The Living Exhibit I’d been hired to work on, 365 Selfies, was October’s fourth in the series, and despite its timely nature, she claimed it was, deep down, a tribute to one of her favorite artists, Frida Kahlo.
“Frida was the original selfie queen,” October explained to me during my first day on the job. She pulled down one of the big art books from her shelf and showed me dozens of Frida’s paintings, stopping to make sure I got a good look at each image. “Her portraits tell stories, see? Sometimes they tell true stories and sometimes they tell fictional stories. She shows us her dreams and her nightmares. Her joys and her sorrows. Her birth, her life, and her death. That’s what I’m trying to do with 365 Selfies, only I’m using video and photography instead of paint and canvas.”
We typically filmed two to four days a week, depending on how involved her ideas were. Once a clip was edited, I cataloged it and uploaded it to the website. However, the website wouldn’t go live until an entire year’s worth of clips were ready, at which point October would post one selfie a day for 365 days; then they would live on the internet in perpetuity.
Some of the clips were simple: October would tell a story, share a dream, or talk about an experience she’d had. But often the selfies were weirder, like the time she dressed up in a giant pink bunny costume and tried to hitchhike on US 101 in the rain, screaming the word “flux” at passing cars. Or the time she dug a grave in her backyard, had me film her in the grave, and then had me film her covering the grave with dirt and flowers so that once it was cut together it looked like she was burying her own body. Occasionally she would say one word and tell me we were done for the day. Once she sat and stared into the camera for three hours without saying anything at all. One day she washed the dog. One day she shaved her legs with a straight razor. One day she had a phlebotomist come to the studio and take blood from her arm, and then she painted a self-portrait with the blood. Another day she spent twenty minutes making and eating a piece of toast, and trust me when I say it was the most compelling video of toast making and eating you could ever imagine.
I never knew what I was going to get with her, and in spite of how strange it sometimes seemed, I looked forward to going to work.
The shoots rarely took up more than a few hours, but October had numerous projects going on at once, including the Ribble cartoons, and the remainder of my time was spent helping her with whatever else she had coming up, plus more routine things like building and prepping canvases, mixing paint, running art-related errands, updating her website, sending out newsletters about upcoming exhibits and events to her mailing list, and researching other topics she wanted to explore in her work.
For the first time in a long time, I was doing something inspiring. But beyond completing my tasks to the best of my ability, I stayed out of October’s way and didn’t interact with her outside of work. I figured that was the way she wanted it. She was pretty reclusive. Not shy, per se. One-on-one in the studio, we talked often as we worked, and I found her to be open and warm. But out in the world she was easily overwhelmed. For example, we went to Hog Island to film a clip of her shucking oysters for a selfie she’d had all planned out, but it was absurdly crowded when we got there, filled with tourists, and she wouldn’t even get out of the car. She just turned around and drove us home.
Like Rae had explained to me early on, October needed a lot of space. Occasionally we would film a selfie and afterward she would shut herself in her little office for a while, or she’d wander off with Diego for a hike, and they’d be gone for hours. Sometimes she would show up in the morning, give me my tasks, and ask if we could work in silence. Then she’d put on some music, and we wouldn’t say another word to each other for the rest of the day.
None of that bothered me. The way I saw it, October put so much of herself into her work that she found it necessary to withdraw in order to come back recharged the next day. And being around more than a few people at a time made her uneasy. She had friends and associates who would stop at the house now and then, particularly Mr. P. and his husband, Thomas. They usually brought food and wine, or they would take October out for dinner. And she went to yoga class a few nights a week. But that was the extent of her social life that I could see, and Diego and Rae seemed to be her most trusted companions.
My first month at Casa Diez went by pretty routinely. I went to work and left work and minded my own business in the meantime. During my off hours I hiked and hung out at Equator Coffee, the little cafe in the town square.
That all changed one Friday morning when I showed up at the studio and noticed October seemed anxious. I assumed I’d done something to upset her, but before I could ask her what was up, she said, “I need to get out of here. I’ll see you Monday.”
She left the studio and then, not long after that, the property.
I spent the next few hours finally cleaning the skylights and then walked down to town for a beer.
When I returned home later that evening, I found a note taped to my front door, written in what looked like an architect’s handwriting. It said:
Joe,
There’s something I need to tell you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met, and I don’t know what to do about it. Please text me when you get this so we can talk.
-Oct
Let’s face it, a normal person would have responded immediately with the requested text. But I am not a normal person. I lack gumption. And as soon as I am aware that I need to do something, I do nothing.
October texted me the next morning: Can you talk?
At this point she and I had spent a considerable amount of time together, but we didn’t know each other very well. Specifically, I didn’t think she knew me very well, because if she did, I reasoned, she wouldn’t have left me a note like that.
And if anyone had asked me back then, before she left the note, if I was attracted to her, I would have had a complicated, undoubtedly evasive answer. Obviously, she intrigued me. I thought she was beautiful, and unlike any woman I’d ever met. On top of that, she made me feel seen—she asked for my ideas, took my opinions to heart, and genuinely valued my contributions to her work.
But the truth is, it never occurred to me to be interested in her, or to allow myself to acknowledge any kind of real attraction, first and foremost because she was my boss, but also because, as far as I was concerned, she was so far out of my league that even fantasizing about her seemed like a joke, never mind entertaining the possibility that she could be attracted to me.
That’s why I acted like a loser.
I was terrified.
Moreover, and not inconsequentially, I knew October had a long-term boyfriend. She’d only mentioned him to me in passing, but I’d heard her talking to Rae about him one day when the two of them were having lunch on the lawn outside the studio. What I’d gleaned about the guy was that his name was Chris, he was constantly out of town for work, she’d only spent two weekends with him in the last three months, and, interestingly enough, they had something of an open relationship.
October was expressing to Rae that she felt disconnected from the guy, was tired of having an absentee boyfriend, and wanted to date other men. Then she said, “I’m allowed to, remember? We give each other that freedom.”
Rae scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Chris adores you, yeah? You’ve been together a long time. And trust me, dating in San Francisco is way worse than a boyfriend who’s never home.”
I remember being curious about the man October chose as her boyfriend. I remember wondering what “give each other that freedom” meant. But the idea that I had a chance with her never crossed my mind.
She texted again: Call me.
I’d quit FarmHouse as soon as October had hired me, but they hadn’t found anyone who could work on weekends yet, so I filled in for them when they needed help. I’d been parked in a driveway in Petaluma that morning, about to pick up a d
ozen boxes of heirloom tomatoes, and I was so caught off guard by October’s request for a call that I put my phone in airplane mode without writing back.
I couldn’t keep avoiding her though. I lived fifteen yards from her front door, for Christ’s sake. And as soon as I got back to Casa Diez that night and saw the light on in her house, I knew I had to respond. But before I did, I got out my blender and fixed myself a cocktail, adding considerably more tequila than necessary. I downed a glass, waited a couple of minutes for it to start kicking in, and then made the call.
“Hey,” I mumbled.
“Hey.” There was a pause. Then, “I’m sorry if I freaked you out with that note. I have this terrible habit of holding in my feelings for too long and then expressing them at really inopportune times.”
“It’s OK,” I told her, hoping that would be the end of the conversation; that we would pretend it never happened.
“You’re home,” she said, as if she’d just looked out her window to check. “I’m coming over.”
She knocked on my door five minutes later, barefoot, in threadbare sweats, a big gray hoodie around her shoulders, and carrying a pie.
“I bake when I’m anxious,” she said, handing it to me.
She’d used all of the extra piecrust to make little clouds and lighting bolts, which she’d placed around the top of the pie before she baked it. It looked like an edible storm.
“Thanks.”
“Blackberry. From the bushes in the yard. You should have some while it’s still hot.”
She followed me to the kitchen, and as I cut myself a piece of the pie, she eyed the frothy, mud-colored drink in the blender.
“I make cocktails when I’m anxious,” I explained.
“That looks disgusting.”
“Brown recluses are not disgusting.”
I grabbed a clean glass from my dish rack and poured her one. She slipped her arms into her sweatshirt, took the glass from my hand and held it at arm’s length, as if I’d given her shit, which, I admit, it did look like.
“I invented this cocktail,” I said with pride. “Tequila, chocolate milk, cinnamon, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and ice.”
“It sounds even worse than it looks.” She smelled the drink and made a face.
“There’s a word for that, you know.”
“A word for what?” she said.
“For a person who makes a disgusted face when they’re drinking liquor.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s the word?”
“‘Paper-belly.’ You’re a paper-belly.”
She tried to swat me with her hand, but her sweatshirt was too big and the sleeve kept sliding down so that not even the tips of her fingers were visible.
“Taste it,” I prodded.
The cocktail was thick and sludgy, and she had to tilt her head back and sort of pour it into her mouth, but she was nodding and smiling as she swallowed.
“Wow. This is way better than it looks. Like a spicy, boozy milkshake.”
“Exactly.”
Her hands were so small she had to hold the glass with both of them. She took another drink, and I took a bite of the pie. To be honest, it looked better than it tasted, but I didn’t tell her that.
“We should do a pie-making selfie,” I suggested.
She gave me a funny smirk.
“What?”
“You said we.”
“Sorry, I meant you.”
“No. I like that you said we.”
We stared at each other for a long, awkward instant. Then I refilled my glass and said, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
“Neither do I.” October took a long, deep breath, held it in, and then let it out as if she’d been underwater and had just resurfaced. She played with the zipper on her sweatshirt, up and down, up and down, the sound a feedback-like buzz. “Well, I mean, there are a lot of things I want to say, but they’re not really appropriate. Because we work together. And I’m your boss. And—”
“—And you have a boyfriend.”
“I was getting to that. But you should know things are complicated with me and Chris. And we’re not exactly exclusive.”
“Not exactly?”
“He’s never here. And I don’t believe in giving people rules or asking them to say no to experiences they may want to have. So, when we’re apart, he can do what he wants, and I can too.” She fingered the strings of her hoodie, pulling them back and forth like she was flossing her neck. “Don’t get me wrong; Chris is an amazing person. But he’s the exact opposite of me. He’s social. Fun. Likes to be around people all the time. I think that was the reason I was originally drawn to him. I thought maybe he’d somehow break me out of my shell. But the longer we’re together, the more I realize how incompatible we really are.” She stopped, took another drink, thought before she spoke again. “The thing is, I don’t think all relationships are meant to last forever. That doesn’t mean they’ve failed; it just means we’ve learned all we can from them, they’ve run their course, and that’s OK.” She put her glass down, ran her finger around the rim. “Have you ever been in a relationship where, even though there’s nothing obviously wrong, you just have a sense it’s not where you’re supposed to be?”
I nodded and couldn’t remember the last time I’d been more nervous or excited by a woman.
“You know what else I think?” she said. “I think love is the ultimate art project. To me, there’s nothing more beautiful, more powerful, or more meaningful than truly and purely loving another human. No expectations. No strings attached. Just the freedom to be who you are and to be loved in spite of that.”
Sometimes the way October talked made my heart long for something I couldn’t name. She had words for things I didn’t. Space for things I’d shut out.
“But it’s impossible to have that kind of relationship with someone who’s gone all the time. And even when Chris is here, he’s either working or thinking about work. And he’s not remotely interested in mine. That’s not what I want.”
I nodded. It was the best I could do.
“Listen,” she said, leaning on the counter. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when Chris gets home at the end of the month, but I know what can happen.”
I put my hands in my pockets and fiddled with the change I could feel there. “What does that mean?”
She chose her words carefully. “I’d like to spend more time with you. Outside of work, I mean. If you’re open to that.”
I shook my head and sighed. “I don’t think I’m an open relationship kind of guy. I don’t want to get in the middle of something between you and your boyfriend. And more than that, I don’t want to jeopardize my job.”
“I understand. I do. But if you tell me you’re interested in exploring this, I’ll tell Chris. I’ll break it off with him.”
I nodded, though I can’t say that made me feel any safer.
“The ball’s in your court,” October said.
That filled me with dread. I wasn’t good at having the ball, especially with women. “Why me?”
“Because I can sense your apprehension, and I don’t want to ask you for anything you don’t want to give me.”
I wanted to ask her more about Chris, but I knew the more I learned about him, the more insecure I would be, so instead I said, “What do you want?” However, I’d like to note the tone with which I asked the question. It wasn’t bold, confrontational, or flirty—tequila could only help a guy like me so much—it was detached and wary. I was petrified of the answer I might get.
“I want some more boozy milkshake,” she said, making the kind of eye contact that felt like a different and more dangerous conversation. But then she looked away, and I swore I saw her blush. “I feel nervous,” she said. “I haven’t been this nervous since The Voyage.”
I handed her the blender. “What’s The Voyage?”
She seemed relieved that I’d given her a topic of discussion, and as she refilled her glass, she began rambling on about her third Living Exhibit, which was, she said, ostensibly motivated by the aggressive anti-immigration rhetoric going on in the country at the time. But the specific details of the piece had been inspired by her great grandmother Rosa’s real-life journey to America.
She pulled up a series of photos on her phone and showed them to me. The “boat” on which the exhibit took place was a massive hydraulic platform that resembled the side of an old ship, with a steep set of steel stairs that led down to the windowless steerage of the lower deck, where the poverty-stricken travelers like her grandmother spent their journeys.
October inhabited the small, makeshift living quarters for sixteen days with a dozen performance artists from all over the world—immigrants, if you will—who had volunteered to be the other travelers on the boat.
“Back in 1916, Rosa left Italy with what amounted to forty-nine dollars in her handbag, at the age of seventeen, after her nineteen-year-old husband was killed in one of the earliest battles Italy fought against Austria-Hungary in the war.”
She showed me a photo of Rosa, taken a few months before her death at age ninety-nine. Rosa was even tinier than October, so tiny she looked as if she’d been folded in half, and her face was like pavement after a jackhammer.
“It was the most intense experience I’ve ever had during a performance, and the most challenging. I was living out this narrative that my great grandma had told me so many times, and it became so real to me that every night I would have nightmares about her dead husband and then wake up crying, full of grief and panic.”
“Is that what you feel now? Grief and panic?”
Sorrow Page 4
