by Andy Behrman
One Saturday I feel like spending money at Barneys. I find a good-looking and slightly hip young salesman, who looks like he probably came to New York from Indiana to model after college, to show me some casual jackets. We pick out about six or seven, and I’m trying on one after another, looking in the mirror, asking him for his opinion. “It’s a great-looking jacket,” he says. “And I’ve got the perfect turtleneck for it,” he adds. I make a mental note: turtleneck with black-and-white checked jacket. I switch to the next one, a simple navy blue blazer. “Oh, this is a good one,” I say. “I’ve got to have this one.” The next one, gray, looks fantastic, too. He smiles at me and laughs. “Should we keep going?” he asks. I try on the others, a black one, a dark brown one, and a maroon one, and now I’m totally confused and tell him that I have to think about it for a while. I guess people do this to him all day, because he doesn’t seem too upset. I go look at shoes and find a pair of black boots that is exactly what I’ve been meaning to buy. They’re ankle-length and have a simple buckle on the side. The salesman tells me that he has another pair with a slightly different heel, and he brings both out. I tell him I’ll take both. $650. Simple. My mind is focused on the jacket dilemma. I go back and I don’t see Indiana man. I need to find him. I don’t know his name. Finally, he appears from behind one of those mystery curtains that leads to nowhere, recognizes me, and smiles. “You’re back. Have you made up your mind?” he asks. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m going to take the black-and-white checked one, the navy blue one, the gray one, and the black one.” He looks surprised. I feel like I’ve redeemed myself. “Do you want to look at some pants and shirts?” he asks. “Sure,” I tell him. “And the turtleneck for the black-and-white checked jacket you mentioned.” He shows me around, we pick out some pants and shirts, and I go into the dressing room to try everything on. I’m sweating and my head starts pounding. The tailor comes and hems the pants and fixes the sleeves and it’s a done deal. $6,200. Indiana guy shakes my hand and tells me the clothes will be delivered by the end of the week. “Thanks for your help,” I say. I don’t go more than one hundred yards when I see a black cashmere V-neck sweater that I love instantly. There’s no reason for me to ask a salesman for assistance because there are no questions to be asked. Do you have the $500 or don’t you? I’m feeling kind of torn and thinking about returning the boots because they were $650, but I’ve just spent over $6,000. The sweater is incredible, too. I can pay cash for it, and not feel as guilty. A saleswoman approaches me. “Do you need any help?” she asks. “No, I was just looking at this sweater,” I tell her. “I can show you others, if you’d like?” she asks. Others? There are others to consider? My mind is racing. She shows me an entire counter filled with cashmere sweaters in all different styles. I take off my coat and start trying on sweaters and looking in the mirror. I’m sweating like crazy. The black cashmere V-neck sweater in the case is $800. I touch it and it feels luxurious. I’ll take it. “You’ll have these sweaters for years,” she tells me. So I also buy a navy blue cashmere crewneck for $500. I’m getting the urge to buy another, but at this point I’m so hot, I just want to get some air. “How would you like to pay for this?” she asks me. “Cash,” I tell her. I pull a wad of bills out of my wallet and pay her for the purchase. She seems surprised. I’ve spent more than $8,000 in three hours, and I’m only making $20,000 a month, so I’m feeling pretty guilty at the moment. On my way out of the store, I realize the only thing I’ve forgotten is some Kiehl’s tea tree oil shampoo, so I run over to the counter and pick up the shampoo and a few other things: conditioner, scrub, soap, and toner. The saleswoman rings it up, and then I ask her if I can add something to it. She sighs deeply. I throw in a tube of shaving cream. I pay for the items, she wraps them up and puts them in a bag, and I find my way out the front door onto the street and into a cab, where I collapse. My three-hour high at Barneys is similar to what it feels like to prolong an orgasm for hours and hours. There’s a brief moment of guilt overshadowed by euphoria, and part of me wants to return it all (and sometimes I do several days later), but usually I move on to the next store after a few deep breaths and do the same thing all over again. It’s kind of like marathon masturbating.
In the Buff
Allison and I escape the city most weekends, flying to Martha’s Vineyard and staying at bed-and-breakfasts. We spend our days at our favorite beach, a nude beach at Gay Head, and in the evenings we go out for dinner and a movie. It sounds like a relaxing way to spend the weekends, but I’m finding that I’m not that good at having fun on these trips. The peace irks me; I need more stimulation. I’m much better in the city, running from museums to stores to bars to restaurants, than on the beach, lying around tanning my butt. I notice for the first time ever that I can’t sit still for more than ten minutes. Sometimes we go with Allison’s friends, which for me the first time was somewhat awkward but for her seemed perfectly natural. She appears to be perfectly comfortable walking around naked, aware of both men and women looking at her as she walks on the beach or just lies in the sand. I’m just totally aroused by the entire situation. But otherwise, I can’t understand why people flock to the beach to do absolutely nothing but look at the clouds and sky and the water and lie in the sun. I get hot. My organs get edgy. I can feel them moving around inside. I remind myself not to go to the beach ever again. My agitation causes a great deal of uneasiness between Allison and me; she can’t understand why I just can’t naturally unwind the same way that she does, and it drives her crazy. She feels like I’m purposely trying to ruin her vacation. She thinks that I’m too involved in my career and that I can’t keep my mind off it. Actually, I’m more focused on her being exposed and watching her interact with other people. There’s a group of young college guys, sitting about twenty-five yards away, looking in our direction. One of them comes over to us, his cock swinging out in front of him, and asks Allison if she has an extra cigarette. I’m amazed that she handles this request without any embarrassment and am kind of turned on. Later they watch her wade into the ocean. I am in awe of her body: her firm, round breasts, her small waist, her tight ass. She seems to get embarrassed when I stare at her. Our relationship feels like a bad marriage again, and we barely speak to each other. I’m holding on to the relationship and trying to make it work out because I feel terribly responsible for its success and for taking care of her. And I am much too involved in my work and in building a career. But my brain is moving too quickly for me to be lying naked in a pile of sand and soaking up cancer-causing ultraviolet rays that will prematurely age me and be the cause of my death in thirty years.
The (Con) Artist and His Muse
Kostabi World begins to come together, and it’s exciting to see Mark’s ego and ambition (and therefore mine) take such physical shape. The first floor of the building is used as an exhibition space; the second floor houses my office, an outer office, and the “think tank” and serves as a storage space for paintings; and the third floor is the actual painting studio, where close to twenty paintings are churned out each week. I am constantly taking private clients and dealers from one floor to the next, showing them lithographs and paintings and giving them a sense of how a Kostabi is produced. Mark’s office on the second floor is removed from most of the activity—it’s in the rear of the building—so he’s kind of out of the loop. Most of the time we’re not even aware he’s there.
Mark and I start spending a lot of time together socially, although we only talk about business. For dinner we go to Trattoria dell’Arte, one of his favorite restaurants. He delights me with clever sketches on a small pad as we wait for our meal to be served. He draws a faceless man carrying a dollar sign on his back. Another faceless image with a television as a head. Sometimes they’re very good, even usable. I’ll give them to his idea person, Lis Fields, when I go to work in the morning, and she’ll throw them into a pile, to be turned into actual drawings and later, if approved, paintings. The food comes to the table, and Mark stops everything he’s doing; he i
s very serious about eating. I talk about the possibility of getting him on Letterman, and he likes that—he loves to see himself on television or read about himself in the gossip columns. I tell him about an upcoming exhibition in Tokyo that he will have to attend that will be huge—maybe more than a hundred pieces of his work. I explain that it’s a new client of mine, Art Collection House. “Wow!” he says, never getting too excited about anything. But he tells me that he’s never seen sales look so good. It never feels like a real business—it just feels like we’re playing around. Almost like the paintings aren’t real either. It’s like we’re printing our own money. And we’re just making it all up as we go along. One day I’m a publicist, the next day I’m an art dealer. The energy is so powerful that I feel like I could show up at a hospital operating room and perform arthroscopic surgery successfully and nobody would even notice that I had absolutely no training at all. Mark encourages me to continue my sales efforts and I’m happy because I’m still working with my other clients. His brother Indrek, who pitches in with a little bit of sales work and some photography, is not pleased with our financial arrangement and in general is not happy at all with my presence at Kostabi World. He keeps a close eye on me and literally looks over my shoulder, walking into my office to see what I’m doing, or following me around the studio.
Cookies and Milk
The grand opening of Kostabi World takes place in November, with a huge press party for about a thousand invited guests. The morning of the opening is a busy one for me—hanging paintings, setting up the physical space, the lighting and the music. Allison lures me to the East Side to help her to find something at agnès b. to wear that night. As much as I gripe that I don’t have time, I relish the thought of adding one more thing to my to-do list. The tension of the last-minute deadline, finding the perfect thing at the last possible minute, thrills me. It’s a silly sort of heroism. She never seems to have the confidence to shop on her own, and I like going with her to manage the situation. After a few hours we choose the perfect outfit—a low-cut black sweater and skirt that get her a lot of attention that night. Everybody comments on her body, which never fails to delight me.
Twenty paintings hang in the newly renovated gallery, an enormous space about the size of a football field. I have orchestrated the entire event, from invitations to cocktail napkins. I instruct the caterer to set up tables of live mermaids—scantily clad women decoratively surrounded by hors d’oeuvres. This makes a huge splash. Because Mark is opposed to alcohol (there is always a rumor circulating about an incident in high school where a bunch of drunk high school guys roughed him up), juice is served in champagne glasses. For dessert, chocolate chip cookies and milk (in champagne glasses, of course). Mark wears a bright red suit and really stands out among the crush of people. It’s mostly a trendy downtown crowd, models and artists mixed in with “new” collectors—yuppies, stockbrokers, investment bankers, and lawyers—rushing to invest their recent bonus checks in the most talked-about art. This is art as commodity, and people are looking to make money quickly. But some serious collectors are lurking about, too, just in case they might miss out on an opportunity. The art scene had already gone through a wave of artists like Haring, Schnabel, Salle, Fischl, and Basquiat and everyone had seen their prices skyrocket, and none of these “new” collectors wanted to miss out on a golden opportunity. I’m busy squeezing through the crowd to find Mark so I can introduce him to editors and writers who want to meet him. For the first time there is a buzz about Kostabi and his work that puts him into the limelight of the art scene for a brief moment. At 2:00 A.M., when the last guest leaves, we have offers on four paintings, which we didn’t even expect. Mark seems thrilled as we recap the night. “Did any celebrities come?” he asks me. “I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” I tell him.
Kinderspritz
I’m bouncing back and forth from the art world to my other clients. The day after Thanksgiving—the biggest shopping day of the year—is my official William & Clarissa launch at F.A.O. Schwarz. For several weeks friends have been helping me assemble the product: folding boxes, inserting liners and the bottles, and sealing them. My entire apartment smells like citrus. There is no room at the store to do this, and the product can’t be shipped fully packaged across the country without being damaged. I can’t believe I am promoting a fragrance for children—what am I doing? Finally, we ship everything to the display booth at the store. I am supervising a manager and thirty employees part-time on-site, and am responsible for the entire production and success of the operation. The first day is a nightmare. Tens of thousands of people come through the store, thousands of units sell, and the display needs to be restocked constantly. I’ve unwittingly gotten myself into a full-time retail job. But it does pay well: $3,500 a month plus bonuses. What won’t I do for money? I’m standing around crying children and spraying them with perfume. I can’t decide which is more absurd, Kostabi paintings or children’s fragrances.
A Nonalcoholic Toast
I leave the world of children’s lotions, potions, and powders for a few days to chaperone Mark to an opening at the Hanson Gallery in Beverly Hills. I have never been so struck with how little real enthusiasm there is for Mark and his work among respected artists and art dealers. Scott Hanson is a slick dealer who makes “exclusive” deals with Kostabi World and sells Kostabi paintings in addition to limited-edition lithographs. These deals prevent other U.S. galleries from selling editions of Kostabi lithographs. Occasionally a couple of lesser-known stars from television will appear at an opening and be photographed with Mark, who has absolutely no idea at all who they are because he doesn’t watch TV. People dress for these openings as if they’re going to the Oscars. Some approach him and, almost as if they have a prepared speech, just deliver a curt compliment. Mark seems extremely uncomfortable tonight and walks around the gallery with his hands behind his back. At this show it’s clear how much of a manufactured celebrity he is—he can dress for the part in an outlandish costume, he can be photographed in the role, but he doesn’t know how to interact with clients. He’s like an unsigned painting. These shows drag on for hours, until Scott takes a group of us for an uneventful celebration dinner at Spago, where he toasts to the success of Mark’s newest show, even though there’s really nothing that anyone hasn’t seen before. Mark thanks him awkwardly, and there’s very little dinner conversation. Soon Mark is yawning and has his elbows on the table, tired from jet lag, so the party breaks up unusually early. The next day I take the earliest flight to San Francisco, where I stop by the Wolf Schulz Gallery and buy a painting by Remi Blanchard.
Natural Blonds
After dinner at Stars, I come back to the Stanford Court Hotel feeling very drunk and horny. I take a cab to the Tenderloin, a seedy part of town, but I don’t find much open except some bars. I love walking through this area because I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. Small gangs of kids and drunks hang out on street corners. I can’t find a cab (having forgotten that San Francisco doesn’t really have cabs roaming the streets like in New York), and it seems to take forever to walk back to the hotel. I cruise the empty lobby waiting for some kind of action. Anything. It’s unusually quiet except for two people behind the front desk whispering. They’re working. They can’t leave their post to come upstairs and fuck around with me. And I’m not going to ask them for suggestions for crazy things to do at 2:00 A.M. in San Francisco. I think about calling a cab and taking a ride across the Golden Gate Bridge, but I don’t know what’s to see on the other side. And anyhow, the point is, I’m horny. I want some kind of sex. Finally, I give up on the desk clerks, go upstairs to my room, and read an ad in a local newspaper for a Kurt and Karin. A couple into three-ways. It appeals to me. Young, German, male and female. Attractive, twenty-three and twenty-five years old. I call and a guy with a slight accent answers. He describes himself—tall, muscular, good definition, six-feet-one, 180 pounds, smooth body, blond hair, blue eyes, well-hung—and his girlfriend—sexy, firm, fi
ve-feet-seven, 115 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, 36D tits, 26-inch waist, great ass, tight pussy. I ask what they get into. He says just about anything except he doesn’t get fucked and she doesn’t get fucked in the ass. Straightforward. How much? $300 an hour, $150 for each additional hour. Cash. They can be over in about forty-five minutes. He has to call me back at the hotel to confirm. Here’s the part where I have to give him my real name. No big deal. The phone rings and it’s confirmed. Silly technicality. I start folding my clothes and putting them away and cleaning up the room a little bit. I drink an Amstel Light, put some coke out on a glass tabletop, and do a couple of lines with a crisp rolled-up bill. I bought this stuff from a friend in Los Angeles who promised it was pure. It’s pretty good. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with the little mouthwash in the bathroom. I’m checking the clock and flipping through the channels in a trance. There’s a loud knock at the door, and I panic for a second. It’s the Germans. I run to the door, look through the peephole, and see the two blonds. I open the door and invite them in. I realize I don’t remember her name. Kurt and something. Karin. They’re very impressive—they look like they could both be on the German Olympic ski team. Kurt and I shake hands. I ask them if they’d like a drink or a line of coke, and they step right up to the table and do a line. Karin asks for a Diet Coke. The television is still on, some bad movie with Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn. She’s whining. We’re all sitting on the couches feeling a little bit uncomfortable and talking about San Francisco; I make some stupid comment about earthquakes. They’re just visiting the States for a year, living here for a few months and then going to L.A. I give Kurt three $100 bills, and he puts them into the pocket of his jeans and thanks me. I’ve been in this situation too many times before. Two months ago in Miami. Karin asks me if I’m here on business. I tell her I’m attending a medical conference; I’m a doctor tonight. My mother would be proud. Karin tells me it’s a very nice room. So let’s get started.
