by Lynn Messina
“I judge Fashionista by Fashionista,” he says, taking a menu from the waiter. “It’s a very silly magazine.”
I’m about to give a boilerplate speech about our importance in the cultural marketplace, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I fall back on the truth. “Yes, I know. But we’re trying to make it more substantial. That’s where you come in.”
“Really?”
“Fashionista can’t suddenly be a magazine about something. Our readers would revolt. Your work provides us with the opportunity to cover something vital and important in the art world while at the same time giving readers what they want—celebrities and high-fashion designs. You’ll make us look good,” I explain.
He considers this for a moment. “Are you sure you won’t just make me look ridiculous?”
“This is what will happen,” I say, outlining the process for him with the intent of putting him at ease. “We’ll send over a photographer and a journalist to your studio in London. The photographer will complain about poor lighting for ten hours while our journalist treats you to lunch and asks simple questions about your work: Where do you get your ideas from? Who are your influences? Then we’ll get a few words from the designers who are used in your pieces—honored to be part of a such a fine exhibition, reminds me of myself when I was just starting out. Finally, we’ll track down a few art experts who will praise and defend your controversial work—art must go forward or it must go away, the risks of eternal damnation are great, but the rewards of art are greater.” I shift in my seat, trying to hide from the sun. “Nothing to fear. It’ll be two thousand words that you’ve seen before.”
“That’s it?” Like someone reading a contract, he’s trying to find the small print. But there is no small print.
“That’s it.”
“You promise?”
“I’m a senior editor. I can’t promise anything to anyone,” I say honestly, “but I don’t see what else they can do other than work the celebrity angle. Do any famous people own your artwork?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, then there’s no reason to worry about that. There’s no reason to worry about anything,” I assure him. “We’ll devote eight lovely pages to your work and all you have to do is have your picture taken in front of the Fashionista backdrop. Do you think you can handle that?”
Gavin Marshall nods and picks up a menu. He’s tired of talking about business. “What do you recommend?”
“The mandarin chicken salad is delicious,” I say.
When the waiter finally comes over, we both order chicken salad. We eat our salads and drink lemonade and discuss his ideas behind Gilding the Lily.
Gavin’s good company, and I try to relax as I listen to him explain how his work is a comment on the spiritually bereft religion of high fashion. I try to unwind, but I can’t squelch a niggling feeling that his concerns are more than justified. I have spoken the truth—I don’t see what else they can do—but my imagination isn’t infinite. Just because I haven’t thought of it doesn’t mean Dot or Jane or Lydia won’t. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy.
The Jesus Package
Lydia has a corner office. It’s large and spacious and accommodates seven people comfortably. When I enter, Marguerite, Anna and Dot are sitting on the couch against the window. Dot has her feet up on the coffee table, a cup of coffee in one hand, a doughnut in the other. Two top editors whom I only speak to at the Christmas party—Soledad and Harry—walk in after me. They take Krispy Kremes from the box on Lydia’s desk, claim the love seat in the corner and proceed to tell the room about their awful mornings. The atmosphere is warm and full of camaraderie and people are making eye contact as they speak. This is the sort of meeting that senior editors are invited to.
Since this is my first time at such a meeting, I’m a little nervous. It’s typical first-day-at-school stuff—will anyone talk to me, what if I lose my homework—and I take a doughnut, determined to be impressive. I’ve spent five years preparing for this moment.
After a few minutes of small talk, Lydia turns the discussion to the matter at hand. “As some of you already know, we’re going to try something a little different in December’s issue. Jane has had a brainstorm.”
The expressions on everyone’s face is extreme interest, leading me to conclude that I’m the only one who already knows about Jane’s brainstorm.
“We’re going to be doing a feature article on Gavin Marshall to coincide with a party we’re throwing him in November,” she announces, looking discreetly in Marguerite’s direction to gauge her reaction. When Marguerite doesn’t react at all, Lydia hides her disappointment and continues. “As you no doubt already know, Gavin is an influential young artist from England. His work is very avant-garde and he’s often criticized for his use of religious symbolism,” she explains to Marguerite, just in case she didn’t recognize the name.
Anna—red pants, red sweater with tiered ruffles, rhinestone choker (fiesta wear)—looks up from her notepad. “He sounds too hot for Fashionista to touch. Are we sure we want to do something on him?”
Although this is a legitimate question and one that Lydia would ordinarily ask herself, she breezes right by it. Her dislike of Marguerite is almost as strong as Jane’s. “There is nothing too hot for Fashionista to handle. We are a leader in the style and fashion industries,” she says, quoting our press release.
“What’s the name of the exhibit?” Dot asks.
“Gilding the Lily,” she says.
Marguerite almost chokes on her doughnut. “Excuse me,” she says, after the choking fit has passed. “You mean the Jesus in Drag exhibit?” Marguerite is shocked. Clearly she has the sense to realize that showing Jesus in women’s clothes is not the sort of thing we should be doing.
But Lydia doesn’t know that. This is the reaction she has been waiting for. She can now report back to Jane in all honesty and delight that Marguerite was shocked when she learned the truth: that Jane has successfully hijacked her idea. “Yes, if you must be gauche about it, Jesus in Drag, although Jane prefers Gilding the Lily. Gavin has collected evening gowns from some of today’s best-known designers and put them on plaster-of-paris statues of Jesus,” she helpfully explains to the rest of us.
Anna furrows her brow. Even though we are a leader in the style and fashion industries, she’s not convinced that controversial art is our dominion. “Are you sure?”
“That the evening gowns are from some of today’s best-known designers? Yes, positive,” says Lydia. “I have the list right here. Tom Ford, Alexander McQueen, Michael Kors, Stella McCartney, Julien MacDonald have all donated gowns. And they’re all going to be at the party, which we’ll be sponsoring. It’s a great opportunity for us to get our brand out there. Fashionista will be synonymous with avant-garde and cutting edge.” Before anyone else can protest, she continues, “Jane wants us to construct the December issue around the Gilding the Lily exhibition.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly very afraid.
“Let’s make Gilding the Lily our centerpiece,” Lydia explains, “and build out from there.” Six blank faces stare back at her, but she doesn’t let that discourage her. “Now, who has an idea?”
After protracted minutes of silence during which Lydia continues to look upbeat and optimistic, Soledad takes a stab at it. “I’m still not quite sure what you’re thinking, but what about something like Jesus as fashion icon. How Jesus’ sense of style has affected fashion for two millennia.”
“Strappy sandals were very hot last summer,” says Anna.
Harry raises his hand. “Everybody wears white now after Labor Day.”
“We could also do a sidebar on other fashion icons,” suggests Marguerite. “Audrey Hepburn, Princess Grace, Jackie O.”
“Excellent idea,” says Lydia before she can help herself. Audrey, Grace and Jackie always elicit cheers, no matter what the context.
“Oh, I have an idea,” Anna says eagerly
. She’s almost bouncing in her seat. “Let’s get actors who have played Jesus—Willem Dafoe, Christian Bale, Victor Garber, that guy from Jesus Christ Superstar—and dress them in modern interpretations.”
Lydia likes the idea. She’s as excited as Anna. “We could get Richard Avedon or Annie Leibovitz. Vanity Fair, eat your heart out.”
“What about nativity scenes?” Harry asks.
We all look at him.
“What about them?” Dot asks.
“Who has what? By the end of the day I could have a list of the most popular Nativity scenes and the stars who own them.” Harry used to be editor of the home decor section and even though he’s a top editor now, he still clings to his old responsibilities. “A few phone calls and I’ll have the info.”
Lydia nods. She loves when editors volunteer to do other people’s work. It saves her the troubling of assigning it. “Good, you get on that. Anything else?”
Dot: “What to Wear to Your Resurrection.”
Soledad: “Crucifixes: What you can get for under $100, under $1,000, under $10,000.”
Marguerite: “Great Escapes: Vacationing on the shores of Galilee.”
Throughout most of this brainstorming session, I’m silent. I’m silent and sullen and consumed by awful regret. I know what the right thing to do is. I know that an honorable person would warn Gavin Marshall that his worst nightmare is about to come true, that he’s about to be the main attraction at a three-ring Jesus circus. But I also know that I won’t do it. I’ve come too far to stop the Jane-destruction train now. I will ride it to the very end—into the station or off a cliff.
“This is an extremely good start,” says Lydia, winding down the meeting. They’ve spent thirty minutes talking about Jesus and not once did words like Christianity or faith come up. The son of God has never been so secular. “I’m going to run these ideas by Jane and let you know what she says.” Lydia then holds up the remaining Krispy Kremes—two chocolates, one custard, one jelly—and asks if anyone else wants one before she throws them away.
I suggest we put them in the kitchen in case some of the other staff members are hungry, but my words are greeted with horrified looks. Lydia laughs condescendingly, tells me I’m droll and tosses the box into the trash.
While we’re filing out of her office, Lydia says she is impressed by us all, but I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think anyone is impressed by me.
Drinks at 60 Thompson
Maya is trying on deformities and distortions in an attempt to gauge which ones are the most eye-catching.
“Okay, one more time. Do you think this is better—” she blackens two teeth in the front of her mouth and smiles “—or this?” Now she puts an eye patch over her left eye.
I give the matter the consideration it deserves. “The teeth. Definitely the teeth.”
She makes a check next to the answer and then looks at me through one eye. “Why?”
“It’s more subtle. You only notice the teeth when you smile. Also, I think you’ll be less self-conscious. And last, I don’t think it’ll affect job performance. You shouldn’t be reading copy with only one eye,” I point out practically.
Maya takes detailed notes of my explanation. She’s like a market researcher, only without the two-way mirror. “Next: the pillow.” Her bag of tricks is full and she reaches inside to take out another prop. She’s stuffing it under her stretch-cotton T-shirt when Gavin finally appears.
We are in the bar of 60 Thompson. Gavin and his publicist are staying here during their New York sojourn and I look around just to make sure that Anita isn’t close behind.
Understanding my unsubtle action clearly, he gives me a kiss on the cheek in greeting and laughs. “Don’t worry. She’s out schmoozing a publisher tonight.” His eyes stray to Maya, who can’t decide if she should take the pillow out or stuff it in completely. She’s never greeted anyone midpregnancy before and doesn’t know how to act.
“Gavin, this is Maya, my friend who I told you about.”
“Hi, Maya,” he says, holding his hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Maya smiles. “You’re just in time. I’m taking an opinion poll. Which do you prefer? The pregnant belly—” she stands up and models her misshapen bulge “—or the hunchback?” We wait while she relocates the pillow from the front to the back.
Gavin treats the question very seriously and purses his lips. “I’m going to need to see pregnant belly again.”
I toss back my gin and tonic and try to control my racing heart. The guilt I feel is almost overwhelming. It makes me light-headed. I’m only seconds away from hyperventilating. In a bid for composure, I wave down the bartender and order another drink.
The light-headedness started five hours ago when Gavin called to give me the official go-ahead. “But no funny stuff. I’m holding you to that.” Then he suggested a drink to toast the unholy alliance between art and commerce. “This is my last night in town.”
“No,” I said, panicking. I had just gotten out of the Jesus meeting and wasn’t prepared to spend hours upon hours alone with him and my guilt. “I can’t tonight.”
“All right.”
“I’d love to, of course, but it’s just that I’m going to the movies with a friend of mine. I’d cancel since this is your last night in town, but she just broke up with her boyfriend and she needs my emotional support,” I said, babbling freely. It’s what I do when I’m nervous and consumed by guilt. I sighed heavily. “It’s a shame that I can’t see you.”
“What time’s the movie?”
I’m not a good liar and rarely are the details of my fabrications at my beck and call. “Uh, nine.”
“Nine?” he asked.
He sounded suspicious so I adjusted the figure to a more believable time. “Nine-thirty.”
“Well, if the movie’s at nine-thirty, why don’t you stop by the bar at my hotel for a drink.”
“But Maya…” I began to protest.
“Bring Maya,” he said. “I just finished with my girlfriend, too. We can commiserate over whiskey and sodas.”
Maya doesn’t drink whiskey but she loves commiseration. “All right,” I said, giving in. Some things you just can’t fight.
After I hung up with him, I called Maya and related my distraught tale. Since she didn’t have plans for the evening and was very amused by my predicament (“Tell me again about the Nativity scenes and the stars who love them”), she readily agreed to swap war stories with a famous artist from England.
“This is good,” she said. “I’m working on an article idea and need to bounce some things off you.”
“I don’t know the ten best ways to get him to love you,” I warned her.
She laughed and assured me it was nothing like that.
“What do you do?” Gavin asks, after he decides he prefers the hunchback’s hump to the pregnant belly. I concur with his pick and the pillow goes back into a pink plastic bag.
“I work with strangers,” she says, scribbling wildly on her pad.
Although he’s expecting her to say a more common career like costume designer or interior decorator, he accepts this answer with a nod. “Is that a full-time gig?”
“It’s as much time as I want it to be.” She has another bag on her lap now and is digging through it.
“Maya’s a writer,” I explain.
She raises her head and gives me an angry, pointed look. “I’m a copyeditor.”
This is basic terms-of-reference stuff from day one: Don’t call yourself a writer until you’ve sold a piece of writing.
Smart enough to stay clear of the tension, Gavin says, “Copyeditor?”
“Your people call us subeditors,” she says, very close to sneering, “as if we’re not quite human.”
Gavin coughs and looks down, obviously uncomfortable. He’s used to defending the empire and colonialism and Marmite sandwiches, not magazine terminology. “And you write?”
“Some.”
Maya’s petulance c
rushes my guilt and for the first time in five hours I inhale easily. “She’s working on a piece right now. Maya,” I say, sounding like a talk-show host, “tell us about your current project.”
She doesn’t like having the stage cleared for her act but she complies anyway. She’s too enthusiastic about her article idea not to. “I work with strangers,” she says.
I roll my eyes impatiently. There are only so many times you can say that in an evening. Gavin just waits.
“My co-workers rarely look me in the eye and most of them don’t know my name,” she explains. “Two weeks ago I had a virulent case of pinkeye and not one person noticed.”
“Maybe they were being polite,” Gavin suggests.
Maya shakes her head. “They’re not polite people. I wear a cute sweater, no one comments. I sneeze, no one gesund-heits. I’ve never once been asked how I am. A surfeit of good manners is not the problem. Anyway, the pinkeye gave me a great idea.” She pauses for effect. “I’m going to go into work with increasingly bizarre and prominent conditions and see how long it takes for someone to comment.”
“In that case I change my vote,” says Gavin. “I’m going with the pregnant belly.”
She marks that down in her book. “Why?”
“Because while I think a hump that materializes on your back one day is extremely bizarre, there could conceivably be a medical explanation for it, say, a car accident or a family history of suddenly materializing humps. But an overnight third-trimester pregnancy?” he says, relishing the idea. Suddenly I see twenty Jesuses in maternity clothes. “That’s brilliant stuff. It’ll make them wonder if they’ve been overlooking something for nine months.”
“He makes a good argument. I change my vote, too.”
“Overwhelming majority for pregnant belly duly noted. Now, onto the next event.” She holds up a plastic mask, the sort children wear on Halloween. “Frankenstein or the Wolf Man?”