Chapter 3: Skins

I wake up at seven, and it pisses me off. The light in the room is too much. Damn L.A. sunshine.

I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. Hmm. Shane, with her sultry lips and wide eyes. God, I crave her. This woman is starting to own my soul again and I don’t like it.

Pissed, I toss the covers off, and get up to make coffee. While I listen to the familiar morning sound of its brewing, I stretch, working out the kinks of my muscles and the cobwebs of my mind.

If nothing else the light is good for painting, and I wander naked into the studio. I nervously survey the work of a half-dozen paintings and wonder if they are finished. I’ve reached a panicky little plateau in my career. My first work was ignored, later work was heralded and I was an art world up-and-coming it-girl. For the last four years I’ve delved back into painting, getting away from mixed media.

My eyes go back to the self-portrait. It's about four years old. Technically it’s not bad. A sort of cubist-impressionist surface, lines of pale white flesh, curly blonde hair. She’s a babe. There is a quality of emotional wavering that is evocative, a bit fragile, a bit fierce, and that is captivating. It will be a huge success. But something about that version of me has never felt quite... accurate.

How was I feeling about myself when I painted it? Conflicted, confused a little, endlessly obsessing over the acute differences in identity that other people give to the various permutations of my life. Hollywood daughter and starving artist. I hate both. Neither is accurate. The later is richer, better, who I now really am. But still not completely accurate.

You can take the girl out of Hollywood, but not the Hollywood out of the girl. I know more dirt on the A-list of ten years ago than any other starving artist. I’ve been groomed from birth to be politically savvy. I’ve learned from my mother and father how to move in that world, how to get what I want. When my friends scoff at Bel-Air wannabes, I tell them to fuck themselves. Because I can only change my identity so much.

I think back to the night of the Provocations exhibit. Sneaking in wearing old-lady clothes, hiding under sunglasses, looking for Shane. I found her in a room with my mother. Shane was distraught, upset, pink neon reflecting the harsh pain on her face. I watched from the corner, small and insignificant as a mouse or fly, not a blip on the radar of either one, as my mother broke her fragile heart.

I remember so clearly walking out of the exhibit, taking off my shades, driving home. L.A. was burning in my mind as I questioned everything in my life. The foundation I had taken for granted as solid was gossamer, and I couldn’t trust - mother or father or anyone. I remember looking around my huge room and beginning the terrifying task of deciding what to take with me.

I owned the diamond necklace. I owned that bizarre silver baby spoon and a big screen TV that I couldn’t possibly take with me. I owned several pairs of diamond earrings, a few tennis bracelets. I owned the car; it was in my name, an ‘04 Beamer. There was nothing else to hock.

I took my jewelry, some clothes. All of my CDs. It took me an hour to slip all of the discs from their jewel cases into a big album. I remember all of this so clearly, but I don’t recall whether or not I was crying as I did it, if I was shaking with fear or excitement or if I was just numb.

No one was in the house. It was late evening. Even the help was gone. I left a note on my father’s desk, telling him that I had to leave and that I would contact him in a few days.

It’s hard to remember that night if I had any clue what the world held in store for me. Was it a big scary adventure in slumming it? I really don’t remember every thought going through my head. I just remember thinking, L.A. is burning, my life as I knew it is burning, and everything is different.

.

The phone is ringing. Who the hell would call so early? I turn my back on the canvases and get the phone.

Of course it’s Jasmine. I would have known it instantly if I weren’t so immersed in my thoughts, and still so sleep-fogged.

“Hey.”

“Jaz, it’s like... seven twenty in the fucking morning.”

“I knew you were up.”

I roll my eyes but don’t question it. Jasmine has been my closest friend for almost a decade, seeing me with razor insight, seeing past the society version of me and a lot of other bullshit. She’s always liked me for me. And she’s always known things. I don’t believe in ESP per se, but I’ve long ago stopped finding her knowledge to be creepy.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on my way there.”

“Allright. I’ve got coffee. But you’re bringing breakfast.”

“Already have it. See you in five.” And she hangs up.

I roll my eyes and smile. Fix coffee for myself and for Jasmine, who lets herself in a few minutes later. She looks sleek and awake in her black suit with the trendy collars, and her cheap shades.

“So, how did it go?”

“It was... great.”

“Tell me everything.”

“What did you bring?”

“Don’t you know me better than that?” Jaz grins and holds out a bag from Le Patisserie. I peek inside to see my favorite strawberry and cheese croissants.

“Oh, you so rock.”

“Aren’t you gonna put on some clothes?”

“I wasn’t, is that a problem?” I push her coffee mug over to her.

“Go put on some clothing. Your boobies are distracting. And hurry, I’m dying to hear how it went with the butch Aphrodite.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes again and slip into a sweatshirt and paint-strewn pajama pants.

“Does this meet with your approval, o’ purple-haired one?” I ask when I enter the kitchen.

“Yes. Now sit and dish me some dirt.”

I sigh. “It went well.”

“Yeah?”

“The salon was pretty much what I expected. I had to get a little nasty with the faggy gate master, but he sent her down to see me.”

“Was she gorgeous?”

“Yes. The most beautiful I’ve ever seen her. She’s dangerous, Jaz. Like the butch Helen of Troy.”

“Yeah, I can see it now. Lots of little pink-flagged ships.”

I laugh and bite off half a pastry.

“So, what happened?”

“Well, she was happy to see me. She was... the most gracious person I think I’ve ever known. So damn sweet. We went up into her office and sat down and talked. I was like ‘I know this is awkward’ and she was... just so sweet about it. I basically told her that mom loved her, loved her like crazy, and she only said those things because she wanted her to stay away. For her own safety. She asked me about how mom died, was she happy, were we close? And she got a little teary. I got a little teary. It was a big fucking estrogen fest for a few seconds.”

“Yeah, but how did you feel while you were there?”

Jesus. Trust Jaz to cut to the chase.

I take a long sip of my coffee and another bite of pastry. “Like a snow globe that’s been shaken. I felt...so powerless because I was so turned on by her, and it was like all this time had never passed and I was just... a mousy little nothing again. I felt just fucking...high, because she was checking me out, she totally wanted my ass. It was so hard, Jaz. I’m still shaken up. It took me back in time and it really hurt, but she was just so damn gracious, like some kind of fucking angel. She said she was so glad to see me, that I’d come to tell her.”

“I’m getting all kinds of warm and fuzzy here. Did you make a move on her?”

“No! No way!”

“Why not?”

“Hello? I’m not throwing myself at her feet again. Just talking to her had my emotions in overdrive. No way in hell am I letting her anywhere near my heart.”

“Is she still a raging slut?”

“I dunno. We don’t exactly run in the same social circles.”

“She may not be.”

“She may not be anymore. Or she could have a nice wife and kids. Who the hell knows? Moot point.”

“Well, how did you leave it? Will you see each other again?”

“Um, she said ‘don’t be a stranger.’ And I said ‘I won’t, I might call you to get my hair done for my show.’”

“So will you?”

“I dunno. I haven’t decided what I’m doing with my hair, much less with... her.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because.”

“Because you couldn’t stand the idea of not seeing each other again.”

“I hate you, Jaz.”

“It’s true!”

“I dunno if I’m going to go there.”

“You’re long overdue for a decent do. You’ve probably on your third Super Cuts frequent flier card.”

“I well, it's not in my budget.”

“Um, news flash. Mommy and Daddy left you half their money, whether you want it or not!”

“Um, newsflash, I’m not doing the whole rich chick thing.”

“Yes, I know. You’re an artist with integrity and all that shit.” Jaz rolls her Kohl-lined eyes and pulls her hair back in a ponytail. “Come on, Clea. I’ve seen your boat.”

“Hey, I enjoy certain luxuries, and others have me indifferent.”

“Sweetie, you don’t need to justify any of that shit to me. I don’t care what you do with your money. That’s not the point. See the woman again or don’t see her again. But don’t blame it on the money.”

“Fine. You’re a pain in the fucking ass, Jasmine.”

“Aren’t I?” she grins, looking cocky and cute in her Buddy Holly glasses.

I give her my middle finger and with my other hand reach for a pastry.

.

I’m widely undecided about whether or not to see Shane again. I know that either way the hair thing is just an excuse. I waffle about it for weeks. Some days I am so sure I’m going to make a move on her and fuck her senseless. Other days I think, no way in hell.

That day after Jaz leaves I put the Shane thing on a shelf and return to the niggling question of my self-portrait. I stand there in my studio. What things would I show if I were doing the painting over? How could I fix it?

It hits me that “fixing” the painting is not the solution. The painting is a perfect reflection of who I was four years ago. I shouldn't touch it. Within a half hour I am stripped naked and am set up with paints, canvas, and a mirror. I open the windows and turn the radio up loud and do what I do. There is more color, more tones of pink and green shadow, vivid umber and violet, and my hands have blotches of it. It is more kinetic. There is a lot going on. The brushstrokes are more dynamic and tense, and when I have finished the “first draft” I think I’ve conveyed the tensions and emotions of that meeting well.

.

Steve Wisneski is late for our meeting, but his partner Bette Porter is in my studio, making notes on various paintings. I have about fourteen paintings and two sculptures out for her. I hate this part. She has seen slides of my work, but to me there was always something invasive, intrusive, about having people in to see my work. It’s like penetration, like sucking a cock, or inviting someone in to crawl into my viscera.

Usually I like to slink away while they do this, but this time is somehow different. “How do you conceptualize the show?” Bette asks. I remember her, from back then. We have never met before this, though she is a fixture in the L.A. art world. That night of Provocations must have been as pivotal in her life as it was in mine, for vastly different reasons. It put her on the map. It burned my world.

“Well, I’ve deliberately tried not to conceptualize it. I think these are the paintings I want to have represented. The only thing I feel strongly about is that the two self-portraits need to be together.”

“Why?”

Damn. She’s like Jaz. Her question is polite and innocent, not meant to be a challenge, but it cuts very deep. I think a long time before answering.

“I don’t know. I know that’s a stupid answer. But I want the show to be linear, like a narrative. With the portraits, I want them to tell a story. I don’t really care what you do with the others. But I need my portraits to be together.”

“I agree,” Bette smiles, easing my nerves a bit. She is a bona fide player in the art world, I am a Hollywood heiress cum artist. A newcomer. I know that this is not the true reality, but when I’m anxious the skins feel more confining, and I need to take the time to talk myself out of them.

“Why?” I ask, eager to see if Bette has any more insight into the self portraits than I do.

“I... I don’t know either. They’re very yin and yang. One is about hesitation and neutrals, the other is all color and clearly channeled feeling. Isn’t it?”

She glances at me, seeming a little unsure, and I suddenly really like her. “Yes. But that’s not all of it.”

“The question is, why do you have that one on the left. Is it because it’s first? And if they are to be read in chronological order? Or some other kind of order?”

“I don’t know. The one on the left was first. The second one came about because… the first one didn’t feel complete to me. I mean, it was complete as a painting, but I... I felt as if I’d outgrown the depiction?”

“It is complete as a painting. I’m glad you didn’t change it. It has a wonderful… indecisive quality, a great ambiguity to it.”

“Thanks,” I say, so relieved that she sees what I see.

“This other one is very different. Are you aware that you used the exact same composition, only flipped like a mirror image?”

“Yes. I wasn’t when I did it, though.”

“That’s interesting to me. I love them both. Personally, subjectively, I like the first one better, because it has a fragility to it that’s appealing.”

“I prefer the second one.” I think of the thoughts I felt when I painted it. That was my snow-globe painting, full of emotion and fantasy and imagining what Shane’s skin and lips and eyes on mine would feel like.

“Why?”

“Because the impetus to paint it was a lot more entertaining,” I say wryly.

Bette smiles knowingly at me.

“Have you thought of titles for these?”

“No.”

“How about for the show?”

“Provocation and Progression,” I blurt. The idea comes out of nowhere. I say it out quickly, before thinking of it.

Bette smiles. If she gets the connection to that pivotal exhibit ten years ago, she doesn't let on. “Sort of like a dialectic?”

Some moments I am acutely aware that I have a mere six months of college education. I play it off though, hiding my insecurity under sharkish alertness. “I don’t follow.”

“Dialectical theory. Thesis and antithesis. Something happens, you adapt. It plays to the idea you had about linearity and narrative. It tells a story. It’s dynamic."

"I've never heard of dialectical theory before, but that's exactly what I want to convey. Evolution."

"And I have a visual idea for marketing it. Look.”

Bette is smiling. Holy crap, she is excited about my work. She flips a page in her sketch book and puts it on the table. She draws two rectangles in the middle. In each she sketches one of the paintings. In each I am sitting down, knees bent. The way she draws it has them facing each other. Under them, she writes “PROVOCATION and PROGRESSION.” Then under that, she writes “paintings of clea jaffee.”

I stare at it, smiling. I love it, Except something isn’t right.

“Yeah. But with these two switched. Like this.” I redraw her idea, exactly the same except for the colorful emotional one on the left, the quieter less intense one on the right. This way the images are back to back like bookends. It works. I love it.

Bette smiles. She likes it too. “But isn’t this one Provocation and this one Progression?”

“Maybe not. It doesn’t matter, because that’s not what I’m calling the paintings anyway. I love it. Let’s do this!”

“Okay.” she smiles. “Only problem is, we need about seven more paintings.”

“But that’s in five weeks!”

“Can you do it, Clea? Because this is gonna be huge. Look at this ad. It’s sexy, it’s simple, it’s conceptual. It will bring in the people who want paintings to match their couch, because they’re pretty. It will bring in your serious art people because of the conceptual element, and it will bring in the lesbians and straight men in droves because these two are hot.”

I laugh. There’s one lesbian in particular I’d like to see these.

“Okay. Well, what the hell, let’s do it!”

She smiles. “Great. I suggest more portraits. Meanwhile I’ll get going on the promotionals and we’ll get it rolling.”

“Great,” I smile. I am utterly psyched.

Bette leaves and I feel like I'm bouncing off the walls.

I make a bunch of calls. Jaz agrees to pose. Get my friends Rose and Ava, call my aunt Dorothea, who has been trying to commission a painting from me for a long time. That should give me enough to work with for now.

I lie on the sofa, feeling the weight of the phone book on my chest, rising and falling with my calm breaths as I zone out. There is one model I’d kill to have.

No way, Clee, that’s nuts, forget it. That’s borrowing trouble.

But I want her.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, and look up Shane Lex Salon in the yellow pages.