him clomping up the four spindly flights of stairs to our cramped little garret. He’ll look at our curb-find furniture, the sickly plants, the dust bunnies perpetually fluttering around. Oh God, and he’ll have to walk through Gina’s crummy sculptures and track footprints from the goddamn plaster into my room.
And, since we’re at this stage in the game, I had to tell Gina. And she was not happy. I mean, I think she’ll talk to me again someday. She’s a chatterbox, and I think would physically die if she was unable to talk to someone. So I just need to wait her out, really, and let the anger fade.
Kyle on the other hand, he’s not her favorite person in the world right now. I don’t know if she dumped him per se—I think it’s being defined as a need for “space.” But she knows her boyfriend has been talking me up all over town and not her. She’ll get over it, in time. Maybe she’ll even swallow her pride and come to my show.
Okay, now I’m really getting ahead of myself. There is no show right now. The gallery owner could walk in here, shake his head, and walk out. He just agreed to take a look at the paintings based on the photos he saw. He’s a businessman. I can’t let my hopes go off the rails. I need to stay in reality. I did tell my dad about it, but he seemed . . . well, the way he seems about most things these days: indifferent. I mean, I could hear him trying to be excited for me, but his heart just wasn’t in it. I worry about him up there in that big house up in Hob’s Valley all alone.
But if I have a show, he could come down. He could stay for the weekend—well, no, between all the stairs, my lousy neighborhood, and our lumpy vintage sofa, I doubt he’d be comfortable. But, maybe a nice hotel room. He could come down, see some sights, go home with the bragging rights for coming to my gallery show. It would be good for him.
Okay, gotta run. I have to clean like my life depends on it, and it does, since this guy is coming tomorrow.
June 27th
I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster, ticking away the last few seconds before the track drops and we plummet, screaming.
In a good way, I think.
So, yesterday morning was my appointment with Mr. McGarrett to look at my paintings, in the flesh. His assistant set it all up, official like. I was penciled in.
So, I cleaned and Gina sulked, shuffling around, sighing and plopping down in random chair
s to stare vacantly out windows, constantly asking if I thought her art was good.
Obviously I said yes about a thousand times. That it was just too conceptual for most people, they lacked vision, were too repressed to really see her work. Or something pacifying like that. I finally got her dressed and out of the place.
About an hour later, I’m sitting in the apartment, fidgeting, dusting, trying not to run and change for the thousandth time. I decided on my black dress. It’s off the shoulder, a little edgy, probably inappropriate. I looked good. If nothing else, I could say that at the end of this ordeal. The gallery owner might hate my art and be visibly disgusted by my apartment, but I still looked good.
I was practically crawling out of my skin with nerves. I sat on the edge of the sofa because I didn’t want to wrinkle my dress. I was sweating. I could feel a trickle running down my back—half nerves, half the result of living in a hot as hell fourth-floor walk-up in summer.
Finally, finally, the buzzer rang. It was Kyle and the gallery owner, Mr. McGarrett, together. Kyle came in first, looking odd. The man that followed after him was, in a word, intense. He stepped into my puke-y kitchenette and it was like he pulled all the air out of it. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with so much presence. He was tall, silky brown hair a bit longer than would be tidy. He had a broad square jaw, Mediterranean coloring, and a large pointed nose. Brown-black eyes, nice mouth, a little stubble. Handsome. Probably a good ten years older than Kyle and me. I found my voice and invited them in.
Mr. McGarrett asked me to call him Hugh. His accent was obviously British, which added another level to his intensity. So, I brought Hugh to my bedroom, feeling uncomfortable for a second: him being older, successful, handsome. In my bedroom. Me trying to not look like a kid fresh out of college, which I am. He must have sensed my anxiety. He asked politely if I wouldn’t mind giving him some time with the art. When he asked, he met my eyes. He was serious, and still intense.
I nodded—pretty sure I was blushing—and went back to the kitchen where Kyle was sitting. He’d put the kettle on. Seeing him there, unmoving, staring at his cup, got me really worried. Shouldn’t he be in there with Hugh, shouldn’t he be talking me up—or doing whatever it was he was supposed to do to earn his percentage? I whispered this to him but he seemed indifferent. I pushed, wanting to know why he was acting so strange. He just shrugged, saying he thought he made a mistake—especially bringing Hugh here. I couldn’t figure him out.
Kyle acted totally weird when Hugh re-entered, he was tense and uncomfortable. I just plastered on my biggest smile. Hugh smiled back, which was reassuring. He said he liked my paintings, liked the rawness, the vitality. He loved my take on futurism and portraiture. His praise was so satisfying I can’t even put it into words. His eyes were on me the whole time he spoke. I tried to engage and be cool and adult and not just pass out in a puddle. He said we’d talk soon, that he might have an opening available to give me a show, and he’d call me in the next few days. He handed me a business card. He left. Kyle stayed.
As soon as he was out the door and down a flight, I screamed, like actually jumping up and down. Kyle was still all weird, so finally I asked him what was his problem? I didn’t know the gallery, sure, but it’s in fucking Chelsea, and this Hugh guy seemed like just the right amount of cool and business savvy to really put me on the map. Kyle should have been jumping next to me. But he wasn’t. Finally, he said again that he didn’t think it was a good idea. That he got a bad feeling from Hugh, like maybe he wasn’t interested in my paintings at all.
I got pissed. This was Kyle’s idea in the first place! And now he was changing his mind? Just like that. Hugh came over here based on my paintings alone—that had to mean something. But I have to admit the longer he was gone, the longer we stood in the kitchen—it all seemed too good to be true. It still does. I asked Kyle if he thought Hugh was the type of guy who came around, like movie producers or theatre guys, promising young girls—wet behind the ears—that they’d make them stars. Kyle didn’t answer, which was an answer.
When I talked to Gina, she had that glib look of someone who was happy that I failed. She would never say anything to my face, but I can tell. She’s not that hard to read. She was jealous, and now she feels no need to be. I just don’t get it. I felt something there. I think Hugh liked my paintings. I really do. I think he liked me as well. I guess I just have to wait and hope he calls, prove them wrong.
Or right?
June 28th
No call.
June 29th
No call.
June 30th
No call. I mean, it was such a long shot, anyway. Most artists spend years trying to get the contacts or get the critical reception to show at decent galleries. And most fail. I was too excited and it was stupid. What I need to do now is get back into the work. Make some great paintings, fuck everyone else.
July 3rd
Well, he called! Holy shit! I’d pretty much given up hope. I was so over it—I’d even forgotten his face from last week. Or at least, that’s what I was pretending to do. Things were even getting back to normal a bit. Kyle was still showing my stuff around, and Gina was still mad about it, but she’d really started throwing herself into her work more. Let’s just say the vagina trees are getting a bit out of control. But she’s also working more shifts at the record store so she can try and get a studio space someplace else. Thank God. But anyway.
Hugh called. He called and he wants to do a show with me. He has a cancellation next month. Basically, the artist who was going to show wasn’t finished, and the new stuff wasn’t as advertised, and so different from his earlier, sellable work, that Hugh had to cut him loose. And now he has an opening in the schedule! I can’t even pretend to be sad about that other artist. It’s a tough business. Hugh and I are going to meet for drinks and discuss layout, themes, advertising, etc. I am on cloud nine.
I called Dad. He seemed excited. He even said he’d try and come down for it. I won’t lie though, when I called home I just wished, wished, that Mom had answered. That she was still alive and she was on the other end. She would be over the moon. She really pushed me to be an artist, she was the one who arranged the after-school classes and bought me the supplies. She bragged to her bridge ladies about her daughter—the artist—in New York. She’d be shopping for a new outfit to wear to my opening, she’d be talking Dad’s ear off. She’d be so proud.
Even writing it makes me want to cry.
I’m going to sign off. This is supposed to be a happy occasion. More soon.
July 5th
It’s really happening! I mean really really. I just got home from measuring and deciding on the lighting for my own freaking solo show. Set date is August 10 which is unbelievable. Hugh and I spent hours and hours the other night pouring over the details, the pricing, the titles. We picked the painting to be on the mailers. It’s the Red one, my baby! We both agreed on it, which was amazing. He is amazing as well, to be honest. I don’t think I’ve had a better evening with anyone in my entire life. He’s intense and smart and funny. He loves art in a way that moves me. He’s not an artist, not even a little, he says, not an ounce of talent. He thinks that’s maybe why he’s so drawn to artists. Not envy, but appreciation. I love that. I love that he’s so moved by people like me that he’s devoted his career to them.
I hate to admit it, but I think I like him more than I should. It’s so hard not to. But I need to button that up. This is about art, not silly crushes. And realistically, what would someone like him see in someone like me?
But then again, he is in love with my paintings.
July 8th
So this is strange and exciting and confusing—but let me back up. First off, Kyle doesn’t want to participate much with the show all of the sudden, even said he’d take a smaller percentage. He claims to be too busy, but I really think that it’s Hugh. He really dislikes him that much. And then when he and Gina came by the gallery space to help with the hanging order (getti
ng Gina there in a supportive friend way was a miracle in itself), she was super weird around Hugh as well.
So, they left, and I mentioned to Hugh that they’re normally so much more vibrant, both of them. And he guessed they’re jealous, that seeing someone else’s success was making them act strangely. The word “success” sent a chill up my spine, I won’t lie. I was finishing up for the night, mainly just turning off lights, collecting measurements, when Hugh asked me out for a late dinner. It felt less like a business meal, but I agreed anyway.
He took me around the corner to a small Italian place. We had it practically to ourselves—soft candlelight, romantic. We drank wine and ate ravioli and he just seemed different. More open, less like the boss or a man ten years my senior. It felt like a date. I didn’t mind that it felt like a date. He’s a pretty mysterious person, and even after hours of me asking questions and him answering, I feel like I’ve only chipped at the surface. I guess I can blame the wine.
At the end of the night, he walked me to the corner to hail a cab. As we waited, I asked him if he was married or seeing anyone. It felt gauche, but he seemed like such a catch. Why wouldn’t he be? He said no, in a sad way, like there was a story there, or maybe I’m just reading into him too much. But then he said he was a widower. What? I mean, he’s not that much older than me.
I wanted to ask how she died, but that seemed rude. And he was all closed up, so I didn’t pry, although my curiosity was close to bursting. Finally, he asked why I didn’t have a boyfriend. I gave him the standard “all work and all art make Vivian a single girl” spiel. He said that was probably why my paintings were so good, that I was channeling all my love and passion into my art, leaving little room for anything else.
It was both the saddest and nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. So I hugged him. Impulsive, I know, but what can you do? Blame the wine again. I said thanks for everything, for making my dreams come true, and for being so wonderful. He laughed and asked if he could kiss me.
Parasite Life Page 7