Tori Amos: Piece by Piece

by Amos, Tori

  While I was writing Scarlet I would call her and talk with her about Scarlet's relationship with her spiritual mother, whom we call America. After seeing some other photographers, she came up with Kurt Markus. She felt we needed to go with a photographer's photographer. We needed to go with somebody who had his own relationship with our spiritual mother, America. We went to Montana and the juices were flowing, and John Witherspoon was there along with art director Sheri Lee and this posse of new girls from Epic, my new record label. We were there for four or five days. Montana is Kurt's stomping ground. We had thought about shooting in different places across the country, but finally we settled on one day of Scarlet's journey, one moment.

  KAREN BINNS:

  Those are 1940s-style dresses Tori's wearing in the Scarlet photographs. It's like the girl on the prairie, but not like any prairie you've ever known. That was the look for that year.

  CONVERSATION BETWEEN TORI AND ANN:

  I loved being Scarlet. I'm not an actress, but I let this form inhabit me. And Mark doesn't have any problem with it because he enjoys, you know, being monogamous and having relationships with all these different women in that way. Because when I'm in the thick of it, I'm in the thick of it. I wear it around. Tash has forced me to jump out of it real quick, so she's teaching me. I have to be Mommy. But I'll tell you, there's even a wardrobe that I buy for Mommy. I've always done that. Meaning for the homebody person. Sometimes I have to be able to be clear with myself, and clothes can help.

  We go back to the idea of pieces, and the pieces of Scarlet, some of them have stayed with me. All the records have changed me, all the songs have touched me, but certain songs stay with me more than others. Some I visit. Like “Leather”—I really enjoy her. She might have been something I was walking with when I was starving for that kind of experience. Now I understand her in a very different way.

  ANN: Amos continues to perform her duet with Venus as it evolves with every new aspect of her art. Whether posing in glamorous midcentury garb for the compilation Tales of a Librarian or taking on the role of a torch singer in the film Mona Lisa Smile, collaborating with the photographers she admires and the clothing designers who lend her inspiration, Amos now heartily enjoys putting her own mark on the iconography of desire.

  KAREN BINNS:

  Tori can connect with the rockers, she can connect with the couples who stay home and listen to their stereo, and she can connect with the radical kids who want to shoot the president. She can connect with everybody, you know. The way she dresses—I think it's important that she connects but still is one person. There's a way to do that. You look open, you look like you're in touch with what's going on, you look like you're in touch with social issues. I want to make sure Tori looks as good as anybody that you're going to see on the cover of any magazine, cause she's got the right things on for that year. They're not the trendiest, but they're the right ones. So if a seventeen-year-old reads those—all right, Tori's the girl with the red hair and she's kind of ethereal, but she's got it, too.

  LOREN HAYNES:

  Here's an anecdote that gets to the heart of Tori as a photographic subject. We were driving to a radio show one morning when I was on tour with her, and she was being interviewed by a journalist during the drive. I was taking pictures of her from the back seat. She was talking to the writer, but she was still very aware of my presence and her duty in that. There was one moment when she put her head onto her arm and sort of leaned on her arm and I ran out of film, I couldn't get the shot. Then we got to the venue. What I found fascinating is that later when we got back in the car, she very quickly went back to that pose, meaning she was completely aware, even though she had been talking to this reporter the entire time, in a deep conversation about the state of the world, which was very important to her—she remembered I didn't get that shot and she was able to take me back there and give it to me again. That's where you go, Wow. Even I had forgotten that shot. I mean, she's not a model. Most musicians are more consumed in their own trip, what they're saying or doing or what's next. With Tori, there is an element of care and concern. She cared enough about me and what I was doing; she knew I wanted that pose and she remembered that and had enough care to put that into full process.

  CONVERSATION BETWEEN TORI AND ANN:

  When I'm posing for a photographer, as with music, it has to be improvi-sational at a certain point. For it to work you have to allow yourself to dream, to walk into a painting. If you establish an inner dialogue while you're being photographed it can be a bit more revealing. I might remember a conversation with somebody that takes me to a certain space. I'm not inhabiting a different character—I'm inhabiting myself, although this might be a piece of the self that even I am just meeting for the first time. That's what I like to see in a photograph. When somebody's just blankly staring out at you, or seducing the camera in a really obvious way it just doesn't have the same resonance.

  Though I'll use fantasy as a motivator, I let fiction stay fiction; this is just a place where we can play it out a little. The characters and events I'm playing with change. It could have been my husband today, it could have been something an acquaintance said to me, it could have been somebody, I don't know their name, and I saw them and they did something that intrigued me. There's a moment that you're drawn to these people and you allow yourself to be drawn. And the photographer is watching it happen. I'm letting him see me getting drawn into someone. You and the photographer agree to let something take shape. It's a safe place to let your mind wander.

  Having Tash playing dress-up has made me see how much we all love playing dress-up. I got to a place where I could understand all facets of it. And this is the fun side of it—why can't I enjoy it?

  You do have to be careful, though, about using your sexuality in forming your image. It's very much like Frodo and the Ring—don't put it on. If you reach for it, it's very unlikely that you won't be seduced by it. When you start valuing your body, you start valuing whom you let into it. You realize there are consequences. I know some people who seem to be focused on how many people they can get into their room. Their whole M.O. is “How many locks can I pick?” Some of my guy friends in the music industry are really into that. I don't know if it makes them feel more powerful or what. But I've been able to mostly avoid being intimately involved with men like that, unless I just made a mistake, not realizing I would just be another scalp on their belt.

  It goes back to that balance between forming a public image and being a musician. Because I have an instrument and because I connect with the tradition of musicians, I can go back to that. I'm in relationship with something onstage. I serve it. The great players will tell you they serve their instrument. I'm an extension of my piano, and it plays me as much as I play it. You know, this is not a possession of mine; it's just abhorrent to think that this is a possession. When you refuse to possess your instrument, you yourself can't be possessed, either—you can't fully be reduced to an object of desire.

  INTERMISSION

  Tour Body Roll Call:

  Hello, Glutes.

  “Hey, T.”

  What jeans should we wear today?

  “Any, T. We are your touring Glutes so we can fit nicely into all your jeans this week.”

  Hello again, Glutes.

  “Hello, T.”

  What jeans should we wear today?

  “Sorry, T, we are your composing Glutes, so we are more interested in assonance than ass.”

  Do I miss my touring body when I'm off the road? Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. What does a touring body feel like? Because I eat pretty healthily—lots of greens and protein—food doesn't slow me down on or off the road, but on the road my body is forced to breathe in ways that normal living never asks of me. When I train for the road, I have to practice singing while I row on my rowing machine. Otherwise, I never build up vocal tone control while doing heavy aerobics. The live show is heavy aerobics with breathing, tone, abs, and glutes all having their movement. But breath control is
essential or I'll sound like I need an oxygen machine. Can you imagine buying a ticket to see some forty-year-old woman pass out? When you get it right and when the body is moving with the music, while I'm playing the keyboards—my internal organs feel like they are also getting played. This is an unbelievable high. Not just physically but emotionally and mentally—I have to be present, so as not to burp or miss a step in some way. Because all the different pieces of my being are giving their ultimate: the physical body (south), the emotional body (west), the mental body (north), the spiritual body (east)—together, all the pieces can create an activated medicine wheel within the being. Do I miss this when I'm not touring? Of course. But to have the songs that create an exciting live narrative, I must go into the quiet, I must go into the depth: chop the wood, carry the water, practice the piano, get out my palettes, sharpen my pencils, turn on my crap tape recorder, and embrace my composing glutes.

  PART II THOUGHTS FROM TORI ON THE PUBLIC/PRIVAT E SELF …RUMINATIONS ON THE CONVERSATION

  Do you watch people, people whom you know (or you think you know) when they are out, out around people? They have a public persona, right? Something different from when they are lounging around at breakfast— if you know them well enough to have seen them waking up, pulling themselves from that very private dream-sleep, or from that restless-nightmare-lack-of-sleep, riding back on ghost mustangs so that they can make it back into their bodies, back into their bed as the sun rises. What we call private must ease into becoming exposed to the real world, with the opening of our bedroom door … and so it begins. Then opening the door to your house, and then there, in that moment, another level of what is truly private is becoming an echo.

  Okay. A BBC newsreader. Do you have any idea how and what she would be like out on a Friday night? I have no idea, having sat in the BBC many times, thinking about just this very subject while waiting in the queue for my chitchat with the extremely professional, well-trained interviewer who is interviewing that day. I'm writing this and I'm thinking, Tony Blair is sitting where my 5 Denier stockings have been. I wonder if he thought about these people who are questioning him—interrogating him, somewhat—and what makes these people tick. Do they blow-dry or towel-dry while conjuring prehistoric Paleolithic critters in their bathmat pre-sunup, pre-mask-on, preinterview? Tough questions. Do people like Tony Blair sit there and size up: “Okay so this newsreader, this interviewer, has an airtight public image—impenetrable.” Well, they definitely have the upper hand, and I have discussed this with this book's cowriter, a journalist herself, in depth … the media always has the upper hand. That's the case if a writer is worth his or her ballpoint when it comes to interviewing the subject, because of one simple point—this person, the interviewer, is not in the hot seat, is not having their personality or their work peeled back like Eve's apple to be exposed and—let's face it—if not eaten (embraced), to rot.

  Over the years I have found I enjoy finding out who is interviewing me, because once I understand the symbology that person favors, his interests, etc., I can use different language so I can somehow, in twenty minutes, try to relate to this stranger. Then the interviewer gets to go and edit our conversation in any way that he wants. He can present an altered image to the public. For example, an artist might have all of her humorous or self-deprecating comments edited out. This way the writer presents the character he was determined to present even before the interview took place. Yes, there are some journalists who welcome being proven wrong about their interpretations of an artist's personality. But some are conjoined with their preconceptions, and fulfilling them becomes their objective. Upholding their intuition, even if it isn't right, is the hidden agenda. Sometimes they're not even aware they're doing it. It's a crapshoot. For both sides, I guess.

  Every person has a public face. The woman who works on Wall Street, the soccer mom, the college student at NYU. My niece goes to NYU, and we have talked quite a bit about this: When can you let the mask down? Especially when you're living in a college dorm, essentially living with strangers, similar to a road crew. But a road crew should be professional and know the rules of the game. Students who in some cases are away from their bedrooms, their personal spaces, for the first time in their lives aren't supposed to be professionals. And yet they're thrown into such a lack of privacy, where they may find themselves rooming with a gay-hobbit-porno-web-site fanatic—that would test even the most experienced road dog. Remember, most road crews get at least one day off a week, and on my tour you usually get a room to yourself to regroup and have some privacy. At the worst, you get your own bunk where the curtains pull shut, with your own drink holder (wow), TV set, reading light … yeah, it's a tight space, but it's your own space with the curtain closed, where nobody dares to pull your curtain back unless they're on some vodka-crazed rampage and they want you to be the donkey in a game of pin the Velcro on the donkey. Honestly, if that's the least that happens to you on tour, then you are truly loved. But students don't even get anywhere near this privacy.

  There is a strange way at work here, or at play If you have an image of yourself and want to be “in that skin,” to walk in those shoes—how can this perception of you be questioned by others, and maybe even by yourself? Why? I don't know how or why. A strange set of coincidences can converge to bring your perception of you and other people's perception of you into a questioning state. A state that can have a set of rules or laws that may and can be broken, intentionally or completely unknowingly. A state that can have a sheriff. The act of breaking these unspoken laws set into place in this public-image state can end friendships, sever acquaintances, and cause overall mayhem. You could also possibly be taunted and humiliated if you don't follow the views of the “image connoisseurs” in your social circle and be who you should be, according to them.

  I have to catch myself drumming up preconceptions of people: I pinch myself and say “Just observe without making judgments too quickly.” There have been guys who on first glance and meeting come across as maybe your worst nightmare. Basically sporting a chauvinist, shaved-head, arrogant stance—I'd say pretty much pushing a prehistoric “I'll drag you back to the cave, and I've got computer-nerd weenies on the spit, grilling.”

  And then, sometimes, a strange circumstance presents itself where I see this guy's “stance / demeanor / personality / self” change right before my eyes. The gears shift. Then a laugh, maybe. And sometimes you find a big grizzly bear that, yes, can be ferocious, but can also be protective and even, once in a while, cuddly. If you don't have enough time with your private self to sit down and catch up with the voices inside, then how do you know who you really want to be? Not just who your family wants you to be, not who your lover needs you to be, not who your current crowd hopes you will continue to be … but who you want to be. I've constantly had to battle with the issue of what kind of woman I wanted to be. Sometimes I've given the complete opposite impression to some people. Why? Sometimes it was intentional. Sometimes it wasn't. There have been those around me who have equated the meaning of compassion with the definition of weakness. Because you want to give people another opportunity to prove themselves, you can get the reputation of being a softie. Then if you choose to break off the relationship after having been compassionate, you get the reputation of being a motherfucker. One extreme to the other. I've begun to firmly believe true compassion is a tough skill to wield and it takes a strong resolve to listen, be understanding, and then still be able to say, “We've given this relationship chance after chance after chance of working together, of creating together, but it just isn't working out.” There doesn't have to be animosity over this—choosing different trails up the mountain—but if there is animosity, then there is. As hard as you try to be diplomatic and fair, other people may not see you as fair at all but as a manipulator, a crusher of their dreams. But what was their dream based on? A fantasy combined with an image they had of you (as a girlfriend, as a working partner, as somebody who could fix their life …). Did you buy into this image
they had, because, frankly, for a while, it pulled you in? Let's be honest. You let yourself be pulled in because it felt good to be wanted, needed. But then it went too far, as projected images always do. If it's not a real image, but one that has been projected onto you, then you can keep up the masquerade for only so long before the mask cracks and the paint on the mask peels away.

  After our all-around household coordinator Deb, fondly known as Super Debs, my niece Cody, and I spent a week in Ireland together, getting the house ready for the summer holiday, the three of us came to a conclusion. Even though we'd all been working together almost every day over the previous weeks, waking up with each other in Ireland took us to another awareness of one another's personal selves. I've worked with Deb for more than four years now. And Cody is my sister's daughter, so if you had asked me two weeks ago if I knew these two women on a personal level, I would have said absolutely, without question, I know these two women personally. But on this trip to Ireland those “public masks” got stripped away. Stripped away with every day—a few layers closer to what each of us considered to be truer to her real, private self.

  The three of us, Cody, Deb, and I, were convinced that if anybody really thought about it they could pinpoint when the private self and the public self join hands—in the morning before you go to work, in the car before you arrive as that wedding guest—who is in the driver's seat, the private self or the public self, depends on where you're going. In England, when we first boarded the plane, the public selves, for Deb, Cody, and me, took over in order to deal with ticket-counter check-in, security lines—we all know this dance—so we had our private selves protected somewhat by the public self. We all do this in order not to take so personally the cold, hard reality of such interactions. Because so much of life these days is impersonal, we all basically put on a protective coating, similar to Scotchgard on your dining room chairs, so that when somebody squirts their emotional ketchup or mayonnaise on you, intentionally or not, you can wipe it off without too much of a stain being left. By the time we woke in Ireland on the second day of our trip, with phone calls coming in that were personally affecting one of us, the public selves were ushered out the front door and mugs of lattes and Kleenex boxes were more the order of the day.