Art Boss

8/12 3:13 pm

How can so much happen in three days?

I’m here! I made it! The Dream! I lost my journal somewhere in LaGuardia, I can’t freaking believe it. I even called the airport to see if someone turned it in, but nope, so I’m starting new with this notebook. Now I’m drinking an iced coffee and writing on the subway train like I live here or something and I do because this is my life!

This couple balancing against the train pole in front of me is in a fight. She just said, What did you expect from a new hire? They’re never as good as they seem on paper and he said, Just once, I’d like you to have my back and she said, Nothing’s what it seems, I told you that. Now they’re glaring at each other and he just turned away to his phone. DRAMA!

Oh, so many good overhears and quotes just by being alive in New York. I love all the accents and funny shit I’m hearing.

Nothing’s what it seems. –Woman on the train

And I’m totally feeling that because everything is weirder than I thought, both good and bad weird and not at all what I’ve been expecting!

The guy with the dark blond hair that I thought was Jamie Silas, my future soul mate, at the airport? Nope! Just a guy waiting for someone else. Mortifying.

Staying in a big loft apartment? Not even. I mean, not like I was promised that, I guess I just kinda assumed, and as Dad says, Assume makes an ass out of U and me. Yep, that’s me for sure. My apartment at the Webster Residence for Women (that’s what it’s called!) is super tiny and plain old weird, but um, I also kind of love it. The look is sooo Metro-Retro. I came up with that.

Scheduling an appt. with NYSCFA, the New York School of Contemporary Fine Arts, my dream school that I’m finally going to attend in January, so long as I can get my financial aid figured out? That’s what Helen Mundy, my aid advisor, said to do once I was here, but they are all backed up dealing with current incoming students and that kind of made me feel like a loser. I can’t meet with Helen until September at least. No big deal, just worrying my brain out until then.

Meeting Carlyle Campbell, the famous modern artist who had discovered my work online and asked me—ME!—to be his assistant developing art to accompany his first-ever fashion line?

(Let’s not even get into the fact that my original art piece that had caught Carlyle’s attention had been destroyed. Not my fault. But, Kennedy, Carlyle’s assistant, knew what had happened and had promised to help me get back on track without Carlyle ever knowing a single thing. Carlyle had hired me for that piece specifically and if he finds out I have to recreate it, plus multiples, from scratch, in less than a month (so help me), he could easily drop me. I can NOT let him know any of that—unless I like the idea of returning to Texas with little chance of coming back or finding some other magical way to pay for school next semester. NO PRESSURE.)

Oh, and bringing enough clothes? Try again, I’ve already sweated through everything I own. Guess I have to shop. Poor me.

Everything has been a total bizarro version of what I thought. Tonight I go on a do-over date with Silas since our first the night I got here was a disaster. Hoping that things might go better, but that whole online love connection thing? Yeah, I dunno. IRL, not sure either of us is feeling it. Yet.

I need Kit and Enzo to be here to see all of this but that’s not gonna happen so I texted them that I’m posting new sketches online so they can check out the local scene whenever they want—and I can keep them all together for me, too, like a little #NYSeen city-sketching home-base collection. That’s me, the real-deal real-local now. Ha. Kit, my OG bestie best of all times, said: Thank god. Been waiting for the Piper Perspective! and Enzo, my second-best bestie/greatest hometown heartbreak and newly out main man, wrote: Brilliant! Loves it, Needs it!

8/13 2:15 am

Silas is scrawny and curved in, like if a human was a comma, his silhouette is all bow and he has sleek black hair and the greenest eyes and really, really pale skin, like watery skim milk. He’s got a cool super-sharp dimple, almost like a scar, that runs up his pale pink cheek. It was like meeting a real live Edward Gorey character. I didn’t know how tonight would go, with just the two of us, since Mo (the roommate) came the last time. At least Mo’s funny even if he’s kind of pretentious. He talks about himself in the third person: Mo doesn’t do that, Mo is happy to meet you. The opposite of Silas, who’s real down on himself.

Tonight, Si was wearing a thin black T-shirt, faded black jeans, black Converse, and a tan backpack when he met me in front of the Web. I wore the black dress I wore on the plane—I Febreezed it first!—with my Adidas, and matte red lips.

We looked pretty cool.

He looked down at the paper bag I had with me. Do a little shopping?

You’ll have to wait and see. I pulled it closer to me, careful not to crush it. I kept sneaking peeks at him. His dimple is cute. Maybe he’s cute. He is definitely friend-cute, but I don’t know if he is boyfriend-cute. All summer, I had known for sure that he was boyfriend-cute. Dang.

We crossed the gold-yellow safety line painted on the train platform and got on the A train. The line is the same shade of sunflower on the city cabs, marigold-mustard. There were so many people crammed in our subway car and I was trying not to push against anyone, but I couldn’t get to one of the bars that were over our heads and he just kind of slid between me and this other dude and moved my hand to the bar and said, Don’t worry, we only have a few stops, which was the first Summer-Silas thing he’d done since I’d met him, which made me happy, even though I was smushed between a guy shouting about how it was too fucking hot, which was true but don’t yell dude we’re all dealing with it, and another guy behind me who was taking up way too much room just so he could balance himself while reading an opened-up newspaper. So annoying. Obviously he didn’t care about the rest of us squeezed in! Thank god not all rides are squeezy-squeezy like that.

We’re eating at one of my favorite places, Silas said. But it’s not fancy.

WHAT? Why, I never! I put my hand to my mouth like, the horror!

I got him to laugh. Victory! Things weren’t tense over email this summer but in front of each other, we’re both real awkward.

You know this is on me, right?

He said it in a way that was both a question and an answer.

What do you mean? I thought I got what he was asking but I wasn’t sure.

I don’t want to assume—

I don’t want to assume either, I said.

Then we goofed at each other, kind of waiting for the other person to say the next thing.

He finally said, I don’t know how they do it in Texas, but I would like this to be a date.

Me too, I said and reached for his arm. Maybe Si had never had a girlfriend before. Huh, I hadn’t imagined that until then.

We got to Tavern on Jane and the waiter appeared almost immediately. Well if it isn’t Mr. Sunshine himself. I see you put on your best T-shirt this evening, youngster.

This is Piper, he said, introducing me to Harvey.

What can I get started for you guys?

Um . . . how are the spaghetti and meatballs? I asked and he said, Marvelous and took my menu. Silas ordered a grilled hanger steak with fries and Harvey went off to put in our order. I could see the POS machine was the same one we used when I was waitressing at the 610 Diner, my old job in Houston, but then I felt Silas watching me and I tried to make my face normal. How could I explain feeling comforted just seeing the same work program we had at our diner back home?

So, when should I start calling you Mr. Sunshine?

Ha. Yeah, no thanks. I’ve known Harv since I was a kid. When you’ve lived here your whole life, the city (Note to self: call it the city, not New York City! The train, not the subway!) is a pretty small town. Everybody knows everybody, for better or worse.

Harvey was back at the table with calamari. Calamari!

Chef says have a wonderful night out, guys.

Mr. Sunshine for the win! I tapped my glass to his Coke and said, Cheers, Si.

He smirked or looked embarrassed, I couldn’t tell which.

Here, I said, handing him the paper bag. Open it!

A new Silas in two seconds flat: His smile was lit, dimple half his cheek.

Could it be— He started to tear through the tissue paper and then sat back. You didn’t.

You said you wanted one!

I can’t believe it! he said, pulling out the brand-spanking-new cowboy hat. I was pretty sure it was the exact midnight blue-black he liked.

I can’t believe I have a genuine cowboy hat from Texas. He put it on his head. How’s this?

I tipped it down in the front, just a little. You’re the real deal, dude.

He checked himself out in the mirror behind the bar and did a little mosey back to our table. I belong in this hat. Yee-fucking-haw.

I had never seen anyone so happy to be wearing one. It didn’t really match his look, but he didn’t care and I was delighted he was showing me anything other than nerves and weirdness! On the first date, he barely talked to me, except to explain why he wasn’t at the airport (a last-minute school orientation thing, I understand, I wouldn’t want to miss anything cool going on either, but still, really? He could have emailed me! Guess I’m not quite over that yet . . .) and other than that, he and Mo just talked almost the whole time. It was so weird. At least we can text each other now.

Harvey put our dinners down on the table. He straightened Silas’s hat and said to me, Who does he think he is, Johnny Cash? Then he winked and walked away.

Si was still beaming. It was like it was the first time anybody had ever gotten him anything. Maybe he needed it.

I wish I had something for you. Something clicked when he said that and he was back to robotic/awkward.

It’s okay, I said. You’ll make it up to me. I was working my eyelashes overtime, trying to flirt again.

Let’s eat.

Okaaaaaaaaay.

I expected to be all nerves around him, not vice versa. Maybe the idea of a New York boyfriend was better over email than over calamari. On the bright side my spaghetti and meatballs were better than anything I had eaten at the Webster so far. It’s awesome that the Web comes with free meals, but like . . . the free part is the best part. The meals, not so much.

So tell me more about Mo, I said, hating to do it but not knowing what else to talk about. What’s his story?

Silas drained his Coke.

The thing is, he said, wiping his mouth, Mo is a really decent guy. He can rub some people the wrong way, but that’s just how he is. Honest. He’s not afraid to tell the truth. So he’ll tell me if I make something that sucks.

Oh yeah, I got that impression! I leaned in, relaxing. But I bet you don’t make anything that sucks.

Si winced. Well. I don’t know about that. But anyway, the thing is, he’s in a little trouble.

Like, with the law?

What? Silas snorted, right next door to a smile. No, at school. So OK, he focuses on food politics. He designs his work out of food, then lets it decay. That’s part of the work, the time and the rot. It’s his comment on consumerism and commercialism and time and food culture, but sometimes it causes him to miss deadlines. Our profs are kind of sticklers for turning stuff in on time. You’ll see.

Wow. His work sounds epic. And really smelly. I laughed, but it did made me feel like an ounce more cool toward Mo. Like he was doing something semi-thoughtful, in addition to being a know-it-all.

Agreed, especially when you live with him. But the faculty was really stubborn last semester, and they might have clashed.

Might?

Okay, he laughed, did. Don’t say anything, but . . .

I put my fork down mid-meatball and held up my Scout fingers.

He’s on probation.

Whaaat?

Yeah.

They can do that? Just ’cause he’s working with food? Didn’t they know that when they accepted him? They shouldn’t kick him out.

Don’t say any of that in front of him—please. He’ll accuse me of dooming him as a failure. I don’t really think they’re aiming to push him out, I think it’s more about him not meeting his deadlines, and his attitude defending his work. They encourage us to stick up for ourselves as artists, as creative warriors— I must have made a face because Si was like, School motto. But then when we test it by disagreeing with them, it’s like we’re messing with the gods. It’s all one big pissing contest. They try to break us down to build us back up. Some students practically get away with murder. Mo can’t. I can’t. Someone like Gillman, for example—he shook his head—he could give them an empty water bottle and they’d pee their pants.

Gillman?

Joe Gillman. I might have mentioned him in an email. Or not. I try not to think about him.

So, he’s not good.

Silas shrugged and tried to get another another sip out of his Coke, shaking the ice around the glass. Depends on how you define good.

Does Gillman also work with food? I smirked. Is it like Iron Chef between them?

No, Mo’s the only food geek. He smiled and plucked up a fry. Lucky for us.

So what’s that guy do that’s so great the teachers love him so much? All the talk about Mo’s probation makes me nervous. I’ll have to up my game when I finally start classes in January. I’m not great with deadlines either.

The faculty thinks he’s changing the world being a ‘conceptualist.’

What is that? God, I need school. I don’t know any of these terms. Si probably sees the big flashing lights over my head blinking IDIOT-IDIOT.

You ready for this? Silas did a drumroll with his fingers. He has a lot of concepts. And that’s his art. His concepts.

That’s it? He nodded and I have to admit, I had a flash of excitement that we were finally gossiping about art the way I thought we always would. I don’t get it.

Well, I suppose you’re not a genius, then. His dimple popped up.

That’s so gimmicky. We were both laughing.

Yeah, but he has them wrapped around his finger. He had a ‘show’ where it was an empty gallery space, and there was nothing inside except for a sign-in book, wine, and cheese. And people wandered around, looking at the white walls, with lights shining where art should have been hanging, and he had just written in really faint script, Untitled Concept 1, 2, 3, etc. . . .

And that worked?

Si was kind of nodding and shaking his head at the same time.

I wish I saw it just because it sounds so awful. Maybe he’s an idiot AND a genius.

You got the first part right. But anyway, that’s why Mo’s a little more . . . clingy this semester, why he wanted me to go with him and I missed meeting you at the airport. It wasn’t really an orientation. It was a probation hearing for him.

Aha! Well. Si lied for his friend. I can’t go back and ask him to fix three days ago but I wish he had just been honest about it. I was going to say something and then he said, He gets a little paranoid. I know he comes off as confident, but he gets pretty down, and I was worried.

You’re a good friend. Kit and Enzo had come to my rescue too many times to count. I couldn’t blame the guy for helping his bud. I was kind of touched by what a true blue he was. Even if so far he was kind of a lame crush.

Yeah, you get it. Even though he didn’t really know if I got it or not, it felt good hearing him say so.

I finally felt relaxed for a second. Well, that explains why he’s so uptight. I’d love to see some of Mo’s work and y’know, yours, too.

Right, yeah.

Because now I know about Mo’s work. And Joe’s work. Ha, that rhymes! But um, it’s your art that I want to see. Silas finished off his plate, nodding silently. I waited for more of an invitation. Like before the semester starts? I said, pushing. You could come see the stuff I’m making for Carlyle, too. I could use some real feedback. I have to impress him, like kill it, or I could be on some kind of probation with him, too. Or worse, just out, period, back to Texas.

Nah, he won’t fire you. He needs you.

That kind of made me a little pissy. How did he know? Even I hadn’t met the guy yet. I had no real idea what I was walking into. Maybe it’s not exactly the same, but we’re both making art that’s being judged, right? And Carlyle could actually fire me anytime he feels like it. Which would be worse than probation.

He shrugged. Okay, maybe he will, but I doubt it. Your work is strong. My stuff is all wip.

Wimpy? I had never heard anyone call their art wimpy before.

WIP. W-I-P. Work in progress.

OMG, I need school. I am legit-talk deficient.

You already know what you’re making for Carlyle and you know how it ends.

Actually, I don’t know how any of it ends. I’ve only talked with him on the phone. We haven’t even met face-to-face yet. My job working for him could end this week if he doesn’t like my art in real life.

Doubtful. But you’re missing the point.

Excuse you? I laughed but I kind of wanted to thump him.

You have an endpoint and I’m in this endless loop. I’m back in lab at school and all the photos I’ve been shooting this summer, they aren’t telling my story. I thought it would all come to me, match up and make sense, and it’s all missing links. Nothing’s connecting. No story.

Well, what is your story?

He shook his head. You wouldn’t get it.

I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. Because?

Oh, shit, don’t take it personally. It’s not YOU wouldn’t get it, it’s that I can’t explain where I’m headed yet. That’s not how I work. I have a while until midterms, but everything I’ve been making throughout the summer, and now trying to shoot new stuff, I’m just distracted.

By?

The world! The news! Everything going on, my mind can’t slow down, it’s a tornado in here, and I’m trying to keep it all out of my work.

Well, maybe you should stop fighting it and use it. Let it in.

He sat back, exhaling hard.

Oh, come on. I shook his wrist, forgetting I wasn’t with Kit or Enzo, and he pulled back quickly. I wasn’t being flirty, but he apparently didn’t like it. My bad.

I’ve been shooting all summer. There’s nothing behind my photos. No cohesion, no story. I haven’t found my thread. It’s boring. You don’t want to talk about that and neither do I.

Yeah, I do, I said. Jeez, I had waited all summer to talk face-to-face with Silas. Of course I wanted to talk about art with him. It was so hard for me to figure out what I was making in school and every thought I had was, this is bad, this isn’t enough, this isn’t right. When I was working on my senior project I got so bored sometimes, like just ugh! The day to day? The not knowing, the frustration of trying to make something out of nothing? The drive, the why—besides getting graded. Who’s really gonna care? So I had to find my way back into it. And then, people did care. I got reviewed. Kennedy and Carlyle found my work online and then me, and now I’m here. So, I get being stuck. But sometimes it’s the only way to get out. Super cheese. But true.

He sighed.

Hello, so rude. I was trying to get him to talk about his art!

I bet your photos aren’t as unconnected as you think, I said. If you’re stuck, you’ll find your through-line, right?

He nodded but I could tell he wasn’t feeling it.

BRB—MANDATORY PEE BREAK LIKE RIGHT NOW

8/13 2:40 am—OMG, it feels so early!

So, we rolled out of the restaurant and a breeze was blowing litter around the street, and some crunchy leaves levitated above the sidewalk. Poetry is everywhere. We turned onto another café/tree-lined street and Silas explained we were in Greenwich Village on Greenwich St., not Greenwich Ave. I guess I should learn the differences but I assume they all wind into each other in one way or another.

Kit and I used to dream of coming here together. I was wishing she was in the Village with me, not because I felt lonely with Silas, but because Kit and Enzo and me had talked about it so much. But the NYC3 that was to be is now just the NYCMe, and I have to stop pretending otherwise.

Hey. He waved his hand in front of my face, breaking my daydream-nightmare. You okay?

Yep. Just spaced for a sec. It’s all so new. And old.

Soooo, if you could go anywhere right now in this new-old place, where would you go? He held his arms out like the city was ours.

Seriously?

He nodded.

Okay. STUDIO 54! I made a list of all of Andy Warhol’s hot spots and that’s the top of my list, besides the Factory, obvi.

His mouth pursed together in a smile. He looked like he was going to laugh.

Studio 54 might be closed tonight. I don’t know if we’ll be able to go inside or anything, but let’s try. His cheeks rose, deepening his dimple. Borderline cute.

Are you laughing at me?

You just . . . like it here so much. It’s adorable. I know he wasn’t trying to sound condescending, but it sounded condescending.

I don’t like it. I love it!

He shook his head like, too lame for words, but in a cute way like he liked me, but then just looked at the ground.

Then I realized: maybe he’s shy?!? He did like me, does like me, I think, but he’s shy! I never thought about it before, because I guess I don’t know many shy people. Maybe that’s why he felt so different in emails. IRL, he was shy. It wasn’t a New York thing, it was a shy thing. Maybe he thought I would be too? Or maybe that’s why he likes me? Because I’m not?

It felt like I had decoded life as we kept walking and walking and walking and I was obsessing on every person, every shop, every street we were passing, I had a flash of feeling like everything might be working out. It was the middle of the night and we were running around in the coolest city with the longest blocks and a million people still out eating and drinking and dancing and walking and I was free! Electric! Infinite! I could—can—become a whole new me if I wanted and nobody would ever know who I was before I was NYCMe.

Then Silas stopped us.

What’s this? I said. The building looked like the front of a movie theater. Where’s the cool STUDIO 54 sign?

It’s a theater, Silas said. They do plays here now, like Broadway stuff. My parents are members if you ever want to see a play. We’re under where the cool sign used to hang, I think.

But, the club?

It hasn’t been here for a long time, Silas said. I thought you knew—

No—

I hadn’t even considered that. I was reading Andy’s diaries and looking at his art when he had been here, and he hadn’t been here in a long, long time. Duh. Obviously.

I’m sorry, Piper, he said. "I’m used to it. The city changes all the time. I mourn things that go away, daily, but it’s not that