WE WERE LIKE A LESBIAN COUPLE: ONE WEEK INTO OUR RELATIONSHIP, AND WE WERE READY TO PACK UP THE U-HAUL AND SPEND THE REST OF OUR LIVES TOGETHER.
8
Superhero Artist Vibes
MEANWHILE, BACK AT MY studio, my baller artist vibes were in full force. I was starting to build up a bit of a collector base, and my voice was really growing stronger as an artist. The experience of overcoming failure had really boosted my confidence. So, I decided to treat myself to some time with the ladies. One of my clients invited me to lunch with a bunch of local socialites, potential new clients, and it dragged on for three hours. Every time one of them got up to pee, all the other women began talking shit about her. “The whole town knows her husband’s having an affair.” “If I were her, I’d sue that plastic surgeon.” “She’s got two boys, and one is weirder than the next. Maybe that look-alike husband of hers is actually her brother.”
I swear to God, I was so scared to leave the table I gave myself a bladder infection. I guess it was worth it—I sold a couple of paintings—but now I’m mostly scared to do those kinds of lunches. I guess I could always wear Depends, like that woman astronaut.
WHILE WE WERE WAITING FOR THE VALET TO BRING THEIR FANCY CARS, ALL I HEARD WAS: “DO I LOOK FAT? REALLY, DO I LOOK FAT?” AND I’M THINKING, “YOU DON’T LOOK FAT, YOU LOOK CRAZY!”
But here’s the thing. That lunch gave me fodder. Why did these women have to be so mean? And the shit they worried about! Every last one of them was on a diet, picking at her food like a bird, and it got to a point where I just wanted to mind my own business and take the food right off their plates.
While we were waiting for the valet to bring their fancy cars, all I heard was: “Do I look fat? Really, do I look fat?” And I’m thinking, “You don’t look fat, you look crazy!”
I knew that instant that I had to go home and paint that. And that’s exactly what I did. And I wasn’t being mean, like some of them; I was, in fact, making the world a better place by holding up a mirror to these women so they could get some sense and stop torturing themselves and each other.
You ever watch any of that Real Housewives bullshit? It’s a bunch of really angry, emaciated women who’ve been waxed, lasered, and plucked to within an inch of their lives, who spend every waking moment trying not to eat. You know why they’re angry? Because they’re hungry. Don’t fucking do that to yourself.
AFTER THAT encounter, more socially conscious work followed. I did a whole series inspired by hedge-fund billionaires. I had a close-up of Benjamin Franklin on the dollar bill, wearing a red clown nose, with the words “I’ll Make You Hollar for a Dollar” stamped across the front. Another said, “Always Ask for More.” And still another said “Mine Is Bigger Than Yours.” But my very favorite was “How to Win Friends and Secure Major Poontang.”
I painted a grown man on a tricycle with the words “The Bugatti Has a Flat and the Jet Is Out of Fuel. Now What?” as a statement on American success. So many people spend every dime they make just to show how much money they have. And the minute that shit isn’t perfect and the money ain’t flowin’ like Dom Pérignon, they hightail it out of there. They’re all flash and no substance.
Guess who bought those paintings. All the hedge-fund guys. Thank you, you filthy rich guys, for sharing your wealth with a needy artist such as me. You guys are okay. And we’re not that different, you and I. Remember what Andy Warhol said? “Being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art. Making money is art and working is art, and good business is the best art.”
None of us is perfect. We all make mistakes. And we’re all trying to make sense of this business of living.
Then I began to travel and really see the world. I went overseas to Europe and India, and it made me appreciate this great country that much more. Most countries treat their women like shit, often in the name of religion, and those experiences inspired my Holy Fuck! series. I have nothing but the utmost respect for religion—all religion—but it’s bullshit that it’s used as an excuse to treat women like second-class citizens and worse just because men are threatened by our strength and beauty.
I was inspired to paint Kate Moss as a nun. She was covered in a habit, but she was still Kate Moss, still beautiful, and that was the message: Instead of relegating women to the shadows, you should be celebrating them.
It pissed me off. Women gave birth to you. Raised you. And this is how you show your appreciation? Motherhood is some powerful shit. Women are not getting their due. This is very wrong. No one should be devalued because of their genitalia.
As it happened, I was thinking these deep thoughts on National Woman’s Day, so I posted a little something on Instagram: “Here’s to all the mothers out there. I have so much respect for you. I don’t know how you have the time to do all that you do. You are an inspiration to me.”
THE GREATEST MENTORS I HAVE HAD ARE MOTHERS. THEY ARE BADASS BITCHES, BOSSES, AND WONDER WOMEN.
Almost immediately, an angry woman wrote back: “Why do you hate women so much? Why don’t you understand that there are millions of women who haven’t chosen the same route as you? Why do you make fun of women who wear workout clothes? Or who take Pilates? Or who like pretty things!”
I was like, I can’t believe this. I was trying to say something nice, something supportive to a group of women I admire and respect. The greatest mentors I have had are mothers. They are badass bitches, bosses, and Wonder Women. Motherhood is supremely hard, and I’m only guessing, because I’m not a mother. After eighteen years of hell, your kid goes off to college and doesn’t even answer your texts! Uh-oh. That is so not right.
But this angry woman wouldn’t stop. “You mock us, and you know nothing about us!”
Mock you?! Lady, I’m not mocking anybody. I’m trying to understand the world around me. Forgive me if I do it with a sense of humor, which clearly you don’t have. I have society ladies coming into my studio and looking at paintings of society ladies just like themselves, and they buy them. Why? Because they get it. They have a sense of humor.
None of us is perfect. We all make mistakes. And we’re all trying to make sense of this business of living.
I’m not criticizing. I’m observing. I’m creating. And creating makes me happy. When I paint, I express myself. When someone buys one of my paintings, they are not only acknowledging my right to express myself, they are telling me that they like what I have to say. This is a very intimate relationship. By hanging my painting on your wall, you’re basically living with me . . . well, at least with my spirit. We have something in common now—we are family. Does it get any better than that? I think not.
And not to get all existential on your asses, but I think all of us have an innate need to communicate, to connect. It’s hard out there, and doubly hard when you’re alone. When I paint, I’m listening to my inner voice, putting my feelings on the canvas, and reaching out. That’s what art is about, communicating. Hell, that’s what life is about.
I paint from the inside. My paintings are bold, bright, opulent, defiant, and—yes—snarky. But people don’t seem to mind.
9
Carpe Diem, Bitches
ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO, shit started happening in earnest. I got a call from Forbes magazine; they liked my work. Anthropologie, the big retailer, was doing a massive project in Portugal, and they wanted me to be part of it. The Cornell Museum gave me a show, Bling: Art That Shines. I got a call from the Bryant Park Hotel, in New York, asking if I would help them create an “Ashley Longshore Suite” for New York Fashion Week. Hello?! Are you fucking kidding me?! A few weeks later, I arrived in Manhattan with a truckload of paintings.
Millions of people showed up at the Bryant Park Hotel (okay, I’m exaggerating just a little) to check out the Ashley Longshore Suite. And when I got back to New Orleans, feeling justifiably giddy but working hard not to let it go to my head, I got a call from a local cinematographer. He was doing a movie in New Orleans with Salma Hayek, and she had developed an inter
est in painting when she starred in that Frida Kahlo film, which was called, curiously enough, Frida. Salma had seen my work and she wanted to meet, and he was having a little party at his house on Saturday. “Are you free?” he asked.
Well, let’s see. I’m free Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday—and every night for the rest of my life.
Not long after, I’m sitting in my studio with the gorgeous Salma Hayek, walking her through the paces, talking it through. “I work in layers, Salma. May I call you Salma? First I paint the image, in acrylic, because I’m impatient, and acrylic dries fast. Then I add glitter, gloss, shine, and sparkle. I like to go big. I like my work to be over the top. Just like I am.”
My brush with beautiful, successful celebrities didn’t end here. A year later, Blake Lively floated into my New Orleans studio. Now she is one of my biggest collectors. As a fellow artist, she understands the process and the artistry and appreciates me the way one kick-ass successful woman appreciates another. I even taught her how to paint, and let me tell you, she is not just a gorgeous, talented actress. Girl knows her colors!
AT THE END of the day, I work this hard because I like to express myself, but also because my true definition of success is the ability to take care of myself. I work hard so I don’t ever have to ask anyone for a goddamn thing. So I don’t have to suck a dick for anything in my life. I suck it ’cause I want to, not ’cause I have to.
I like to buy myself nice shit, and I have more than my fair share of designer purses. I like to go to Paris for a weekend to walk along the Seine eating macarons. And I’d love to visit Girona, Spain, and have dinner at El Celler de Can Roca, which is supposed to be the best restaurant in the world (this week).
What I’d really love is to have my own private jet, and I’m not talking a tin can, either—I need a Gulfstream G650ER Challenger, or a Bombardier Challenger. Something with serious range, so I can roll with my people. I’d call it Thunderpussy. It would be cherry red—that sparkly red that looks good on lowriders. And I’d paint the tail-wing myself, a black pussycat with a lighting bolt through it. And whenever Thunderpussy would come in for a landing, breaking through the clouds, people would look up at the sky and point and say, “Oh, my God! It’s Thunderpussy. Ashley Longshore is here!”
YOU’VE GOT TO WANT IT SO BADLY YOU NEVER STOP PUSHING YOURSELF. SOMETIMES TO THE POINT OF MADNESS.
That feels right. That’s worth working hard as fuck for.
But for the record, hard work becomes a lot easier when you love what you do.
And it’s possible, people.
From the moment I picked up a paintbrush, back in my dorm in Montana, I identified as an artist. I decided it was my calling, and I never wavered. When I started painting, I was self-taught. I didn’t take lessons. I didn’t read The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Painting. I sat down and worked until I did it. And now there’s only one Ashley Longshore.
I had to go through hell to get here, and I still have days when I can’t get out of bed. It’s not all wine and roses, people. I still struggle. I still have doubts. And even now, with things humming along, with the machinery in high gear, there is still shit to take care of. It’s great to be doing well, but I have to keep working, even when I’m not at my best. Yeah, I get the blues from time to time, but the show must go on. You don’t get a spread in Vogue by whining. You do it by dragging your ass out of bed, even on the bad days, and getting your shit together. And when the next bad day comes along, you do a little yoga and try to meditate for your full twenty minutes without cheating, and you drag your sorry ass to the studio. That’s the way it’s done, people. I don’t know any other way. And I’ll tell you this: It’s working for me. More often than not, I feel really fucking good about the life I’ve created for myself. I’m like a steam train with a paintbrush. I keep fighting the good fight, because that’s what it’s about. Doing good work. Producing. Creating.
You have to grab life by the balls. You have to do it. Nobody really gives a shit about your hopes and dreams. The sooner you come to terms with that, the more likely you are to succeed.
You’ve got to want it. Badly. You’ve got to want it so badly you never stop pushing yourself. Sometimes to the point of madness.
That also happens to be the Secret of Life: You fall down; you get up. It’s that simple—trust me.
Carpe diem, bitches. Fuck yeah.
10
The A–Z of Being Ambitchous
A
ANNA WINTOUR: “I WOULD FUCK ME”
Sometimes I think that everything we do is about being fuckable. The dresses we wear, the purse we carry, the high-heels we stuff our feet into, the right plastic surgeon to hack up our faces. It’s sad. I think every girl should look in the mirror every morning and say, “I would fuck me.” It’s a great way to start the day. Maybe I should put that on a greeting card. That’s what it says on the front. Then you open it and it says, “But I wouldn’t fuck you.”
ART
I love art. I love artists. I want all artists to succeed. Art makes the world a better place. Please do your part; feed your local artists; help them make their rent. Without art, the world would be a dull and lonely place. Know them, love them, embrace them, support them.
ASSHOLES
Got no use for them. This one rich guy I sort of knew—I hadn’t seen him in a while—he read about me in a magazine, saw me on TV, and ended up coming to one of my shows in New York. He came over and said, “It looks like you’re finally turning into somebody.” And I thought, “No, asshole. I’ve always been somebody. But you—even with all that money—you’re nobody.” Ain’t that the truth?
ASSHOLES, PART 2
Bleaching. Not my thing. The asshole is not on the menu. But you go right ahead.
B
BENJAMIN “BENJI” FRANKLIN
To me, Benji is the biggest pop icon of success. That image on the hundred-dollar bill says so much about American greed, which is why billionaires and hedgies love him. What I don’t get is: How do you get on the hundred-dollar bill with a face like that? Well, I did a painting of him wearing a shirt that says “Moose Cock,” because even though I know the real reason he’s on the hundred-dollar bill is that he did a big deal with France that made us a ton of money, in my mind, it was because he had a huge dick.
“No, asshole. I’ve always been somebody. But you—even with all that money—you’re nobody.”
“BIG GIRL PANTIES”
The message here is very simple. Stop complaining about that rich asshole you married. Stop complaining about your fake friends. Stop complaining about your ungrateful kids. Stop complaining, period. Just woman the fuck up, put on your big girl panties, and deal with it. And do it now, because one day it’ll be too late. We all need a fucking purpose. Just get on with it.
“BITCHOPOTAMUS”
That’s the biggest bitch in the room. That’s the one I’m looking at. That’s the queen bee. But if she comes to my show and whips out a black AmEx card, I’ll forgive her anything.
“BOTTLE FED”
Veuve Cliquot is one of my favorite Champagnes. So is Billecart-Salmon. And so is anything that doesn’t taste like rat piss with bubbles. Champagne makes a statement. “I’ve arrived, bitches.” I also happen to like Champagne. So, sometimes it’s not just about status. Sometimes drinking good champagne is really about drinking good champagne. And fuck a glass—it comes in one already!
C
CHRONIC MASTURBATION
I see trophy wives who don’t have jobs or do anything with their lives, and I’m thinking, What the fuck? You must be a chronic masturbator; that must be your excuse. Honestly, that’s the only excuse I’d really go for.
CRYING AT BERGDORF’S
There is no crying at Bergdorf’s, and I know that because I did cry at Bergdorf’s. I was shopping there, and I found some gorgeous clothes, and I went into the dressing room to try them on. Only there was not enough Lycra or Spanx in the world to make that shit fit me. So I got upset, first at
myself because there’s this list of shit that as a woman I should be doing in my life, like exercising so my waist is eighteen fucking inches around. And in this dressing room with awful lighting, I felt like I had failed. Sometimes when you’re a woman, you just fucking crack, and that could be right in the middle of fucking Bergdorf’s. But, really, are you shitting me with some of those sample sizes? They’re for fucking Japanese babies. I’m a fucking woman; I have tits, okay?
D
“DOUBLE-COMMA MAMA”
I always said I wanted to be a double-comma mama. Hit that million-dollar mark. That shit is golden. Even though a million dollars ain’t what it used to be, there’s still something about making seven figures that must feel real good.
E
EXPECTATIONS
You Don't Look Fat, You Look Crazy Page 4
