Six Generations of First Born Women

MR. BIG, Sex and Lies continued...

Money was never an issue in my life. I don't worry about it. When I have some I spend it. I'm not a saver or a planner but I do trust in my ability to make a living no matter what.

So now it's 1981. I had my job at the Art Institute about a year. It provides some security, but the salary is still pretty meager. My sexual/artistic relationship with Robin was still the highlight of my day or week or whatever schedule he and I established so he could continue his contact with J. Bill would be available whenever I felt like seeing him. That was the problem. We'd have dinner, he'd always pay for everything. Sometimes we'd have uninspired (for me) sex, and he would deliver me wherever I wanted to go. He was a small man, in every department. But I feel guilty writing this way about anybody because I know by many other standards he is a very good man, a good "catch", faithful and loyal and honest. I know he loved me. I seemed exotic after his church going wife. I would depend on his loyalty for several years to come.

Meanwhile, my artist/journalist friend Lois T. who wrote the cover story about me in an early issue of Art New England, takes a more personal interest in me. I think she would have loved to have left her husband like I did, but she was older and had less amunition as a woman in the world than I did at the time. She tells me about a student of hers (she always taught private art classes on the side to make money.) His name is Ric, he is older (actually about 60 which seemed ancient to me.) He is an enthusiastic student of art, seemed captivated by her article about me, and he is very, VERY rich. She tells me about him and suggests if I meet with him he might buy one of my paintings. Ric is the founder/owner of the RIX drug store chain which morphed into CVS. I am totally excited, a rich patron, every artist's dream come true. Lois helps to set us up, I am to meet him at his corporate offices after hours.

How to dress, what to say, I forget, but whatever I did, I know when I walked in, he was not displeased and art was not the first thing on his mind. He was an imposing man with a shock of white hair. He was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. I had never met a man like him before. We laughed. I tried to get him too look at the portfolio I had brought but he wanted to invite me to some private social event instead. I went along with it and found out he was married to a left leaning political activist. Didn't matter, I was arm candy and I knew it. So what. Once he snuck me into his home in Wellesley so I would know what being REALLY, REALLY RICH means. I wandered around aimlessly poking into stuff. The art was not memorable.

What was memorable was when he was invited to NYC to the opening of the Trump Tower. Donald Trump was, I guess, a buddy of Ric's so he had an invitation to the private opening. For those of you who don't know, the Trump Tower was the glitzyist, most over the top building, combining shopping and living yet to be imagined in the greatest city of the world, NYC. There was to be a gala opening and for whatever reason, Ric wanted to take me (his wife was probably out campaigning for a politician who would do some good in the world.)

The plan was he'd fly to NY first, then he'd send for me. He sent my plane tickets, had me picked up at the airport with a private limo, taken to his hotel where I could "freshen-up" for the event. I felt like I'd won "Queen For a Day". He got to the hotel after some business meetings and wanted to get a little pay back for all the effort he made to bring me here. It was gross, but I complied (the closest I've ever come to prostitution.) Later we dress, a limo takes us to the Trump Tower. I am agog. There are kleig lights, press, famous people and red carpets. I like being with Mr Ric because he his big, he looks good, he has the power that money and access brings. Intoxicating. We are ushered in to the most sparkling, marble, fountain filled lobby I have ever seen. We ride gleaming escalators up and down as unlimited champaign flowed from bottles carried by tuxedo garbed waiters. Ric took me into one of the chic shops on one of the escalator stops and wanted to buy me anything that interested me. The clothes looked like rags from a garbage heap, some very hot Paris designer. I fingered a tag and it said $3,000. I don't know if it was for the whole pile of rags in the window, or just the one item the tag was attached to. I declined Ric's gracious offer to buy me something. There were grand pianos on every floor, we went back to the lobby, Ric seemed disapointed. He wanted to buy me something. I told him the event was enough, we had a great night after in the Four Seasons restaurant and then a wonderful walk together in Central Park. He is the only man who ever gave me a gift from Tiffany's. I still have the little blue velvet bag this piece of jewelery came in.

Don't let any body ever tell you that the rich don't have fun.

TWO TIMING GLAD HANDERS, Sex and Lies continued...

Bill told me how he discovered his wife's affair. It made me think he was a little slow on the up-take, but after some reflection I realized people see what they want to see in a relationship and they will deny the obvious if it doesn't suit their own purposes.

Bill was a good guy. Not the same type of good guy as Pete, but still a person who tried his best to live a decent life. He did nothing to excess. He drank socially. I never saw him drunk. He had three grown kids who loved him. He'd been a good dad. He was a graphic designer, not a great talent, but he was dependable and did what he said he would do. He had a good job, with a lot of responsibility at one of the most prestigious printing firms in Boston. He had a lovely deck house on a high point overlooking Glouscester Harbor. Evidently the wife got very little in the divorce settlement.

The story goes like this; Bill and his wife socialize with the minister of his wife's church and the minister's wife. Bill is not religious but his wife is into choir practice and attends regularly. The minister is also the leader of the choir. One night, on a double date, with the minister and the minister's wife, Bill is driving. Bill's wife sits next to him in the front seat, the minister and his wife sit in the back. They are on their way home and Bill glances down to see his wife with her right arm extended behind her, holding hands with the minister in the back seat. The minister's wife is oblivious. Bill says nothing until after they drop off their passengers and arrive home. Bill confronts his wife with the evidence. It triggers a series of events the culminates in her admiting to an affair and Bill's ultimate divorce. Bill's wife never remarries, and from what I saw, lived a very sorry life in a small studio apartment, alone. The minister moves, with his wife, out of town. Bill gets the house, the love of his kids and me.

Little does he know that about a year before I met him, I played a similar game with Robin and his long time (but never married) girl friend, J.. Robin and I had just started our torrid relationship. He had told me all about J. from the first night, so I felt informed. I was curious. A group of Boston artists had arranged a charter bus trip down to NYC to see the Picasso retrospective at the MOMA. It was the biggest, most exciting exhibition of Picasso's work to hit the USA EVER! It was a must see. I signed up as did Robin and he informed me that J. would be going too. On that morning we line up to get our tickets. I know Robin and J. will be together, I will be a single. Robin and I have started a passionate sexual relationship and J. is clueless. Robin spots me right off. We have some sly eye contact. I check out J. and am relieved. She is just a women. Not ugly not georgous, just a woman. During the course of the exhibition Robin keeps finding excuses to duck around corners and have contact with me. He mentions in particular the erotic, never before published Picasso drawings with the fish. I love his risk taking, that he would leave J. to make sure I knew that he was keeping an eye on me and that he would risk his relationship with her to do so. In the evening, on the chartered bus trip home, Robin and I held hands, surreptitiously all the way back to Boston.

GETTING MY STUFF, Sex and Lies continued...

Acquiring things never held much interest for either of us. There were no arguments about who gets to take the stereo. The house was the only material thing of any value that we owned in common. We had the usual things most people have; TV, a car, and the random accumulation of ten years of marriage. There was the incredible doll house that Pete and I made secretly in the basement for Erika on the Christmas when she was four. We built it in wood from scratch. It had everything including a wall-papered bedroom to match her own. It still had an honored place in her room.

I had moved all of my art supplies, canvas, easels, paints and paintings down to my Fort Point loft weeks earlier, before Pete knew my move was permanent. I still needed to get a few things, including my clothes, to make life possible. After our last contact in his car at Government Center I had some anxiety about going back to the house. He would barely speak to me. He made it extremely difficult for me to have any contact with Erika.

We finally made a deal where one Saturday he would arrange to be out of the house with Erika. He would give me an hour to come in and get my stuff. Bill had been providing a sympathetic ear and was well informed about the situation I was in. He offered to give me a ride and wait for me while I went in the house and rounded up my things. It was the first time I'd been inside in weeks. The kitchen was kind of dirty, there were piles of laundry not done. I wanted to start cleaning up. I was worried that Pete and Erika would not be able to keep the mundane stuff going but there was nothing I could do about it. I would have been willing to come back once a week to clean and do the laundry but he wouldn't let me in the house. They would need some hired help for sure.

I realized there was not much time and I didn't want Pete to come back and find poor Bill sitting there and think that he had anything to do with my leaving. I grabbed the last of my clothes from the closet, my electric fry pan from the kitchen and 3 towels from the bathroom. That was it. The sum total of goods. I needed the fry pan since my loft had no kitchen. I cooked on a two burner hot plate and the fry pan was a necessity for someone who likes to cook.

I tossed the stuff in the car and Bill took off. We headed down the Mass Pike back to Boston. There was a sudden welling up and bursting inside of me. Release and relief and anticipation, like an escaped prisoner with a whole new world of possibilities.

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CHASING ERIKA, Sex and Lies continued...

Erika was ten. Young enough to be a child, old enough to worry. She had been an effortless baby. She never hampered my life style because I took her everywhere. I never gave it a second thought. Initially, when she was very tiny, I carried her in front in a sling type affair that many women in third world countries used. They became popular in the USA in the 1970's because it was O.K. for women to breast feed again. Since in the first 3-4 months that's pretty much all you do, if you want to have a life and breast feed, you bring the baby along. And I did. I tried to be discrete about it, but sometimes you just had to sit on a bus, or in some public place and nurse your baby. Occasionally I would get a raised eyebrow from someone who seemed to be offended at the activity but I ignored them.

As she got older I transferred her to my back pack. She always managed to engage herself in whatever was going on. I talked to her alot. We seemed to communicate even before she could talk. I volunteered the two of us to be part of Harvard graduate student's thesis on language development in female children. The student would visit us twice a week to record any new sounds Erika had made. It was fun and exciting. It elevated my awareness of how cognitive thought evolves.

When I was teaching my adult life drawing classes, I would bring Erika along. She was 4-8 years old at this point. There was a always a nude model on the platform in the center of the room. Sometimes male, sometimes female, sometimes old and geezerly, sometimes young and nubile. My students would put drawing pads on their easels, select a place where they had a comfortable view and begin drawing. Erika would get herself a spot and take out her crayons and draw too. Often it would be someting totally unrelated to the scene. Once, when she was very young, she drew a horse with a sun and a moon in the picture at the same time and the horse was eating so she showed the inside of the stomach, like an XRAY. I have no idea where she got this from.

I loved this child. I told myself all kinds of rationalizations about how my leaving her dad would not effect our relationship. That the first 3 years of life were the most important, that love conquers all.

Soon after Bill helped me move my stuff to my new loft, I managed to get Pete to agree to let me have Erika visit me there. I picked her up, we took the bus and subway to my Fort Point Studio. There is an intimidating walk across barren parking lots into what looks like "no man's land". It was a sunny afternoon and I wanted to take Erika and show her where mommy lived now, then we were going to go to a movie, something she had picked out, I can't remember what. We get on to "A" street, about two blocks from my place, and Erika starts to run in the opposite direction. I'm stunned, I freak. She is very fast, she inherited her dad's long lean body and Olympic speed. The brain kicks in - Erika is running away, running from the mom who loves her, running she does not know where. I chase after her, I am not in great shape, I've never trained for this. Panic. I thought I would loose her. Some super human adrenalin pushes me ahead. I manage to catch her, just barely. She is crying and kicking and flailing and hitting me with all her might. She is incredibly strong. I hold on with all my might. I wrap my arms around her and don't let go.

She calms down, but the tie is tenuous. I know she could take off again at any time. It's a whole new ballgame.

THE FINAL ESCAPE, Sex and Lies continued...

Stalking had not been anticipated. I thought Pete was just too laid back or that he simply no longer had the energy for such behavior. At this point I figured he'd be glad to be rid of me.

The telephone calls started coming at work. It was the first time in my life I'd had a secretary and I was concerned about her. What could she be thinking? He sent long, impassioned letters declaring his love, and feelings for me. Sometimes 3-4 or more neatly hand written pages, beautifully written pages. They surprised me. I wish now that I had kept them. Perhaps they are in some box somewhere. He had majored in English but in the entire ten years of our marriage I had never seen evidence of creative writing, until now. But it was too late. Poignant letters made me feel sad, but going back was not an option.

He would also park his car across the street outside my office and wait for me to leave. I'd try to out-wait him or leave by the rear entrance through the parking lot. Ironically, while all this is going on, he is trying to make it impossible for me to see Erika. He has been telling her that mom has abandoned them. I try to make contact with her every day. To see how school is going, make sure that she knows I love her and to let her know that if she needs, wants, to come to mom's she can always choose to live with me. I'm only a bus ride away in downtown Boston for God's sake. He made it sound like I'd gone to the moon. I guess from his point of view I'd might as well have.

One day I was leaving the office and his car pulls up to the curb and he calls to me. I hadn't seen him coming. Nervously I approach. He asks me, pleads with me to get in. He was a hunter and he did have guns but I glanced in the car and didn't see any so I reluctantly get in. Given his state of mind we were probably in greater danger of getting into an accident than anything else. I knew this was going to be torture. He's thinking he can do something, say something, promise something that will bring me back. There is nothing he can do. I have been gone from him a very, very long time. He asks is there someplace I'd like to go, get a drink so we can "talk". No. He drives in circles around Boston, finally pulling up in front of a diner near Government Center. For the first time, explicitly, I tell him I'm not coming back. He starts to cry. I start to cry. He leans towards me. I hold him. There is no more talk. I slowly disentangle myself from him, get out of the car, head for the subway. It's the last time we touched.

BILL IN THE PICTURE, Sex and Lies continued...

The Art Institute was a great place to work. It was a small school with an excellent faculty of practicing artists who did professionally what they taught in the classroom. The school's reputation was built on the high quality of it's commercial art program; graphic design, illustration, photography, but they were also building a solid fine arts, studio based, program. The President and his wife also threw great parties.

The first school Christmas party I attended was held at the President's house in Chelsea. It was a wonderful house in a little known area on the other side of Boston harbor where you could get great property deals. I attended as a single.

Socializing was long over for Pete and me. I was discovering that while Robin and I had this intense sexual life he was a loner socially. He hated parties, did not own a suit, and had no money. When I say no money I mean NO MONEY. He lived off the sale of his art work and grants. I think he got some VA benefits having been in Vietnam, but his annual income would put him at the poverty level. I adored him and I would've been proud to have him with me, socially, but that was not to be. I tried a little pushing, got resistance and dropped the issue. I did not want to sacrifice our sexual relationship for a public performance. But I missed having someone who liked to dress up, go out on the town, and party. I'm naturally gregarious, generally feel at home everywhere and I assume everyone I meet will like me. I tried to make everyone like me. I was living pretty close to the bone myself and needed the comfort that having a well established friend can provide.

Back at the party I was busily working at getting to know my colleagues. One attractive, but very short man seemed to be particularly interested in me. We played a cat and mouse game throughout the evening. His name was Bill, he was divorced (every man I've ever met, if they were interested in me, made sure in the first five minutes of the conversation, that their availability was unambiguous). By the end of the evening we were meeting in dark corners, kissing. He offered to take me home. (not driving or having a car has always proven to be a plus for me in social situations).

I was pleased. On the way home I told him what I could of my current situation. He was sympathetic, very sympathetic. He was an Art Director for a large printing company just 3 blocks from my new studio at Fort Point, 2 blocks from Robin's studio on Melcher Street. I did not mention Robin to him. He also taught Graphic Design at the Art Institute. His wife had left him several years ago for the minister of her church. She used to sing in the choir and choir practice started to take up much of her time. When Bill discovered the affair, their marriage ended. He did not want it to end, but she left. They had three kids who were all in college. Bill's ego had taken a beating. As a short man, he'd learned to compensate with well cut suits, nice cars and impeccable manners. He's just what the doctor ordered.

He's my Bill.

FINANCIAL INDEPENDENCE, Sex and Lies continued...

Teaching a few adult ed. courses and selling a painting once every six months would not earn me a living wage. I had to hustle my butt and look for what my parents would call "A real job". I was spending most of my time in my new studio, but I was still technically living at home. Pete continues to think this is all temporary. Divorce was irrelevant to me. I just wanted out and to get out I had to support myself totally. There was no thought of alimony, I was the one who was leaving. I didn't hate Pete. He was a great dad, a nice guy with a drinking problem that was not going to go away. There was no intent to cause him pain, but I knew at some point the shit would hit the fan. I tried to wiggle around the truth as long as possible.

The Boston Globe had the best classifieds and I saw that The Art Institute of Boston was looking for a new Dean of Admissions. It was a reach but I figured if I could sell them on me, I could also sell the school. That's what admissions people do, they are glorified salespeople. Luckily, events in my career as an artist were playing out well at this time too which didn't hurt my position with the hiring committee. My work had been accepted in several competitive local museum exhibitions and a new arts journal, ART NEW ENGLAND had recently started publishing. My friend Lois Tarlow wrote a profile story on an artist every month who was also featured on the cover. It was decided I'd be the cover story for their third issue.

I sent in my resumé and waited. The trick was just to get in the door and then I thought there might be a chance. I made the first round of interviews and waited. I never sweated a job application so much before or since. If I didn't get this I could imagine a life of waitressing while I struggle to make it in the Art world - big time. I made the final three applicants and we each had to appear in front of the school board and the Dean of Faculty. I forget who the competition was. This was the best performance since I appeared in front of that hospital board that granted me an abortion ten years earlier.

I got hired.

FULL BODY CAST, Sex and Lies continued...

The artist/model relationship developed slowly. I asked if I could bring Erika with me that first time he wanted to use my feet as a model for a stone piece he was carving. He agreed, so late one afternoon she and I went over to his Melcher Street studio.

It would have been difficult for him to use a life model in the traditional way artists use models. Stone carving is arduous and Robin worked at irregular hours. It would have been physically excruciating for the model and expensive to hire a professional to sit or lie in a fixed position in front of him whenever he felt like working. He had a method where he would make plaster casts from the live model of the body part he wanted to use, then he would make a mold. From the mold he'd cast a plaster three dimensional version which would then serve as his model - at his beck and call - when needed.

Erika was shy but Robin was patient. He explained his process and that he wanted to make a cast, in plaster of mommies feet. I hadn't had plaster on my body since art school when we made life masks in my only sculpture class. It's tricky stuff to work with from adding just the right amount of water, making sure that any exposed hair has been liberally covered with vaseline (more than one girl accidently lost an eyebrow or eyelashes and it didn't tickle). After mom, Erika wanted to try it and Robin complied. We made a cast of her right hand and foot which I still have sitting on a coffee table in my living room today.

That first experience was perhaps a test, an experiment to see if I was open to bigger things. Our mutual sexual attraction was becoming more intense. I would visit his studio after work, we'd drink wine. There was always tension until that moment of touching and then all was lost. There was never any question, any negotiation, we both knew exactly what we wanted. Oral sex became a powerful tool for both of us. He would talk about his desire to crawl inside me to be absorbed by me and I wanted to cannibalize him, to eat his flesh, to breathe him in. It was delirium. I'd had a lot of sexual experience, but none to compare with this. It is difficult to explain, unless you've been there. He had the most beautiful penis I'd ever seen. I loved to watch it move from it's relaxed but still impressive state to full erection. I photographed him.

At some point he told me about a special piece of stone he'd ordered from a quarry that he'd used before. It was of a certain shape and size and he wanted to do a reclining nude. He rarely did full figures, more often fragments. In this case he wanted to focus on the torso. He asked if I'd model for it. I agreed, but I was oddly self conscious. In a seduction, you can wear make-up and use clothes to lure and by the time you're on the floor or in bed it's usually dark or there is candlelight and the intensity of the moment to obscure physical deficiencies. You can imagine yourself to be beautiful, especially if your lover makes you feel adored. In reality, though I played a game of confidence, I thought my unadorned body left much to be desired. Those years of my mother telling me I was either too fat or too thin or too much make-up or not enough make-up left a mark. Not to whine about it, that's just what happened.

The day we made the date to do the cast I was nervous. He told me to shave as much bodily hair as possible (to aviod pain as described above). He sensed my insecurity and made love to me so I'd relax. Then we set to work. He instructed me on how to position my body. The neon lights in his studio burned bright. No place to hide now. He began by slathering vaseline on the most tender areas, then mixed the plaster and started smoothing it on me in layers, working very quickly. I had to remain motionless. If the plaster cracked prematurely or in the wrong place it would ruin the mold. The feeling of being captive in plaster as it heated up added a new and intense sensuality to the moment. Robin was fully in charge. I wanted the cast to turn out right. It wasn't too long when he decided the plaster had set and he could free me. It was hard for me to tell if it was good or not until he made the positive 3D version. He said it looked good.

A few days later the stone had arrived from the quarry. I went to the studio. There on the floor was a body I did not recognize. It was lovely, it could not possibly be me. He assured me it was indeed me. He used this model to carve one of the most successful pieces he had ever carved in stone. I think we were both very proud of it. Ultimately it was purchased by a curator from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts to adorn the lobby of an office building in Harvard Sq.

TELLING ERIKA, Sex and Lies continued...

We stayed together for the children's sake might be my mother's explanation for her life but it wouldn't be mine. The only thing that caused me anguish was Erika. She was ten years old. She was a beautiful child, a trouble free child who had brought Pete and I great joy.

I spent many hours rationalizing my behavior so I could move on the decision I had already made. I referred to books on child care and parenting that said the first three years were crucial in forming a child, after that, not much else mattered. At the time genetics were not in the common lexicon, but I would have used that argument too. Also, I was not leaving her, I was leaving a marriage. I didn't want to shut Pete out of my life either. I wanted us to continue to have some form of relationship, I just did not want it to be marriage. Erika would have the option of moving in with me in my downtown loft. She would be enrolled in a Boston public school. In my heart I knew this would not be the greatest thing for her but we would manage. In Newton, she had her dad, a walk to school with all the friends she'd known for most of her short life and a familiar home.

I knew she sensed something was amiss. How do I tell her and what do I tell her to let her know that I love her and my leaving our home was not the same as leaving her? It was summer and she and I had taken the train to New London and the Cross Sound Ferry to visit my folks in Mattituck. Pete and I were no longer keeping up the facade for my parents, but they all were humoring me, thinking it was a phase that would pass. It was ironic that the man my parents had argued against me marrying was now the family mascot.

It was mid afternoon and Erika and I were swimming together off the family dock. Erika was in an inner tube and we were chatting. We were alone. She seemed relaxed. I began to explain that things had changed for mommy at home, that I needed more space for my art work, that soon I would be moving into my studio, but that we would see each other often, every day if she wanted, and that I loved her. Her face was solemn. She said nothing. She started spinning herself around and around and away from me in her inner tube.

DRIVEN BY DESIRE, Sex and Lies continued...

A relentless desire to be with him propelled me through my days. At 14 I'd become sexually active and had had a wide range of experiences until I married Pete. Once I was married I believed I was married and managed to be faithful and true and all that - whatever (but like Jimmy Carter said "I had lust in my heart").

Meeting Robin was like a nuclear explosion. This was sexual experience on a whole new plain. After the chance encounter at the gallery with my child, I confessed that I was still married to her father and still living at home but with plans in the works to move out soon. Robin confessed that he had a long term relationship with a woman he met in college, he never married and did not live with her, never planned to live with her, she'd had a hysterectomy so no children, and besides all that he was not sexually attracted to her, she smoked and smelled bad. Of course I believed him!!! Actually it didn't matter who he had or didn't have. As long as he was not a dad with kids - everything is up for grabs.

We find excuses to meet during the day. I have fantasies of walking along a downtown street with him and ducking into an alcove and unzipping his pants and holding his beautiful penis in my hands. A women knows when a guy likes her. It's when she touches him and he's ready, she looks at him and he's ready. The other woman did not seem to be a priority. I'd sneak out of my house to the pay phone on the corner to call him. He'd always be there. When it came to making plans to be together I had the impression he accommodated me. So while there was another woman, I never felt emotionally threatened.

There was plenty of risky behavior. This was 1980 and AIDS was nowhere on the horizon. All the STD's were treatable. He and I never discussed it, never used protection. I was still young enough (35) to get pregnant and if I did, I would have had his baby. That's how the feeling was.

One night I was on my way to a gala event at the Institute of Contemporary Art. I was the token artist elected to serve on their Board of Directors with the hoypaloy of the Boston art scene. It was very easy to take a short detour to visit Robin. I had on a wine colored silk dress, very floaty. In his studio on Melcher Street, we had a wonderful time. At some point we had to stop, I was expected at this event. I put on my clothes and Robin offered to walk me up to South Station where I had to catch the subway. The evening was warm and velvety. We are walking across the Fort Point Channel bridge. I start to feel the warm, sticky ooze of his semen pouring out of me. I look down at my silk dress as it blows between my legs and a huge dark stain starts to form. 'Oh, my God, Robin, what can I do with this?" We are both laughing and he takes my hand. We dash into the bathroom at South Station. He comes in with me and helps me rinse my dress in the sink. We try drying it under the hand dryer, but I am getting later by the minute. i put it back on and make a dash for the train. By the time I get to the ICA I'm almost completely dry. I walk in like nothing happened.

MEETING THE FAMILY, Sex and Lies continued...

On that first night I neglected to tell him I was married. In my head I was no longer married but tell that to the judge. The next day I took Erika to work with me. The Gallery was between exhibitions, so the entire space was empty before the next bunch of artists came in to hang their work. I let Erika (who had recently turned 10) bring her new puppy, a black Peekapoo named Walter. I'd recently bought her this dog (she picked him out) as a kind of offering. I knew that soon her life would be shaken, that I would be responsible for that and I was trying to provide her with things that would help her deal with the emotional upheaval I knew was to come.

Renee and I were working on the plans for an up coming grant deadline. Erika was running around the gallery space like a little maniac with Walter yapping merrily along at her heels. She seemed ecstatic. So much space and no one yelling to be quiet. It soothed me to see her in this moment of abandon.

Suddenly, I hear the voice that makes me melt. I look up to see Robin sauntering in. He just "dropped by" to say hello. My jaw drops, he sees the chaos of my kid and her dog running around the gallery. The child did not look anything like Renee, so who was left. The awkwardness of this moment still pains me. Erika senses something is amiss and runs over to hug me. Robin laughs, "so who is this?" I introduce them. "Robin is mommies new friend."

OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE, Sex and Lies continued...

Guilt was a new feeling for me and I didn't like it. I snuck into the house that first night and Pete was already in bed. My 10 year old daughter was asleep in her room. I shower and slink into bed with Pete. In this moment I know I have betrayed our marriage in a way that is irretrievable. Pete knows I am moving into this art studio at Fort Point. He thinks it is momentary insanity inspired by my "arty farty friends". He always said I was too easily influenced. He believes it is temporary and as soon as I regain my sanity I will move back home where I belong.

He forgets that I had displays of what some people would call insanity much earlier in our marriage. I'll never forget the time when Erika was about 5 years old. Pete and I were working together at the M.I.T.summer day camp. It was a camp for M.I.T. faculty kids from 6 to 14 (Erika got in because her dad was the Director and her mom ran the arts and crafts program.) That summer I began having what I could only call frequent "out of body" experiences. I did not do drugs and I was not into any spirituality/guru or whatever sort of stuff. I could feel myself, my real self, looking down at me in my life going about my business, but it wasn't me. The real me was the observer. It scared the shit out of me. One day I formally asked Pete to have lunch with me in the student center. This was an unusual event because he and I had so many kids to deal with during the day, we never took time for lunch, let alone with each other in an adult arena. We got our lunch trays in the cafeteria. I looked for a table where we could talk privately. I tried to tell him how afraid I was of this feeling, this sensation I was having. The fly on the wall looking down at myself. I cried. He listened to me. He cared about me so I know he tried to understand. But, he didn't. "You'll be O.K. honey" he said. "You have paralysis of the analysis." I never mentioned it again.

KNOWING WHEN IT'S OVER, Sex and Lies continued...

The thought of someone wanting to use my feet as a model for a piece of sculpture takes me aback. I'd never thought of my feet as being particularly attractive. I'm suddenly self conscious. "Do you think they're good enough?" I ask, slightly incredulous. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't think they would work" he says. He explains he is trying to finish a figure, a stone carving he started in New Mexico, but the feet were giving him trouble, he needed a reference.

I'm intrigued and asked how do we proceed? The space we were standing in was only temporary. He'd already found a permanent studio down on Melcher Street, just three blocks from where I was constructing my new space on "A" Street in Fort Point. I felt my blood rising. He'll be moving in within the next few days. His space is also not zoned as a legal live/work space but he'll be living there anyway as the landlord looks the other way. His main concern was the structure of the building as the floors in his studio had to carry a lot of weight. Near life-size pieces of limestone and granite have to be taken seriously. So far I'd only seen the plaster relief he was working when I walked in. My curiosity is killing me. I've never known a stone carver before, and certainly not one who works from life. He seemed like an anachronism. We were living in a time when abstract expressionism was dead and minimalism was king. I forced myself to try some minimalist drawings in grad school and it seemed so fake, so not what I loved to do, which was draw the human figure. It was the source of what ever power my work had - so regardless of the trends, I stuck with the figure. Evidently Robin had made the same decision. We were kindred spirits in that regard.

"How do we proceed?". He suggests I come meet him at his apartment later on that evening and we can make a plan. He warns me that it is just a temporary crash pad that a friend is letting him use while she is out of town. The "she" part made me sweat. Who is this "she" I wonder but don't ask. I agree to meet him there for a drink after work.

The rest of the day is a fog. I remember entering the building on Newbury street. The apartment number he gave me is a few flights up. I'm worried he won't be there. I'm also worried that he will be there. I knock. The door opens immediately. It is him. The apartment is very dark, sparsely furnished. He has some candles burning. Awkwardness. I've never felt so awkward in my life. My body was getting in my way. He offers me a drink. Wine is sure to help the situation. He disappears and soon returns with two glasses and a bottle. He's prepared. That pleases me. I ask him about his work, I want to see more. He tells me he came to art later in life. He'd been in the navy, done a tour of Vietnam. He's about 5 or 6 years older than me. He bummed around, searching for himself, did a few years in the forestry service - living alone in the woods for long periods of time. He also did a stretch working in the Lawrence Livermore Radiation Labs in California. He made many attemps to finish college and get a graduate degree. Nothing worked until he stumbled into art. The physicality of stone carving and I suspected the release of agression that occured in that act was a perfect fit for him. He had photos. I was eager to see them. He went and got two albums. We sat on the sofa together and page by page he showed me his life's work. Complete from his days on a submarine when he was the guy who painted figures, just cartoony things, below decks. This was before he went to art school. The rest of the work blew my mind. It was so beautiful. Female figures in various stages of dress or undress, but often where the clothing was a chance to seductively hint at the body underneath, besides reveal a spectacular skill at his craft.

I was so excited. What a talent. I could not contain my enthusiasm. He had his arm behind me and then his mouth was on my mouth. He was devouring me. I felt I was being sucked up, enveloped, eaten alive. We were suddenly standing. I felt his hands all over my body. My skirt was at my hips. He backed me against a wall and he was inside me. I felt electrocuted. I'd never had sex standing up. I was flying. I slowly descended. When I left for home later that evening, I knew my marriage was over.

Can I help you?, Sex and Lies continues... Tuesday, June 17, 2003

He's a sculptor. Tanned and just returned to Boston from a residency in Roswell New Mexico. He's looking for studio space. His name is Robin. I am blinded by him. The moth drawn to a flame now has meaning.

It's part of my job to help artists find suitable work space. "Can I help you?" I ask. We both know in that moment exactly what I mean. The rest is a dance.

He needs some temporary space immediately while he looks for something more permanent. I happen to know about an available loft in a building close to the gallery, I give him the contact information, we chat for a bit, then he leaves. Renee is looking at me shaking her head. I'm flushed, I giggle, "he is beautiful".

The next day, he returns to thank me. The space will work for him. He is using it as a working studio while living in a temporary apartment on Newbury Street till he finds a live/work loft big enough to accomodate his stone carving. He lets me know that he will be in his new place working and he'd be happy to show me some things, if I feel like stopping in.

I have never in my life gone looking for a man, gone to his place to search him out, to see him, to know him. That day I went to find him. His studio is flooded with sunlight. His back is to me as he seems to be working on a plaster relief. It is a contemporary version of "The Three Graces". It is simultaneously classical and of our time. I'm impressed. I'm standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. He slowly backs up a step. My breasts just graze his back. I am acutely aware of every cell and pore in my body. He keeps gently pressing backward. I think I may die. The spell is suddenly broken. He turns to face me. He looks down at my feet, they are bare in sandals. "I need a model for feet for a piece I'm working on. Are you available?"

HERE COMES TROUBLE, Sex and Lies continued...

I have sexual amnesia when I try to remember those most intimate moments with Pete. Sex had lured him to me but my attraction to him was a more conscious, calculated thing. Once, after we had been married about six years I suggested we consider having other sexual relationships within the context of our marriage. Marge and Dave were an extremely attractive couple with a little girl about Erika's age. They were close friends. I always felt an underlying sexual tension when we were all together and I guess I had them in mind when I made this suggestion. Pete fumed. He nearly popped a gasket. It's the last time this idea is brought up.

Construction on my Fort Point studio continues. I'm also working part-time as a gallery director in the BVAU gallery on Washington St in Boston's North End. The organization moved there when we lost our luxury digs in Government Center. It was a great job for me. Flexible hours, I shared the position with my good friend Renee. She and I each had a desk facing the gallery entrance so we could see everyone who came in. Somedays we would be there together planning exhibitions, meeting other artists, writing the grants that helped to keep the whole operation afloat. My lawyer friend Frank was still very active with the group. He donated tons of time and expertise to our cause which was artists rights. He was also looking to date some cute gals.

One warm, sunny afternoon Renee and I are both sitting at our desks. There is a bulletin board by the main entrance where we post notices of available loft space, exhibition opportunities, jobs, etc. I tended to be the more gregarious so the job of greeting visitors and trying to get new members for the organization generally fell to me. On this day in 1980, I glance towards the door. The most adorable looking man I have ever seen is standing there scanning the bulletin board. He glances my way. I am mesmerized. I rise from my desk like I'm levitating. Renee stares at me and mumbles, "Uh-oh, here comes trouble".

FINDING THE EXIT, Sex and Lies continued... Monday, June 16, 2003

This marriage will suffocate me. Now the lying begins in earnest. I open a separate bank account in my name. We'd always had a joint account. Neither of us had much concern about money perse, just as long as we could meet basic needs and feed ourselves seemed to be enough. We never fought about money. After that scene several years ago when I made a last ditch effort to get him to quit drinking, we never fought at all, about anything. I was just happy that he seemed happy and left me alone to pursue my work.

I start depositing all my pay checks in my account. I tell Pete that I have to find a new studio, the garage is just not big enough, the paintings are forcing me out. He understands. At a BVAU (Boston Visual Artists Union) meeting I connect with 5 other artists who have found some studio space at Fort Point. This is an industrial area in Boston that has a lot of vacant manufacturing space built around the turn of the century. It was like no-man's-land in the late 1970's and early '80's and the original owners, The Boston Wharf Company, were renting whole floors to artists. Thousands of feet of space with high ceilings and huge windows overlooking the channel to Boston Harbor were being rented for a song. Of course they were just shells with no insulation, some heat or too much heat, freight elevators and that's about it. They invited me to come see the space, they needed one more person in on the deal to make it work. It was an entire floor on the fifth floor at 215 "A" street. This is right near where Boston's "Big Dig" is today. I had never ridden in a freight elevator before. It clanked and groaned as the ropes and pulleys hauled us up. It was a little scary. I step out into the space. It is so huge, so open, so empty it takes my breath away. This is unchartered territory. I can begin something new right here. I sign on.

We figure we can divide the space into 6 studios, but we will have to build the walls ourselves. Any improvements on the individual spaces will have to be done by the occupant. Plumbing is a problem. I didn't know a thing about this stuff, I had to trust my partners, all guys, two worked in construction. We only have plumbing and bathroom facilities at one end of the space. Not my end. Turns out, to extend plumbing and have running water in all the spaces was way beyond our means. We would all have to share one big industrial sized sink, one bathtub with a jury-rigged shower and two toilets, all for 6 people, their partners, lovers and friends. Now these spaces were not zoned as "live-work" spaces, but almost everybody lived in their studios and Boston Wharf company closed their eyes and collected the rents. We started building the walls right after signing the lease. I would be working there late in the evenings. Pete knew we were doing the work ourselves. He had no idea I planned to move in as soon as it was finished.

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE, Sex and Lies continued... Sunday, June 15, 2003

Work on the Dream House was over. Not that it was finished. We just stopped the improvements. It was livable. I spent much of my time painting in the garage/studio behind the house. I'm a physical painter. I didn't do "over the sofa" sized paintings. I liked to use my whole body, make big gestures when I worked. Since meeting Pete, sports themes were a focus. Confrontation describes how I felt every time I looked at a blank canvas. I had to make the figures lifesize to really get into the bodies. Painting for me was like sex. When it was best you'd be in the zone and be driven by the pure energy of the whole thing, surprising yourself with discoveries, and then collapse, exhausted, at the end. And, like sex sometimes does, that energy is transformed, it becomes a being with a life of its own.

My work was going well. It had been selected for exhibition in some major local competitions at the Danforth Museum and the Brocton Museum. A dealer with a gallery on Cape Cod wanted to add me to his roster. A dealer in New York contacted me. He had read a review and wanted to know if I could bring some paintings down for a new gallery he was opening on 57th street focusing on sports themes. I was a young unknown, he was willing to give me a chance, but would not pay for shipping the work to the gallery. So one Saturday morning, Pete and I loaded half a dozen of my monster sized paintings in the van. They barely fit, we had to leave the rear doors open but tied with rope. Off to New York. Man, was I excited. It's every artists dream to make it in NY. We get to 57th street and can't find a place to park. Pete drives around the block several times while I run up to the gallery (it's on the second floor) to see what they want me to do. The dealer runs out and manages to hold a parking space across the street, Pete pulls in and he and I start to unload. It was a great scene. Pete was pulling the paintings out, I had to prop them up against the building behind us. Passersby started looking and talking about the work. Wow! my first show in NY and I'm not even in a gallery. But they ignored me, went over to Pete and started complimenting him on his paintings. He seemed bewildered. I had to laugh. I was pleased. So they thought my work was good enough to have been done by a man.

Pete would help me when I called on him, but he had no idea what I was doing. We never talked about art. He just wanted to see me happy. Sometimes he would get a little resentful and refer to my "arty - farty friends". My activism with the Boston Visual Artists Union was continuing. We union members decided we needed our own gallery and started fundraising. We got a georgous space in Government Center donated by a major Boston realestate mogul. We did seminars for artists on copyright law, how to negotiate dealer contracts, and we campaigned against entry fees for competitions. Artists should not have to pay to get their work considered. It's tough enough, few artists make any money at all from their work. We managed to get entry fees banned in Boston. It was an exhilarating time to be an artist.

In one of our increasingly rare weekends at home together, Pete and I were sitting on the porch. He was sitting comfortably in a rocker with a beer in his hand. The kids were riding their bikes. He's musing, "this is heaven. I want to stay here forever and have our grand kids here." The lights go out in my brain. I know in that moment I can't do it. This is not the end for me. It is only the beginning.

GOING HUNTING, Sex and Lies continued... Saturday, June 14, 2003

We were driving from Boston to New Jersey. Pete had the rifle in the back of the van. It was Thanksgiving and deer season in Jersey. At the time, my folks lived on the side of a gravel road in Mine Hill. There was a dense wooded area behind the house.

My dad never went hunting as far as I know, but when he met Pete his testosterone level seemed to rise. He became interested in hunting equipment. He bought these professional hunting bows and a big target on a tripod that he set up where the yard met the woods. The bows seemed huge to me. It took incredible strength to pull the string back far enough to send the arrow into the target. My younger brother and I humored my dad and gave it a try. It seemed pointless to me. My brother was no athlete. I can't remember if he managed to hit the target, but I certainly couldn't. Mom didn't venture out of the house. She was safely ensconced in the kitchen with the turkey.

As in most things athletic, Pete wowed the family with his ability to get a bull's-eye nearly every time. Even after a few beers, his aim stayed true. After dinner, it was still light enough out to go hunting. It was doe season. I think they had gotten a special license that only permitted hunting doe for a few days. Pete got out the rifle and wanted me to come with him. Everyone else stayed home.

We walk into the woods behind the house. Pete gives me a lesson in hunting. The idea repulses me but my curiosity is peaked. He trys to teach me how to walk without making noise. Then there is the gun. He wants me to shoot it. I've never even held a gun before in my life. I don't want to but he says I should learn how to use it so I won't be afraid. It's heavy. I have trouble raising it to my shoulder. He shows me how to aim and tells me about recoil. I'm pretty nervous. He helps hold up the barrel while I aim at a tree. Pull the trigger he says. Pow! my ears are ringing and the shock to my shoulder almosts knocks me down, but I didn't fall. O.K., that's it, i did it once and don't want to again.

He still wants me to tag along. It was a beautiful late fall afternoon and the woods seemed so benign. We are walking very slowly. Pete's got the gun at his side. I almost forgot what we were there for. The low setting sun sent deep shadows acoss the leaf covered ground. Pete stops stock-still. So do I. I look to my left and see a deer staring right at us about 50 feet away. The deer looks like a statue, frozen in place. It is a doe. At this distance it is a sure shot for Pete. I am standing to his left. He slowly raises his rifle to his left shoulder and takes aim. My heart is pounding. My arm flies up and pushes the gun straight into the air. It goes off, the deer turns and disappears. Pete never takes me hunting again.

MOTHERLOAD, my last post was a bummer... Friday, June 13, 2003

Writing about my mother was worse than living with her. How to say something about that relationship that has some truth, some balance, without having ulterior motives.

I do not love her. To try to tell why is a snake pit of twisted experience and convoluted thoughts.

Feelings of hatred would often cloud my vision, but that's a weakness on my part. Get OVER it!! She is just an old lady now and she tried and she's YOUR MOTHER for Christ sake!!!!

I left for work feeling satisfied with the mornings post. My live-in chief critic usually reads what I write when he gets up. I later ask him what he thought. Silence. A bad sign. He knows me like no other ever knew me. He knows all the people I've written about. He's been the target of my mother's wrath. He points out that I have made certain assumptions that may not at all be true. He questions me on the source of her fear. He says it was my father, her husband that she was afraid of. This is not true I insist. I am agitated and angry that he challenges MY VIEW OF MY MOTHER!!

This exercise has exhausted me. Writing usually leaves me energized. I have no distance from this relationship. Perhaps I never will. But it will plague me until I can get it right.

MOTHERLOAD, Sex and Lies continued...

My mother was a fearful woman. I think what made her most afraid was me. She told me when I was a tot I'd throw tantrums. I'd lay down in the street and kick and scream at the top of my lungs. She would walk away and pretend she didn't know me.

Control was the way my mother dealt with fear. As long as you controlled how things looked - then it didn't matter how things were.

I was a thumb-sucker. This caused my mother great embarrassment. She tried an endless number of "cures" to get me to stop. Even the foul smelling goop she would smear on it would not deter me. She watched me like a hawk at family events to make sure I wasn't sucking the offending member. I'd always try to sit next to my gramp on the sofa. He would sit a little forward and let me slide behind his back to sneak a quick suck. I was forever grateful.

By the age of five I was in kindergarten. We lived about a mile from Grove Street School in Montclair NJ. It seemed like 100 miles to me. There were many obstacles to overcome, not the least of which was the loosely knit gang of teenagers who hung out by the corner store. I'd have to pass by them every morning. My mother walked me to school the first few days. It was a scary new world out there. The main street was heavily trafficked. Those kids on the corner were always smoking and jeering. Just getting near to the spot where I knew they'd be and my heart would palpitate. I needed to hold my moms hand. After the first week my mom felt enough was enough. I knew the way. It was time I walked to school by myself. Monday morning panic. I begged, I pleaded with her to walk me, just one more time, please, please, please, oh please!!!!!!!!! I grabbed her and would not let go. She was kind of laughing but weird laughing. It scared me even more. She pushed and shoved and maneuvered me to the living room, shoved me out the front door, slammed and locked it. I stood on the porch alone. I thought I was going to die. I went around and banged on the windows to get my mother to come. Not a sound from inside. At the same time I knew I had to get to school. It was bad to be late. I turned and started to run. If I ran to school fast enough, nothing could get me. No harm - if I only ran fast enough. It must've been in that moment that I overcame the greatest fear, abandonment. I had been abandoned (more existentially than actually) and survived. Perhaps my mother had been too well loved. No one ever put her to the test, challenged her. She had no resistance. She never learned to overcome her fear.

BOYS AND THEIR TOYS, Sex and Lies continued... Thursday, June 12, 2003

My Dad always satisfied his desires. No matter what the families financial situation was he always managed to buy himself a new car every two or three years. Mom and I would never know when he would pull in the drive with the next best thing. I used to wonder about the money. It was a forbidden topic. Once when I was a little kid I over heard my parents mention my dad's salary. I thought it was something to brag about so I went and told all my little neighborhood friends. It got back to my parents and they beat the crap (as dad would say) out of me. We never talked about money. They are now almost 80 and I have no idea what their assets are.

Dad was a Cadillac kind of guy. Boats were also a big thing with him. We always had one. It started when I was little and he got a 14 footer that was fast enough to pull a skier. Soon after that came the bigger boats with the inboard motors. We kept them at the Jersey shore but would take them down the East River out to Long Island Sound for the summer. Dad docked at Mattituck, a short drive from Orient Point. It was the North Fork of Long Island. Now it is all vineyards, and stables for the horsey set. Then it was all potato farms.

My dad taught me navigation, how to read the maps of the New York and Jersey coastline. Not that he needed me to navigate. We always had motor, not sail boats and they had all the sonar and depth reading equipment a captain would need. My dad loved driving the boats and the cars. He loved the equipment. My mother often declined to go boating so my dad would take me. So there we'd be, tooling down the East River with the majestic City of New York on either side of us and the huge tankers and luxury liners making us feel like a floating pea. Once, when we were at our summer house, dad wanted to take the boat out. He had been drinking. There were gale wind warnings off Mattituck. My mother refused to go but he goaded me into coming with him. I think I did it to show my mother up, to curry favor with my dad. I was about 9 or 10. The boat at that time was a 23 foot skiff with a flying bridge. Not a big boat. The harbor was gray and ominous but looked flat. My dad is energized, eager to get going. He assures me everything is fine and if it gets bad we'll just turn back. We head out of the harbor. As we get just beyond the jetty, the sea starts to churn and we get caught in a cascade of huge swells that threaten to swamp the boat. Walls of water rear up on either side. I think I'm going to die. I am frozen with fear, terrified. My dad is manic, I'd say, ecstatic. He's up on the bridge. I'm laying face down on the rear deck holding on so the waves don't wash me overboard. He can't turn the boat around in this, he has to keep heading out to sea. That's all I can remember. The rest is a blank. Obviously we survived.

Later came the REALLY big boats with the sleeping cabins, bath and shower, galley with a stove and fridge, sofa and TV in the lounge area and covered flying bridge with leather padded seats. Just like with our houses, my mom got to select the decor, the pattern of the curtains and color of the canvas seats. When I was a kid, dad always named the boats after me, The Cindy I, The Cindy II, etc.(That's what they called me. Cynthia was used only when I was being bad.) When I married Pete and Erika came along the boats were named Erika Lee I, Erika Lee II, and so on. Boating in the summer became the focus of our social life. I loved being out on the water all day in this floating ball of luxury. I felt guilty about it having spent most of my life rejecting everything my parents stood for. Pete had no such problems. He loved to fish and sail and drink. My Dad loved to take Pete fishing although the big boats were really for partying, not fishing. Dad and Pete bonded. I think Dad loved him. Thats why they rejected me when I left him.

Thursday, June 12, 2003
BOYS AND THEIR TOYS, Sex and Lies continued... Thursday, June 12, 2003

My Dad always satisfied his desires. No matter what the families financial situation was he always managed to buy himself a new car every two or three years. Mom and I would never know when he would pull in the drive with the next best thing. I used to wonder about the money. It was a forbidden topic. Once when I was a little kid I over heard my parents mention my dad's salary. I thought it was something to brag about so I went and told all my little neighborhood friends. It got back to my parents and they beat the crap (as dad would say) out of me. We never talked about money. They are now almost 80 and I have no idea what their assets are.

Dad was a Cadillac kind of guy. Boats were also a big thing with him. We always had one. It started when I was little and he got a 14 footer that was fast enough to pull a skier. Soon after that came the bigger boats with the inboard motors. We kept them at the Jersey shore but would take them down the East River out to Long Island Sound for the summer. Dad docked at Mattituck, a short drive from Orient Point. It was the North Fork of Long Island. Now it is all vineyards, and stables for the horsey set. Then it was all potato farms.

My dad taught me navigation, how to read the maps of the New York and Jersey coastline. Not that he needed me to navigate. We always had motor, not sail boats and they had all the sonar and depth reading equipment a captain would need. My dad loved driving the boats and the cars. He loved the equipment. My mother often declined to go boating so my dad would take me. So there we'd be, tooling down the East River with the majestic City of New York on either side of us and the huge tankers and luxury liners making us feel like a floating pea. Once, when we were at our summer house, dad wanted to take the boat out. He had been drinking. There were gale wind warnings off Mattituck. My mother refused to go but he goaded me into coming with him. I think I did it to show my mother up, to curry favor with my dad. I was about 9 or 10. The boat at that time was a 23 foot skiff with a flying bridge. Not a big boat. The harbor was gray and ominous but looked flat. My dad is energized, eager to get going. He assures me everything is fine and if it gets bad we'll just turn back. We head out of the harbor. As we get just beyond the jetty, the sea starts to churn and we get caught in a cascade of huge swells that threaten to swamp the boat. Walls of water rear up on either side. I think I'm going to die. I am frozen with fear, terrified. My dad is manic, I'd say, ecstatic. He's up on the bridge. I'm laying face down on the rear deck holding on so the waves don't wash me overboard. He can't turn the boat around in this, he has to keep heading out to sea. That's all I can remember. The rest is a blank. Obviously we survived.

Later came the REALLY big boats with the sleeping cabins, bath and shower, galley with a stove and fridge, sofa and TV in the lounge area and covered flying bridge with leather padded seats. Just like with our houses, my mom got to select the decor, the pattern of the curtains and color of the canvas seats. When I was a kid, dad always named the boats after me, The Cindy I, The Cindy II, etc.(That's what they called me. Cynthia was used only when I was being bad.) When I married Pete and Erika came along the boats were named Erika Lee I, Erika Lee II, and so on. Boating in the summer became the focus of our social life. I loved being out on the water all day in this floating ball of luxury. I felt guilty about it having spent most of my life rejecting everything my parents stood for. Pete had no such problems. He loved to fish and sail and drink. My Dad loved to take Pete fishing although the big boats were really for partying, not fishing. Dad and Pete bonded. I think Dad loved him. Thats why they rejected me when I left him.

STUCK ON THE STAIRCASE, Sex and Lies continued... Wednesday, June 11, 2003

The dream house needed work. It's like getting to know a new lover. In the first 5 seconds of the encounter there is the zap that tells you whether or not this is worth pursuing. If the feelings are consumated, then the real work of building something begins.

We invested everything we had in that house. Before moving in Pete and I painted over the rainbow walls (all 9 rooms), sanded all the floors (I'll never forget the part where we used this tacky cloth and on our hands and knees wiped up every speck of dust before we polyurethaned)and wallpapered the bedrooms. Erika picked pink flowers with a ribbon border. I have a vivid memory of us all in her room while Pete teeters on a ladder pasting this wallpaper border where the ceiling meets the wall.

The house had everything that all the houses of my childhood didn't. There were 3 porches with curved overhangs and carved wooden railings. There were working fireplaces with mantels and big bay windows that filtered in light from every direction. Perhaps the most unique feature was the circular staircase to the bedrooms on the second floor. It also had a slate roof that leaked. We tried everything we could to save it and finally gave up. It was like a death in the family the day the roofers came and pulled off all that 100 year old slate and replaced it with asphalt shingle.

At some point we actually just started living in the house. Much of the work had been done and the rest never got done. The first spring we were there we had a big party in the yard for Erika's seventh birthday. We strung balloons everywhere. Pete loved being the ringmaster at the kid's parties. He strung up some contraption with a waterbag on Erika's swing set. He sat under it with a beer in his hand while the kids tried to pull the string that would dump all the water on his head. The kids thought it was hysterical. I felt sad.

We were like a strange tribe in our upper class neighborhood. That fall Pete went hunting and bagged a deer, a big deer. He brought it home on the roof of the van and hung it from a limb on the tree in our side yard. It had been gutted and it had to hang for a day or two to let the blood drain before he had it butchered. We ate everything he shot or trapped or caught on a fishing line (except shark). At the time I didn't think about it but the neighbors must've hated us. Erika had guinea pigs and a rabbit, a gorgeous rabbit that lived in a hutch Pete built behind the garage. Pete also brought Erika a small lamb that she kept for a while as a pet. That fall she dressed up as Little Bo Peep and went trick or treeting, door to door, with her dad and her sheep.

Winter came down on us that year and it was tough keeping the house warm. Heating bills were astronomical. The kids were always cold. Then the blizzard of '78 struck. The city came to a halt. I was just trying to keep up with the housework, the laundry, the cooking, the dirt. There is a stark moment. I have a basket of clothes in my hands. I'm standing in the middle of the staircase. I have forgotten if I was going up - or - down.

DREAM HOUSE, Sex and Lies continued... Tuesday, June 10, 2003

My family moved frequently and I never knew why. It would always go something like this. Dad would find a plot of land somewhere in northern New Jersey. Once he found the spot, he'd take us to see it. Not that we had any say in the process. Then he would pick some stock house plan - not a prefab - just some standard plan, in one case it was a flat, 3 bedroom ranch plunked on a half acre of swampy ground. Mom never protested. Dad let her have her say by deciding what colors the rooms should be painted and the style of knobs on the kitchen cabinets.

There was never any family discussion that I can remember about moving. It was my father's choice. It was a mystery. It's not that his company relocated him and we had to move. He had bought-out his boss long ago, owned the company and it was permanently ensconced in an industrial park in East Brunswick NJ.

These houses that we lived in were always brand new and devoid of character. Rectangular boxes with a roof. There was never any evidence that real people lived in them either. Order and cleanliness reigned supreme. Maybe we moved when Dad felt the house got too dirty. Or maybe it had something to do with his affairs which none of us were aware of at the time.

The only house that ever felt like a "home" to me was my Grams house on 198th Street in Queens NY. I was born in that house. It had been built in the late 1800's, had a staircase, an attic, a sun porch, a kitchen with a breakfast nook and a magical garden that had an ornamental fish pool where my grampa kept Koi.

In 1976 Pete got an offer to coach at Tufts University. He had been at M.I.T. for 16 years, long enough to pull a big chunk (for 1976) of money out of his pension fund ($30,000) plus get a monthly payment. He decided to make the switch. We were still living in a dreary rented apartment in Newton. We had talked about moving but I knew I'd have to act soon or the money would get peed down the toilet like so many cases of beer.

Pete was away on a long weekend. He and some buddies chartered a small plane to fly up to Canada to do some salmon fishing. It was a georgous, golden late September day. Erika and I were out on our bikes, just crusing around town when we saw this house on a corner with a For Sale sign out front. It had a mansard roof with bay windows and cornices and porches, front back and side porches. It had a garage that would make a perfect studio. It was my dream house. Erika was sold when I told her she could have pets if we lived there. We peddled home like speed demons, I called the agent and made arrangements to go back immediately and see the inside. Some hippy types had painted the walls with rainbows, but other than that it was in pretty good shape. It had a curved Bulfinch style staircase and partially renovated kitchen and baths. There were two working fireplaces. Price was $60,000. "Sold" I told the agent on the spot. I wrote a check from our joint account as a binder. I figured no problem getting a mortgage.

Later that weekend I hear the van pull in the driveway. I run outside and before Pete gets out of the van I hop in and tell him to drive. He's a little surprised but doesn't balk. The house is only 10 minutes from where we live. It is still light out, the sun was low and bouncing off the bay windows as it set. I tell Pete to stop in front of the house. "Do you like it?" I ask. "Yeah" he says. "It's ours, we bought it." "Fine by me" he says. And that was that

ART IN THE TOILET, Sex and Lies continued... Monday, June 09, 2003

Before marrying Pete, during my undergrad years in Art school, I worked as a waitress at the M.I.T. Faculty Club. It was on the top floor of the Sloan School of Business. I enjoyed waitressing. Especially in the rarified air of that dining room. Lots of Nobel Prize winners, scientists and engineers working on the first space schuttle and lots of young entrepreneurs.

I'd mastered the art of flirting at an early age and in waitressing, that's the name of the game if you want to earn any money at all. A group of recent Sloan school grads used to meet regularly at the faculty club, for lunch or happy hour. They'd always ask for me. Among them was a funny little guy with a beard. He reminded me of Toulouse Lautrec. His name was Frank. He had a law degree from Harvard and a business degree from Sloan. He was one of the smartest men I'd ever met, and he had a dry sense of humor that I liked. After my shift was over, they'd always invite me to join them. Sometimes we'd go out partying as a group. Sometimes Frank would maneuver to get me in his car alone. He'd often try to kiss me. Problem was there was no chemistry. I'd gently reject his advances. We became good "friends".

We stayed in contact after I met Pete. I confided in him. He knew I'd been spending a lot of time painting and he told me about a new artists activist organization, the Boston Visual Artists Union (BVAU) that he thought I should join. They met regularly in a classroom at M.I.T.. One night Frank picked me up from our apartment. (This was after the shark incident.)Pete knew where we were going.

We get to the meeting, a room full of artists, animated, loosly organized, intensely discussing the future of the organization. The energy in the room filled my battered soul. This is it. This is my lifeline.

The discussion centers on the Museum of Fine Arts. A revered Boston institution with an amazing collection of Impressionists, but almost no contemporary art to speak of, no curator of contemporary art and not a single living Boston artist in it's entire collection. We decide radical tactics are necessary. We had tried meeting with Museum officials to voice our concerns. They were not moved. They gave us the usual bureaucratic yada, yada, yada...

We plan a guerrilla attack. We plan an unauthorized exhibition at the museum to be held in the basement bathrooms. We set a date. Selected artists are to enter the museum with small works that they can carry under their coats. The works are then hung on the walls in the bathrooms. We have a large mailing list of wealthy Boston collectors who have an interest in the avant garde and who are disappointed that the museum has blinders on when it comes to homegrown talent. We plan an Opening Night Event. When the elegantly dressed patrons start entering the museum and stream down to the bathrooms, the guards are in shock. The press has been alerted and there is commotion, and great energy. Everyone knows they are part of some groundbreaking event. The museum administration has been caught totally off-guard

The next day, headlines in all the Boston papers. You can imagine the trashing that the museum got for relegating living artists to the toilet. Soon after museum appointed their first ever "Curator of Contemporary Art". Today, many living, Boston artists grace the walls of the museum.

JUMPING THE SHARK, Sex and Lies continued... Sunday, June 08, 2003

Pete was an Olympian but he never really competed, he was a natural. He had the body of a runner and could turn the speed on and off. He would win at tennis and squash without working up a sweat and looked good while doing it. He was loose. He always had a beer in his hand.

We left our M.I.T. Eastgate apartment when Erika was 3. School was looming in her future so we moved to Newton, a city with a reputation for great schools. We had a ground floor apartment in a two family. There was a yard, a driveway on the side and garage in the back. It had three bedrooms. Unbeknownst to the landlord, I turned one into a studio.

Erika was enrolled in nursery school. I had more time to paint. Pete had more time to go fishing on the weekends with his buddies. They were all heavy drinkers. We socialized with them as couples and the wives drank too. The guys all worked in sports, coaches for the most part. Pete was the only one among them who had achieved world class status as an athlete. One of his close friends had lost a teenage son in a drunk driving incident. That seemed to plunge the family deeper into an alcoholic haze. I hated to visit them. Their home was falling apart. They were bathed in despair.

It was hot on a late August Saturday afternoon. I hear the van pull in. Pete had been deep sea fishing off Scituate. There is a commotion in the driveway. There is a small group of neighborhood kids standing around a large gray mass lying on the hot, black asphalt. Pete is laughing. I go out to take a peek. It's a 6 foot shark. I can't believe he hauled it home in the back of the van. The van was just a metal shell inside, no air conditioning. In summer it was like an oven. The smell was not good. I was incredulous. "Why did you do this? We're not going to eat it. Why did you bring this thing home?". Pete was not totally clear about the point of this. Something about showing the kids. He tells me he's going to gut it. This is insane. I go back to the cool quiet of my studio.

Not long after I hear screams. Kids are scattering - I see Erika's babysitter dash across the street to home. The shark is now a gaping putrid, foul mass of guts and stench all over the driveway. The smell assaults me. I run back to the house to get a cloth to put over my mouth and nose - I can hardly breathe. Pete is nowhere to be seen, then, I hear him. Sounds like he is puking his guts out behind the garage.

He spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the mess. I don't know how he did it. I was not a witness. Late that evening, he comes in, takes a shower, dresses in a clean, pressed shirt and slacks. We bag his fishing clothes and throw them out. He seems to think the whole thing was pretty funny. I think it was grotesque. I try talking to him about his motivation to do something like that. He has a beer in his hand. How many has he had today? Who counts? We can't seem to carry on a conversation. To an outsider, he looks fine, clean, stands up straight, no stumblebum he. But I can't hold a conversation with him. He can't seem to respond rationally. The room is dark. We have not turned on the lights. I'm petrified. I beg him to stop drinking. I kiss him, I hug him, I plead with him to stop. He laughs, says there's no problem. I'm on my knees clutching his legs, sobbing, begging, please, please, please stop drinking. I snap. I attack him. I beat on him with all my might, everything I have. He does not resist. I take the ends of his shirt in my hands and rip it apart, the buttons go flying. He grabs me and holds me still. He is quiet. I'm exhausted. He goes to the fridge and gets himself a beer.

I've seen my future. What do I do now? I will never again ask him to quit drinking.

The phrase, Jumping the Shark, is defined here:

http://pub79.ezboard.com/fglitzycapefrm1.showMessage?topicID=29.topic

and here:

http://www.jumpingtheshark.com

CAMPING OUT, Sex and Lies continued... Saturday, June 07, 2003

Hopping in the Winnebago, driving to the nearest recreational area to hook up to the electric and hot water was not Pete's idea of camping. He loved the outdoors and the closer he could get to it the better. He especially liked to bring the kids. Pete was an ex-marine among other things and I had to remind myself that his survival skills were way up on the list of why I married him in the first place.

I, on the other hand, feel anxiety when I don't have access to my hair dryer and mascara. I never liked to be seen without my make-up, so camping, the way Pete liked to go camping, was a major challenge.

In July, 1970, Erika was 2 months old. We had the other two kids with us for summer vacation. Pete says, "Lets go camping". I was breast feeding so that simplified the amount of gear we'd have to take. All Pete needed was a fishing pole, a tarp, some rope, a hatchet and a case of beer. We head off in the direction of New Hampshire in our old Ford 150 van with the rust on the side. (It was all we could afford after Pete totaled the Mustang.) Pete is familiar with the area from hunting in deer season with his buddies. We pull-off to the side of the road and park. It all looks like the same dense forest to me. It was a very hot, sunny day. Crystal clear blue sky.

We get all the gear. I have the baby tied to me in front with a sling. This way of carrying babies was just catching on. I think we WASPS picked it up from Native Americans, very practical. Pete thrashes through the woods with the kids in front to make a path. I tip toe behind. I have no sense of direction and tend to get lost at the base of our driveway - so I'm on high alert in the woods.

It had been pretty dry that year and Pete picked a smooth, open area right on the dry edges of a river bank to set up camp. We could see the river running over the rocks a short distance below us. It was a beautiful spot. Pete and the kids set everything up. He put his case of beer in the river to keep it cold. My job was to nurse the baby. The plan was that he and the kids would catch fish and he'd cook'm for dinner. They went off. I sat on the rocks with the baby and kept an eye out for bears, ants, squirrels, hawks and other scary things.

Nothing much happened. They did get some fish. We had enough peanut butter and bread to full the gaps. The kids thought they were in heaven. It started to get chilly at dusk so we crawled in our sleeping bags early. I had the baby with me. We all dozed off.

In the middle of the night I'm awakened by a low rumble. Without warning the sky seemed to open up in a torrent. The river rose so fast, we were stumbling around in the dark as the water rushed down the mountain. I was terrified. Most of our gear had already been washed away. We had to find our way back to the car in the pitch dark as thunder roiled over our heads. Pete salvaged one flashlight. He had to lead us through the woods in the blinding rain. Pete went first, we had the two kids in the middle and I came up behind clutching the baby. Pete stumbled and fell. He broke a tooth but was unfazed. Finally we emerge by the road and see the car parked about 50 feet away. We pile in. I just want to go home. Pete suggests a motel for the night.

We find a cheap place with a vacancy. The hot shower was nirvana. The next morning the skys have cleared. Pete wants to go back to the camp site. I think he's insane but the kids beg and reluctantly I trudge along. Back down the road to a spot that will remain burned in my brain for eternity. Down to the river we go. It seemed so benign in the morning sun. Pete sends the kids down river to search for the remains of the case of beer. Now I realize why we had to come back. It was Sunday. The liquor stores were closed. That case he'd left in the river the day before was his last hope of making it to Monday morning.

HAVING BREASTS, Sex and Lies continued... Friday, June 06, 2003

Being pregnant had some pleasant side effects. I had breasts. Not that I didn't have breasts, it's just that they were relatively inconsequential. Early on I learned to make the most of what I had. My rib cage is rather high and prominent. At puberty I practiced in front of a mirror and saw that if I stood-up really straight, pulled my shoulders back, sucked in my stomach muscles, it looked like I really had acceptible breasts. Men were attracted to me. It was all an illusion. I owed it to excellent posture.

In pregnancy my breasts became lush, large, and the nipples seemed to darken. It was as though I wasn't me. After Erika was born they said I had to stay in the hospital until "my milk came in". It seemed almost ominous to me at the time, but I was sure I wanted to breast feed. Everything I had read seemed to say this was the best way to go. I also had this urge to have that wiggly little creature next to me at all times. This is from a women who would never have had a baby by choice.

By the end of the first 24 hours in the hospital, I REALLY wanted to go home. Nurses kept coming into check to see if "my milk came in". I think they give the baby sugar water or something while we wait for this phenomena to occur. I was beginning to worry. Maybe something went wrong and my body couldn't manufacture this stuff. The morning of the second day, I opened my eyes. In front of me where these two gigantic breasts, I mean the Himalayas. I couldn't see past them. We're talking hard and huge (relative to what I had always lived with). The nurses seemed pleased. My milk had finally come in.

SERIAL MONOGAMY, Sex and Lies continued...

RG's dad is approaching 80 and it looks like wifey number 4 is waiting in the wings. The son of wifey number 3 (who recently died) called RG to express his concern about the dad's competance, the new women's REAL motive (money as opposed to love), she is more than 20 years younger, and so on. The son thinks he stands to loose some cash if this marriage is consumated.

It all started about 55 years ago when RG's mom left the dad in question. A good Mormon family, but she was moving on to a new life. Husband number 2 turned out to be a real asshole, much worse then the first (see above). At some point things got so bad that husband number 2 morphed into husband number 3. Children were produced along the way. All good Mormon children of course. (except RG who got excommunicated from the church, but that's another story)When I met mom, she was on husband number 4. This could be the end of the road for her - but I wouldn't stake my life on it.

My folks chose the alternative to serial monogamy. They went the secret affairs, sex and lies, let's pretend we're monogamous route. They are still together, dying together in what looks like living hell to me, but I'm not them, so who can be sure?

One monogamous marriage was enough for me. After that I tried multiple, parallel-simultaneous relationships held together with sex and lies. Until I met RG and everything changed.

COOKING WITH MARTHA, a diversion from Sex and Lies... Thursday, June 05, 2003

Women lost a couple of big rounds today as all those stupid white men continue to try to drag us back to 1950, or in my case with abortion trials and tribulations, 1969. I never thought it was possible that we could loose so much ground in so short a time - mind boggling. But I'll bet you dollars to donuts if some little hotty that Rumsfeld or Tom DeLay is stumpfing on the side gets pregnant or if some very wealthy stupid white guys wife runs into trouble in the last trimester of her pregnancy, they will have no trouble getting an abortion.

Poor Martha Stewart. She did not look good coming out of court yesterday. People I know who have met her do not have nice things to say about her personality - but hey, she made it to the top and she didn't get there by sewing doilies. What makes me insane is the utter hypocrisy of everyone involved in her case. What she did with her IMClone stock may not have been kosher but she did not screw thousands of stock holders and company employees out of their life savings either. It's a matter of degree. While the big boys at Enron, Arthur Anderson, WorldCom etc. have long faded into the woodwork, the media will still be roasting Martha on a spit.

I was never a Martha fan but I do love to cook. I retreat to my kitchen for solace after a day in the trenches of fundraising for documentary film. Cooking for me is like yoga or Zen. I should give Martha a buzz and suggest she try retreating to her kitchen in these trying times.

To read the complete "Free Martha" story, go to:

http://boston.com/dailyglobe2/156/business/Free_Martha+.shtml

BABY I'M YOURS, Sex and Lies continued... Wednesday, June 04, 2003

My diaphragm and I never got along. It sure put a crimp in my style. I used it consistantly, I swear - even though the thing would slip out of my fingers and boomerang around the bathroom. Sometimes it would take me so long to get the thing in place (or so I thought) Pete would be sound asleep. Hence my surprise when they told me I was 3 months pregnant. After some intense inquiry from my doctor, turns out I was putting it in backwards, or something like that - therefore it was not too effective.

So, a 6 month pregnancy goes by a lot faster than a 9 month pregnancy. When I think how little I knew about the effects of my diet and behavior on my body and on my fetus during the 3 months I was pregnant and had no clue... I was too young and stupid to even worry.

They figured the baby was due in May, sometime around the 20th. I had wanted to work until labor started. I was working in the office of the Dean of Fine Arts at B.U. during the day. When I was about 7 months along, THE DEAN (a geezer - I remember he came from the music dept. and his bushy gray eyebrows gave him the look of a schnauzer) suggested that I resign from my post for "my own safety". He actually said I made it uncomfortable for him to have a pregnant woman around the office. I was bullshit. How could he force me to quit?? Well it was 1970 and they could do stuff like that then - and if the Christian Coalition got their way, they'd be doing stuff like that now. I think they probably still do in Texas, Mississippi and Louisiana - but I digress from my story.

Reluctantly I leave my job. Two months to go and I'm getting too big to stand at my easel and paint all day. My feet swell. Pete is so attentive it's annoying. It was a very warm, early spring that year. On a weekend when I'm close to term, Pete suggests we go fishing. It was unseasonably hot. We drive to the Cape on a Sunday afternoon. He's got his fishing gear and I've got the Sunday NYTimes. I'm set. We get to Scituate harbor and Pete goes to make arrangements to rent a rowboat. He was handing his money to the guy with the boats when the guy spies me walking over from the parking lot. "You're not taking HER out with you?!" "Sure" says Pete, "Why not?" - "Well, look at her! She's ready to pop any minute." They were talking about me as though I wasn't there. I felt like pushing that asshole's head in his bait box. Pete said he would pay an extra $10. and take full responsibility if anything happened. It didn't. We had a lovely, lazy afternoon floating around Scituate Harbor.

I was really ready to have this baby. I weighed 165 pounds. I had taken advantage of eating everything in sight - except for two things, meat and coffee. My body was smart and rejected this stuff even though my mind told me I wanted it. I don't think I drank either.

On the night of May 22nd I started to go into labor. Pete rushed us off to the Brigham and Women's Hospital in downtown Boston. They admitted me, took us up to a labor room and prepped (shaved) me. I had not done any practice work. Birthing classes with fathers included was just not done (maybe in communes but not at Brigham and Womens). Dads were not even allowed in the delivery room. Do you believe it? It's 1970. I was not one of those brave women, I had asked my doctor to give me anesthesia when the going got rough. Unfortunately that night my pains stopped. They sent Pete home and said he could pick me up in the morning. Most of the nurses left. I was the only one in the labor room. I did not want to leave that hospital in the morning without a baby. I got off the table I was laying on and started to jog around the room. I did a few deep knee bends for good measure. Suddenly I had to go to the bathroom. There was a bathroom right in the labor room. I hadn't seen a nurse in awhile, they must've been napping. I sat on the toilet thinking I had to shit. It wouldn't come. Then the pain, I'm talking REAL PAIN, started. "Oh my god, I'm going to have this baby in the toilet and it will drown." I'm too blind with pain to think about pulling a cord for help. I roll my body off the toilet on to the floor. Up on my hands and knees I start crawling towards the door. I'm nearly out the door when Pete comes running down the hall, "I couldn't sleep at home without you. What the hell is happening around here? Where are the nurses? Why are you on the floor?" He picks me up and maneuvers me back on the table. The nurses come scurrying. They part my knees, take a peak, slap my knees together again and say, "Mrs Close, DON'T PUSH! We have to wait till the doctor comes, we just called him". I say "Fuck you I don't care who is here I'm having this baby NOW." I hate them. The pain is intense. No one even thought to offer me an aspirin. I don't care.

Someone says they see the doctor running down the hall. I do not care. They wheel me out to the elevator (delivery room one floor up). I tell everyone in the elevator to fuck themselves or something and more. The doctor tel