To my pappy, my family, the love of my life Michael, and to all of my collectors who believed in me along the way, and not only just believed in me, but spent their hard-earned money on my work. Every single one of you is a part of my story and the reason I am where I am now . . . and on that note, I’d like to thank all of the galleries who said I wasn’t marketable and the mean girls who said I would never amount to anything . . . suck it bitches . . .
1
My Name Is Ashley Motherfucking Longshore
2
Painting Masturbating Couples in Montana
3
The Boyfriend from Moneyville, USA
4
Getting Fired Can Light a Fire
5
The Art of Self-Promotion
6
A Not-So-Desperate Housewife
7
When You Know, You Know
8
Superhero Artist Vibes
9
Carpe Diem, Bitches
10
The A–Z of Being Ambitchous
Acknowledgments
About the Artiste / Superpussy / Author
1
My Name Is Ashley Motherfucking Longshore
OKAY, Y’ALL listen, you. You bought this book—you asked—so here it goes.
My name is Ashley Motherfucking Longshore. I’m a self-taught artist, originally from Montgomery, Alabama. I’m an entrepreneur. I’m an American. I’m a woman. And I am really grateful to have been born in this wonderful motherfucking country.
Here’s the thing, though. Growing up in the South, I was raised to be a trophy wife, to be the chair of one thing or another, to espouse meaningless causes, to be president of the Junior League or secretary of the Garden Club, or all of the above. I should be driving a Mercedes-Benz SUV full of screaming kids, rushing home to my lawyer husband, who won’t be back till late because he’s banging his trainer, but I didn’t go that route. That’s because I’m different. I was born different. I was the weird kid who got picked on because I had a big voice and a loud personality, and I insisted on doing things my way. Or not at all.
Started early, too. All the way back in kindergarten. I had so much energy, my mother tried to exhaust me with extracurricular activities: ballet, tap, jazz, voice, gymnastics, swimming. Not painting, though. I was a ball of fire. Momma didn’t think I could sit still long enough to paint.
That poor woman. Tried so hard to turn me into a Southern lady.
“Why have you got to be so different, child?” she’d say. “Why can’t you be like these other darling girls?”
“I don’t know,” I’d say. “I’m sorry.”
And I wept. Because being different is challenging.
I tried, though. Tried almost as hard as she did. I went to little-girl tea parties in the finest lace dresses. I went to kiddie balls. I wore a bonnet every Easter, for Christ’s sake, and if I took it off, I didn’t get to eat any of my yummy chocolate bunnies.
And speaking of dudes on the cross, don’t get me started on Sunday school. What are we doing indoors in this sweltering heat, belting out sappy hymns and hollering hallelujahs? I mean, seriously, is this “God’s way”?
As I got older, I tried to rein in my energy, but it wasn’t easy. I hated those starchy dresses and pinchy shoes. I hated having my hair done. I hated standing up straight, like those future home-wreckers of America, and learning how to smile “from the inside.”
“I DO DECLARE,” MY MOTHER WOULD SAY, CLEARLY AT THE END OF HER ROPE. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO BECOME OF YOU, SARAH ASHLEY.”
“I do declare,” my mother would say, clearly at the end of her rope. “I don’t know what’s going to become of you, Sarah Ashley.”
That didn’t bode well. It gave me a lot of angst about the future. By the time I was a pubescent teen, I was already wondering: What is wrong with me? Why am I not thinking about the cotillion? And what’s all this talk about those new folks across the street not having the right pedigree? I thought pedigrees were for dogs?
Then one fine day, shortly after I turned sixteen, my parents went away for the weekend. I threw a wild party to celebrate. Best party evah! Except in the middle of the wild festivities, my mother walked in unannounced and sent everyone home. She said she was psychic—had a feeling, turned that car right around, and sped the hell back.
Found my stash, too. Was about to flush it down the toilet when she thought better of it and called the cops instead. Narced me the hell out. Her own daughter. To the cops. Asked me to narc out my friends, but I refused, of course, because I’m a true lady.
They celebrated my difference. They let me be whatever I wanted to be. And you know what I was? A straight-A student, that’s what.
“You are your father’s child!” my mother said in that lilting wail, the back of her hand pressed to her moist forehead. “I can’t do this a moment longer. You, young lady, are going to boarding school.”
Oh, my God! Seriously? Best thing evah.
I ended up at Brenau Academy, the oldest girls’ preparatory school in the sacred state of Georgia. And guess what, bitches, they loved me. They loved my energy. They celebrated my difference. They let me be whatever I wanted to be. And you know what I was? A straight-A student, that’s what. I got so many awards and commendations that people thought the system was rigged. I was voted “Class Favorite” and “Most Likely to Succeed.”
Imagine that. Me. Miss Different.
Momma, I’m gonna tell you where you can put that Easter bonnet.
2
Painting Masturbating Couples in Montana
AFTER GRADUATING with honors, I went to Ole Miss, to make my parents happy. Ole Miss felt like a cuntry club. (And yes, I spelled that correctly.) Sorority rush, my God—what is that? Pi Beta Phi this, bitches. Girls squealing with delight when they got in, fainting in horror when they didn’t. The mission of our blessed sorority is to promote friendship among accomplished young women. Excuse me for hurling.
I lasted six weeks. Went home. Sorry, can’t do it.
My mother was devastated. She’d had my entire life planned out from the day I popped out of her vajayjay. I’m sure it would’ve been easier to dress pretty, fawn over those big-eared boys, and learn my dance steps, but I couldn’t do it. Not even a choice, really. More like a voice in my head saying, Ashley Longshore, you are never going to be like these other girls, so get used to it.
True story: The day I left Ole Miss, some dude on the radio was singing some mournful song about Montana. I liked the sound of his voice and I liked the sound of Montana, so I got home and I told my daddy, “Daddy, I want to go to Montana.” And he said, “Cool.” And the next thing I know, our flight is landing in Missoula, and I could see the U of M campus from the air, nestled in there among the mountains. I looked at my daddy and said, “Wow, this is an adventure. This is what I want.”
It got better. Trees and wide-open spaces and bowlegged men in hiking boots. And not a single Southern belle in sight.
“Looks nice,” my father said.
I hugged him close. All I could think was, Bless his advertising executive soul.
Before I knew it, I was snowboarding, hunting pheasants, and fly-fishing with flies I had tied myself. From bird feathers. They were real purdy, and the trout seemed to like them a lot more than everyone else’s flies, maybe because I used my own pubic hair. The shit you do when you’re stoned. Crazy.
Then one day I was in town and found myself looking in the window of a paint store. Not Benjamin Moore paint—I’m talking paint paint, for artists and tortured souls and such. My father had given me an American Express card to use in emergencies, and this wasn’t exactly
an emergency, so I called him long-distance, collect. “Daddy, I’m going to get a hobby,” I said. “I want to paint and play drums.”
BEING AMBITCHOUS MEANS BEING A BIGGER BITCH THAN THE AVERAGE BITCH.
And my daddy said, “Okay.”
I bought forty-seven dollars’ worth of brushes, canvases, and paint, went across the street and bought a pair of Pearl bongo drums, and went back to my dorm and started painting. Ten minutes later, I looked up at the clock and it was like, “Holy shit! Seven hours have gone by.”
I took a break, and for the next hour or two, I wailed away on those bongos. But the painting took precedence. I couldn’t stop.
My first finished painting was of a dancing bear. Don’t ask me why. I painted some nature shit, too, because it was all around me. I’m telling you, in Montana there is no getting away from nature.
Then I painted a masturbating couple. They looked whimsical and kind of foreign, like they lived in Rio de Janeiro or something, and I put them on separate canvases so they could masturbate privately. Then I painted a French couple, also masturbating. I can’t for the life of me figure out why masturbating was so important to me. Can you? (But if I die before my time, I’d like my little sister to hurry over and empty out my nightstand drawer. Lord, there’s enough dildos and lube to raise the Titanic in that thing—and any woman who’s honest will tell you the same thing.)
After I’d done half a dozen paintings, I borrowed a camera and took photographs of my work. I was a complete beginner, but I decided I should start getting my portfolio together right away. Why wait? I then found out that art galleries prefer slides to photographs, so I went back, made slides, and began submitting them around town. I got a succession of fuck you letters. “Thank you so much for submitting your work. We’re currently not taking any new artists.” Or, “Thank you for your interest in our wonderful gallery. We do not work in this genre.” Or my favorite, “Good luck finding someone to market your shit,” (but not in those exact words). Let me tell you, I’ve been turned down more fucking times than a bed in a cheap motel.
It was upsetting—then. But occasionally I think back to those early days and can’t help but gloat. Y’all didn’t think my work was marketable? How do you fools feel now?
That’s today. Back then, though, I did a lot of sobbing. Sometimes I’d call my dad and sob a little for him. Bless that man. He was so kind. All he wanted was for my sister and me to be happy. He was a self-made entrepreneur, so he knew it was tough, especially for women, and even more for sensitive Southern women. And since he was a man, and couldn’t help but think like a man, he sometimes talked like a man. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Ash. You and your sister are going to find yourselves some really nice guys that are gonna take care of y’all. Ashley, you’ll be able to paint all the livelong day, and Allyson’s going to be free to do her fashion thang, and you are both going to lead good, happy lives.”
For about a minute, every time I spoke to my daddy, I’d let my imagination run wild. I’d picture myself in a fancy SUV with seven screaming kids, and I’d picture the rich husband, who, for some inexplicable reason, had bought me a strap-on for my birthday. (It’s for your pleasure, honey, so you should have waited for your birthday.) I’d wake up smiling in a big house, have breakfast, and do my Kegels (because, ladies, you gotta keep it tight to stay right), and then go off to play tennis for an hour and have lunch with the girls. After lunch, I’d call the nanny and ask her to please pick up the kids from school because I’d had one drink too many. Then I’d go home and nap until my trainer shows up. My trainer is hot. I try not to think about that.
I’d also picture myself on a bed, naked, covered in hundred-dollar bills, next to a guy who’s not my husband. Who could also be my trainer.
BEING AMBITCHOUS IS COMPLETELY RELATIVE TO THE SUBJECT, BUT I WAS ALWAYS TAUGHT THAT IT’S IMPORTANT TO BE AMBITCHOUS IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER. IT’S WHAT DRIVES YOU, WHAT LIGHTS THE FIRE UNDER YOUR ASS AND LETS YOU ACCOMPLISH AMAZING THINGS.
But then I’d get past those misleadingly seductive images and remember that I was a woman, goddamn it, and I wanted to make my own money—that I didn’t need anyone to take care of me except myself.
Because even though my daddy wanted his girls to be taken care of, he also raised me to work hard, strive for success, and be ambitchous (well, he probably didn’t use that word). Being ambitchous means being a bigger bitch than the average bitch. And being a “bitch” isn’t about being mean to other women—it means smashing goals, excelling, and not fucking apologizing for it.
Your ambitchion could be sucking the biggest dick to get the biggest crocodile Birkin that has ever been made, or it could be fighting fiercely to make it in a male-dominated world. Being ambitchous is completely relative to the subject, but I was always taught that it’s important to be ambitchous in one way or another. It’s what drives you, what lights the fire under your ass and lets you accomplish amazing shit.
And honestly, I couldn’t see myself walking up to my husband and asking for permission to buy a pair of Louboutin shoes. I mean, if you can tell teenagers that it means so much more when they earn it themselves, why can’t you tell that to a grown-ass woman? I’d much rather wake up early, work hard, and rely on myself than fuck a guy who’s long in the nut and have his testicles scraping over my nose three times a day just to get a new Chanel bag. That just isn’t fucking worth it.
I’d also picture myself on a bed, naked, covered in hundred-dollar bills, next to a guy who’s not my husband.
I had value, damn it. I knew that if I worked hard and painted like my life depended on it, people would eventually take notice. Until such time, however, I could cry. And I did. But then I’d dry my tears and watch it snow, or go float down a roaring river in a rubber raft, or learn to ride horses, or camp with buff guys with big-ass beards. Being surrounded by nature showed me that there was more to life than status and greed. It was awesome. I was out duck hunting one morning with a Remington side-by-side, and dawn broke, and ten thousand geese flew across the rosy morning sky. Holy shit, God can paint!
One day I called my dad. “I’m taking a semester off,” I said. “I need a break from finite math, the humanities, and literature. And frankly, I don’t know why the hell I’m taking literature, because I hate to read.”
“That’s not going to happen, Ash,” my father said. “You are staying in school.”
I didn’t argue with him. There was no point. I’d already dropped all my classes. I didn’t have time for academics. I was busy painting. I took more photographs of my work and decided to visit the local galleries in person. I mean, I am Ashley Motherfucking Longshore! How could these people resist?
And here’s the thing: Looking at the galleries in Missoula, I saw a lot of paintings of elk, bald eagles, and Native Americans astride handsome steeds. What I didn’t see was masturbating foreigners. Then I walked into the very last place on my list, and I was delighted to find that they weren’t fans of nature, or even the Old West. They actually had some stuff on the walls that was open to interpretation.
The owner wasn’t there, unfortunately, so I left my portfolio with her assistant. And the very next day, the owner called and asked me to come in for coffee. “You’re not bad,” she said. “I’ll give you a show.”
I wanted to hug her. She was this really nice lady, and I found out later that she was the daughter of a foreign former president. She ended up buying my masturbating French couple and putting the painting on the most prominent wall in her dining room. She thought it made a great conversation piece. “How many times a day do y’all masturbate?” she’d ask her dinner guests, in that sexy accent.
I INVITED everyone I knew to the opening night, and asked them to invite everyone they knew. I walked around campus handing out flyers to complete strangers, talking in that loud “big girl” voice that used to get on my mother’s nerves. “Hey, ya’ll! Big art opening in Missoula tonight. Should be loads of fun.”
Then I
had this crazy idea that I wanted the show to be like an art opening in Prague. I’d never been to Prague, but I knew they were partial to loud techno music, and I’d read that they were also big on “performance” art. So I asked my friend Sally to come and pose in front of the guests during the festivities, right there in the gallery, so I could paint her live, and people could watch a real artist at work.
Then I called the local paper and told them that they shouldn’t miss the show. It was going to be the best opening this side of Czechoslovakia. (Only I couldn’t spell Czechoslovakia, so I said Prague.) “You guys really need to be there,” I said. “This is not something you want to miss.”
The show was a big hit, and my friends had a wonderful time, mostly because we all smoked a shit-ton of weed before we went. But even my nonfriends seemed to enjoy it, too. And the guy from the local paper was pretty impressed. He watched me paint my friend Sally, and made notes to himself in his little reporter’s pad. The next day, the paper said nice things about my unusual work and described me as “gregarious.”
I sold three paintings, for a total of $800. The gallerist got half. But then she used part of that to buy the French masturbators, so it all worked out.
I had arrived! I was an artist! People were paying actual money for an Ashley Longshore! I was going to make so much money that I wasn’t going to be able to spend it!
The next day I went to the local farmers’ market and bought a massive basket of peaches. Then I went to a local store and found a greeting card of a man in leather chaps and nothing else, with his hairy ass front and center. I wrote the reporter a note. “Thank you so much for the fucking exposure. I really appreciate it. Love, Ashley Longshore.”
I delivered the peaches and the card in person, and the next day, they mentioned it in the editorial. It was accompanied by an image of the card, and they included my note, but edited out the word “fucking.”
You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy Page 1
