“Thank you, darling. I’m with Tex tonight. Don’t need a table.” And I said, out of earshot of Jazzy, “But your company is always appreciated.”
“I’ll come by,” she said slyly.
The Rock was one of South Beach’s celebrity-friendly boîtes. It was smaller and cozier than a lot of the other Miami clubs and had great DJs who made it a dance party. It was always filled with hot girls and models and various movie and rock stars.
After successfully negotiating yet another table takeover, Tex waved at us, and we joined him and his posse of newfound honeys, several gals he had piled onto the Viagra who weren’t going to call it a night after that kind of ride. The rest of the girls had decided to stay on after the table had been literally bought off their escorts. Tex was already fueling their palms with his pocket powders as we sat down.
Mario, the portly owner, came up and comped a bottle for the table, which was gracious. But any time I appeared, he would hit me up for some reciprocal artwork. I could always feel it coming, too.
“Say, Rodrigo, when you going to do that drawing for me?”
“Mario, dear boy, I don’t really feel like getting into the restaurant business tonight. Some other time.”
Tex heard the irritation in my voice and broke up laughing, and the others caught on and laughed, too. At least they made it look like they’d understood what I meant. It was a riff off the old Picasso urban legend. Mario just walked off without saying anything.
The energy was at full tilt. The multicolored lights transformed the room into a surreal dream. I looked at Jazzy, sitting next to me, and she was crying. The lights made her makeup look like rainbows smudged with black paths where her tears were trailing down her cheeks.
“You okay?” I asked as quietly as I could.
She just held her head low and shook. I looked up and saw a bunch of people eyeballing her. It wasn’t the time or place to ask why she was crying; these people didn’t need to hear any answer that might cause trouble for her if the press got hold of it.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
We left Tex and his entourage to finish the place off, and took a taxi to the next club, an Art Basel pop-up of a New York club, housed at a local hotel.
I knew the owners from New York, and they’d informed me about the secret entrance. We were slotted at one of the best tables, and I took in the scene with a detached amusement. There were more movie stars and star athletes, and the Cristal was immediately popped and flowing. It soon turned into a splashing champagne extravaganza, and everyone was getting soaked.
I had a tableful of beautiful girls not even thinking of going home any time soon. And then it happened. As I spent some significant club time at other tables catching up with some acquaintances, I noticed Jazzy stand up at our table, slam down her drink, and run off.
“Where did she go?” I asked our waiter.
“She was mouthing off about your leaving her at the table and seemed pretty pissed. Think she went to the bathroom.”
That didn’t sound good, given Jazzy’s history and her long list of late-night weaknesses. But by then I was more concerned about the fact that she was trying to cramp my style than that she was indulging in her usual theatrics. I wondered, What the fuck am I doing here with her, anyway, when she’s acting like this?
I decided to make a bold move in the hope of salvaging the rest of my night. At the next booth over, I eyeballed two models who seemed to be good friends.
“Hey, you and you. Come with me,” I commanded.
“What?” said one.
“Now?” said the other.
They looked at each other and shrugged with smiles that seemed to appreciate my directness, after what had probably been an evening full of shy and awkward marauders hounding them but lacking the cojones to tell them what to do or where to go. All they needed was a plan.
I grabbed each by the hand and walked them to the front door. The locusts were out there flash-popping away, creating another blinding explosion, but I didn’t give a damn.
“Rodrigo!”
“Hey, amigo, look this way!”
“Who you got there?”
“Thing One and Thing Two?”
I waited for an unoccupied cab and put up with the attention from the paparazzi. After all, I didn’t like what they did, nothing about it—unless they didn’t do it, and that, it could safely be stated, was the era’s catechism.
We piled into a seventies hack and headed back to the Soho House. The ride over was forgettable.
I made a round of drinks, we got to know one another for about seven more minutes, I told them what was going to happen, that we were all on the same team. And we needed teamwork. I unzipped them out of their dresses, stripped comfortably myself, and then we powdered and sniffed off of one another’s bodies. Each line placement became riskier until we had nothing left to hide. I shredded bedsheets and made ties. I fucked them both together, then apart while the third party gave erotic boosts from above or below. But it wasn’t a one-way street or some form of male domination. They even had their way with me, to satisfy any personal needs they may have had for revenge on the male species—needs that, as I found out, were considerable.
5
THE SHOW; OR NOT
I opened sore eyes with aching eye sockets. They were fixated on something wide and white and soothing. The ceiling. For some reason, I feared casting an eye around the expansive space. Rafaela appeared in my periphery, which was a relief. I peered lower and saw that the spacious open room was empty.
I looked to Rafaela.
“They’re gone,” she said reassuringly. “I untied you.”
“Are you sure they’re gone?”
“Poz.”
“Thank God, I can have breakfast now.” I rubbed my wrists, which showed red constriction marks. “Gracias” coughed out of my throat.
“I gave them forty dollars for a taxi. You owe me.”
“No problem.”
She slapped the day’s New York Post on the bed. “Nice job.” Some of my night’s antics were featured on Page Six.
I eyeballed her and had nothing to say.
“Anyway, you have an interview in half an hour. Luckily, it’s downstairs.”
I groaned. When I was younger, and just starting out with the first exhibits of my work, I thought—as everyone does—that publicity and fame and critical acclaim would be exciting and I would love all of it. But demands on my time and energy from both the public and the press became overwhelming and repetitive, and now it was mostly the same old drill, telling the same old stories.
After a decent shower, under a showerhead large enough to provide rejuvenating steaming-hot hydrotherapy, I went downstairs and met with a bunch of journalists to talk the talk for a couple of hours. Then I had a private sit-down with a foreign art publication that wanted to feature my works in France and Italy, and despite my ennui, I had to admit that it was nice for my work to be appreciated. Afterward Rafaela and I grabbed a cab and buzzed off to the Convention Center for the preview show. I greeted everyone warmly, feeling somewhat revived and vital and of this world again.
As I was making my rounds, I heard a commotion, and Rafaela pressed my arm to get my attention. “Look at the door.” The Raven was jumping up and down, frantically gesturing, looking gamy and sweaty and still wearing his previous day’s clothes. We walked toward him.
The guard looked at us in surprise. “He says he’s a friend of yours, Mr. Concepción.”
“Yes. Let him in,” I said neutrally. As soon as he was allowed inside, he made a beeline right toward me. “Yo, what happened to you last night?” I said, playing dumb. It was the only way. “You got lost—”
“My phone wasn’t working! I told you!” he semi-shouted, and that pissed me off.
“All right. Get lost, for real—”
Since some serious collectors were standing nearby, Rafaela guided me away from the pathetic and grizzled Raven to avoid a potentially embarrassin
g scene.
“What about my five hundred bucks? I need it, Rodrigo!” he called after us, referring to his request from when we were on Tex’s plane and I was in the bathroom with the models.
Rafaela spun back and handed The Raven a twenty-dollar bill. “Now go use a pay phone.”
This encounter with The Raven, small as it was, was enough to change my mood from upbeat to dark, then angry. It happened so quickly it took me by surprise, especially since I had been savoring the attention and the positive reaction my work was receiving.
I was upset, but I spoke with each of the collectors anyway. Each worth five hundred million to a billion dollars. Schmoozing with the people who would buy my paintings was an activity I normally enjoyed, but suddenly, I didn’t care. I didn’t like them. I didn’t like the way they dressed. Or the things they said. Sure, they were smooth and urbane, but that was all a cover. They were unctuous, too. They were no better than that Israeli host at his whipping post. They might have been worse, because they caught people unaware. Fooling them. Conning them. Cheating them. At least The Whipper played it straight, as in, what you see is what you get. You come, you get whipped. You don’t come, you wonder what you missed. And basta.
Here I was, Rodrigo Concepción, a famous artist at the artist’s Super Bowl. Art Basel. And I didn’t give a shit. I truly didn’t. For quite some time now, especially whenever the downtick took over my emotions, the feeling of being disconnected, of disgust and anger at the phoniness I saw everywhere, of dissatisfaction with my own life and even my own paintings, had been building up, and I had had enough. I had always aspired to do better, to improve with each painting—any serious artist does—but during the disconnect, this feeling of discontent seemed to encompass my whole world and was something bigger than I knew how to cope with.
In this state of mind, I was relieved when Art Basel was all over and I could meet Tex and go home. In fact, now it seemed that the best part of the trip to Miami was the Gulfstream flight home. I didn’t want to be with or near anybody. Just to be alone with my sleep and my elusive dreams, the ones that would disappear into gray mist and be forgotten upon waking.
When I returned to my loft in SoHo, I lay down and fell deeply into a comatose passage, the most superior sleep of all, don’t let anyone fool you. It was needed and well deserved. And during that heaven-blessed sleep, I dreamed once again, and it was the beginning of the most amazing and life-changing series of dreams of my entire existence.
Now I will tell you that first dream, exactly as it happened.
6
LA DOLCE VITA ANCORA
In my dream, I am waking up in a cold sweat. I feel depleted and brain-dead, as one does after a big orange dose of Adderall the night before. Not chips; the full pill. Therefore, the body has little will. I’m temporarily disoriented, too—I don’t know where the hell I am, and I don’t know how long I’ve been here; it could be days, weeks, even months. I look around my bedroom quickly and see that the high ceilings are no longer high and there are no columns or murals. I’m not in SoHo. And now I spot the Italian Renaissance brass-handle doorknobs. My cellphone service is Vodafone, the TV doesn’t work, and a trip to the bathroom proves the hot water is not hot. That means one thing: I’m no longer in New York City.
I open the dresser, toss on some clothing, hop over a few paint cans in the studio, go outside, and take a neighborhood stroll. I turn the corner, and just up ahead I see a well-dressed guy pinch a girl he doesn’t know on the ass.
“Stronzo!” she yells at him. The music of Italy, I reflect. I am comforted more than you can imagine. Within minutes I’m perched on my reserved sedia at the bar. To draw my faculties to attention, I am sipping “The Rodrigo,” seated in the most touristy trattoria in the most touristy part of town in my favorite piazza in the most charming city in the fucking world: the art-for-art’s-sake jewel that is Florence.
“Bravo,” I congratulate myself. After Miami, I needed a change of pace and a change of place, and I finally did it. I got the hell out of New York.
“Che dici, Rodrigo?” Vanni the barkeep inquires.
“Just talking to myself.”
“You painters—”
Piazza della Repubblica is a wonderful square, a little pigeon-infested, but that, along with the classical facades and architecture, always gives me a lift. I am a classicist, as it were, the nuovo version. The problem with Repubblica is that it’s just too close to the breathtaking Duomo, so every tourist and transient ends up flooding through the plaza for a bite, for a birra or an afternoon caffè or vino rosso. But that is precisely what I want. On a daily basis. The most commercial restaurant of all, the Caffè Giubbe Rosse. That way no one will know me. It is so touristy that it gives me unchecked anonymity, as no pure Fiorentinos set foot in there unless they need to seduce an overseas client, use the bathroom, or haphazardly spot and target una bella donna.
The Giubbe Rosse is a glorious institution, actually, that has a scarlet aesthetic—red tablecloths, red vests on the waiters, red geraniums in boxes in a line near the outdoor tables under the tents. It’s truly a toreador’s delight. The place took its name from the “Red Shirts” of Garibaldi’s forces during the Risorgimento, a badge of honor for liberal Italians, reflected in the silent allusion of the café’s blood-red décor. Giubbe has been around since the 1900s, with a long-standing reputation as the thinking man’s hub of literati, cognoscenti, and visionaries. Poets congregated here: Montale, Papini, and Soffici. It is the writer’s café, the artist’s café; the influential magazines Solaria and Lacerba were launched here, and the memorabilia covers the walls. Though now it is a mere fossil of its former significance, I always feel the ideas, the intellectual courage, and the Futurist passion creep into my bones from the old wooden bartops. Alberto Viviani defines Giubbe Rosse as a “fucina di sogni and di passioni”—a “forge of dreams and passion.” That resonates with me fiercely, and as a modern painter, I feel like I am playing a home game when I am within the walls of Giubbe.
Though next to Milan or Rome, Firenze is a town dead to modern art, it is not dead to me. These are the streets where Brunelleschi looked up, Michelangelo sweated, Leonardo envisioned, and Botticelli breathed—and that’s good enough for me. The inspiration surges through me from the city’s cobblestone streets, plazas, and quaint bridges. In my still-confused state—how long have I been here?—I have been a Spanish-American expatriate living in Florence, and Giubbe Rosse is my midmorning ritual.
As soon as I stride in, either Vanni or Luca froths up my special macchiato, a blissful blend of espresso, steamed milk, and a healthy spike of Sambuca. They have bestowed upon me the honor of naming it the Rodrigo—even though half of Italy imbibes the same. That and a few filterless Camel cigs toot the morning reveille for my mind and let the blood make its way back to my overworked hands.
It is a Saturday, and I was up late working on a new canvas from memory, from the days when I lived in New York City. On Saturdays I always give myself a little celebratory gift after the caffeine push: I order a glass of Chianti and move from the bar to the rear corner table reserved for me beneath the tents outside.
I have a sketchpad with me and make some pencil drawings to get the circulation going. I always start the day with a flower chosen from the small Holland plates that adorn the walls of my penthouse pensione apartment. Flowers require concentration. The leaves, the blossom form—it is a suitable test. I choose the Frederique, named recently after the nineties fashion model. At first my fingers are like five little blind men, not knowing where to go or how to finesse a coherent image, much less refine it, but then they warm up. And the Chianti acts like a slow, soothing interior hearth to my soul as well.
The stem and petals come to life.
There is laughter at a table nearby, which does not deter me from my exercise. But this seemingly mundane cacophony has a twist. There is a singular woman’s voice drowning out all others, and it pierces me in an indescribably potent way. It seems I know the v
oice and have known it for a thousand years, yet I’ve never heard it before. I lift my eyes from my sketchpad and gaze over to the table beside me, where some friends are drinking prosecco.
And then I see that face. There are others at the table, but they are not her. And like poetry in action, she speaks and claims the voice of a thousand years. She looks at me and gives me a guarded, wry smile. I find myself abandoning my midday calisthenics and flipping the sketchpad to a fresh page.
She speaks up again and laughs a laugh that complements the penetrating voice. It is not a vulgar laugh; it is sweet, measured, very dignified. The voice continues on musically, telling a brief story to the table and haunting me in the process. I am entranced by it, magnetized to it, obsessed, and hypnotized all at once. And to me, her uncommon voice flows like opera.
My hand, steady and disciplined now, is attacking the paper ferociously, lest it miss a single nuance. The sweep of shoulder-length chestnut hair is slightly waved with slow curls as if from the wand of the sea. The facial bones are raised, drawing in deeply the olive-skinned cheeks. Her elegant nose is cut like a diamond, and then those lips—the upper and lower are formed perfectly and harmoniously; they’re not swollen or thick but refined and feminine, understated to perfection. Torturing my imagination is a pair of black butterfly oval eyeshades, a couture shape that only Italian sunglass artisans could devise, covering what could only be another exquisite feature.
My eyes dart to and from her face, and I puppeteer my hand, guiding it to the best of my ability. I attempt to calm it, since it is as excited as I am and I don’t want it to get spastic. My Chianti is neglected, as I am consumed with my subject.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 3
