Thursday, July 10, 2003
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, July 05, 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
