When we sat down for breakfast, Lincoln ordered for us both and also paid the check—he’d said this was “his town.” Throughout the meal, he seemed at ease, speaking candidly about Sophie Kiminski, whom he’d learned had just gone back into rehab. “Sophie’s the King Midas of tragedy,” he said. “Every life she touches is the worse for it.”
It also came clear that Lincoln was cooperating with authorities, and he swore he had nothing to hide “from a legal standpoint. But there are also things I want to tell you. And if you’re painting a portrait of Addison Stone, I’d better melt into it, right? Or else it won’t look like her in the end.”
VII.
“THERE’S ALWAYS SO MUCH TRAFFIC AROUND HIM.”
Lincoln Reed at his studio on Elizabeth Street, courtesy of the estate of Addison Stone.
LINCOLN REED: I met Addison Stone on a photo shoot for Catch magazine. By then, both of us had a few of these arty-interview puff pieces under our belts. You make fun of that stuff until you get invited to do it. It’s selling out, but it gets you meetings, it gets people wanting to know more about you. They crave the unimportant details—if you eat Cheerios for breakfast, if you have a cat, parrot, or goldfish, if you drink coffee or smoke or listen to music while you paint. But opening yourself up keeps you relevant, and it keeps your public fascinated. That’s important.
I’d just finished a semester at Arti di Firenze in Florence. I’d done a show that traveled from Florence to Venice to Rome, and then it continued to London and New York. I called it my “poisons” phase. I’d been obsessed with themes of noxious gases, chemical warfare—how poisons inhabit and destroy the body. It’s the topography of the human body in wartime. Not exactly a feel-good theme. So I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sell myself out to Catch as a pretty boy. To tell you the truth, I was feeling ambivalent about the whole thing.
Addison was late to the shoot. I could feel myself getting pissed off. Why should I be kept waiting for this month’s egomaniacal It Girl? Then the freight elevator opened, and there she was, with her saucer eyes and legs like a colt. She strides into the space, pulling out her elastic, and this mane of black hair falls—swoosh—down her back.
“I didn’t know I’d be sharing the spotlight with you,” she told me later. But I knew she was annoyed that I was annoyed. Ads didn’t have much poker face. She took her sweet time in hair and makeup. So I gave it right back to her. I ordered a pizza for delivery, I texted with some friends. Then Addison began changing her T-shirts in front of me, making sure I was looking at her. Ha, and I was. We were both being obnoxious, just to see how the other one would respond. Kid games. The photographer, Zoe, wanted to kill us. She didn’t get the shot, either. Not then, anyway.
ZOE SKLOOT: I was the principal photographer on the Catch shoot when Addison Stone met Lincoln Reed. They were the newest talent in New York City, and, footnote, they were both gorgeous. A photographer’s dream. I could also tell in a heartbeat they’d fallen hard for each other. Not that they were going to let us see that. They were both piss and vinegar that day. But love was in the air. Addison couldn’t keep her eyes off Lincoln, and every time she spoke, I watched his neck flush red as a cranberry.
The chemistry between them was incredible; the sparks were almost visible. Addison kept her cool but wouldn’t stay still. She kept slithering into different outfits and changing the music and dancing—Bossa Nova, French Nouvelle, Arcade Fire, Daft Punk. Cranking it up, claiming every inch of space in my studio.
And the more Addison swanned, “I like this, I love that,” or “I don’t think that’s working,” the more Lincoln stayed perfectly quiet and hard-eyed.
That final image! I’d taken some cute shots but I hadn’t gotten what I wanted, and I was frustrated, sort of defeated. Their connection, that chemistry—it was just outside my reach. And then we were packed up and done, in the freight elevator, and all I had was my little Olympus Stylus slung on my shoulder—and suddenly, Addison stepped back, so that she was standing very close in front of Lincoln. She was looking up and away, on a clean angle as he stared straight ahead. There’s the million-dollar moment. Yet you can see beyond a shadow of a doubt that each one consumes the other.
Interesting thing about that shot, which was the one we ended up using for Catch, are that Lincoln’s eyes are hidden by sunglasses, and Addison’s eyes by the way she’s turned. But you can read their intimacy. It’s like they know they’re almost together, and destined for each other.
Lincoln and Addison. Zoe Skloot for Catch magazine.
From: Addison Stone
Date: Oct 16 at 11:38 PM
Subject: random rage etc.
To: Lucy Lim
Hey, LL—
finish your paper on poor ole marginalized Margaret Fuller, you giant nerd?
Well, enough about you, ha ha!
Newsy piece: this afternoon on a photo shoot for an art mag,
I met this guy Lincoln Reed.
He’s a “name” in the art world even if it means nothing to you.
All I can say: MAJOR PRICK ALERT.
You know how when I first met The Lenox, after he finally stopped by the art room,
I was like, oh yeah. This is happiness. This is happening.
Then, with Zach Frat—how I’d seen him at the Berger opening last summer?
And I instantaneously felt the sizzle that we’d be together?
So take that excellent karma & find the opposite of it.
That is Lincoln Reed.
Example. You remember that time
when we went out to dinner at Basta Pasta in Little Compton and we ordered the Mexican calamari and we got the shocking surprise of food poisoning?
Lincoln Reed is Mexican calamari.
As in, he looks pretty hot with salsa.
But he is actually vomit-worthy.
Seriously, I would rather vomit calamari down my chest all night long than SPEND ONE MINUTE WITH THIS ARROGANT GUY!!!
Ok now I feel better. His art is cool.
I give him that.
He’s doing all this crazy shit about poison through the centuries.
Deadly plants through mustard gas.
I’m kind of hugely professionally jealous.
Enough about this guy! Why am I still telling you about him?
You still coming to visit me for Halloween?
I miss you tons, Lu!
x!o!
LINCOLN REED: Addison and I met up again the next weekend at the Klempf Art pre-party. October 21st. It was cold and crisp and a deep blue night. I knew she was on the list. I was by the door as she came in. We’d been strangers, feral animals circling each other at the photo shoot. But we had something. There’d been too much kick, too much sparring to be nothing.
So I got bold. Walked right up to her and looked her square in the eye and said, “Hey, Addison. Good to see you again. I’m heading to the bar, if you want a drink?”
And she put that raven-black stare right back on me and said, “Red wine, please. But only if you’re drinking with me.” I came back with two glasses of red. She looked incredible. She was never a girl who wore heels or frilly dresses. Her dress was plain black, risqué short, with a band of bright purple on the bottom. She’d sewed on the band herself. She said that this particular shade was “her” color. She smelled great, too. Like the beach. A pure scent.
I don’t know why I also got myself a glass of red. To show her we had something in common? Even though I never drink red. I don’t drink at all, actually. And neither did she. We had a good laugh about that later.
From: Addison [email protected]>
Date: Oct 22 at 2:11 AM
Subject: ok scratch that
To: Lucy [email protected]>
my g-chat is messed up today.
But here’s my update on Lincoln Reed.
Ooookay, I went back and looked at that note I sent you last week.
And now … dr
umroll …
Presenting my new thoughts on Lincoln Reed.
(with apologies for being so flat-out clueless.)
Analogy correction:
Meeting Lincoln was like being thrown into a waterfall.
Not into calamari food poisoning hell.
Because … he’s SPECTACULAR.
Lulu, you need to meet him. You need to be around him.
You need to look at him.
You need to hear his voice.
He’s got this slow, sleepy way of talking.
You’d start to take off your clothes like a sex zombie just to be near it.
Everyone wants to be near Lincoln.
Everyone presses around to hear what he’s got to say.
They want to know what he knows. There’s always so much traffic around him.
And his art! Harsh, brutal, violent, real, in-your-face.
His dad was Robard Reed, a sculptor (I’d never heard of him either, but apparently, a big deal).
His mom was one of many girlfriends—the last girlfriend, because he killed himself at age sixty-one.
The same year Lincoln was born.
And he’s got all these half sisters and brothers. So exotic! I felt lame and small town,
I wanted to pretend my dad was a spy or something …
Anyway. Lulu. I think I’m in it. Deep.
(Full disclosure he’s sleeping next to me. Chastely. For now. Shhh.)
Got 1,000,000 things else to tell you, but I’m late for this stupid Pratt writing class. I’ve pretty much dropped all my non-art classes at Pratt.
They’re all doomed to be a total waste of time.
Miss you!
x!o!
LINCOLN REED: That night, we took off from Klempf together, and I didn’t leave Addison’s side for the next ten days. We walked all the way down the East Side, over the Manhattan Bridge. We kissed at the top of the bridge.
And right there, we knew.
It was that same week of the hurricane. Her apartment on Court Street was Zone 2. We were okay. Lying in bed, listening to rain in sheets, and the wind howling, we were like two refugees in our own private pocket of the world. By Halloween, the storm was done, and we rolled out of bed and got dressed and checked out the damage in Cobble Hill and Red Hook. Addison was dressed as Amy Winehouse, with the eyeliner and the beehive, and I said I was Jim Morrison—just a string of beads around my neck. Then Erickson joined up in a flannel shirt as Kurt Cobain. We were the Doom Trifecta. The city was waterlogged and wounded, but people were out in it, going about their business, surviving together. We walked around, talked art. It was great.
That night, I ordered a huge Italian feast from Queen, and we all pounced on it, ravenous. Over that next week, I made a point to get to know her crew. We spilled our histories. It was obviously important to Addison that I was approved by Teddy and Erickson. My understanding was that Zach Frat hadn’t been much liked.
At the end of every night, right before she went to sleep, Addison always gave me the biggest smile and said, “If I leave before you, baby, don’t you waste me in the ground.”
I knew she was quoting something, but I didn’t know what—turned out to be an Iron and Wine song, “Naked as We Come.” Addison could quote a million plays and poems and song lyrics. She especially loved Amy Winehouse—her decadence and her fatalism. Addison never saw the tragedy. She could only see the beauty in a Winehouse song. Not the doom. I hear Amy Winehouse whenever I see Addison’s Chandelier Girl clip. Sure, she could have died. Easy. But you never think about death when you see that clip. You only think about beauty.
LUCY LIM: Addy and I would always check in—by phone or text or email—every single day. Usually phone. I’d start the morning with a Starbucks coffee in my car in the student parking lot, right before homeroom bell. Just to find out how everything was going. She liked to do it, too. She needed those rituals.
So when I didn’t get anything from Addy for three days, not even for Halloween, not pictures, nada, I was worried. Whenever I didn’t hear from Addy, my mind jumped back to the last time she fell way out of touch, and next thing I heard she was in the loony bin. On day three, I called Bill and Arlene, and then we basically sent texts and called her cell until she finally texted back: stop! all good! lincoln!
Lincoln and Addison napping on the velvet couch, Court Street apartment, courtesy of Erickson McAvena.
MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: Someone had seen Addison and Lincoln kissing at the Klempf Art benefit. The gossip spread around New York like a kudzu vine. Zach had been holding out hope, you know. But not after he caught the rumor.
And one night soon after, Zach came storming over to my place, red-faced. Bellowing like a bull. I was living on 88th and Madison, in this la-dee-da co-op building, and I got three noise complaints, all because of Zach.
He was out of his mind. “I can’t get hold of her, she’s with Lincoln, she won’t return my calls, it’s like I never existed, she’s such a bitch!” Pounding the wall, but I could see he was teary.
“She used me, MC. She promised—she swore all she needed was time. Time with him.”
I was like, “Sweetie, let’s go shopping first thing tomorrow. Let’s snap up every color cashmere at Loro Piana.” That’s where Zach and I understand each other—in retail therapy.
But he couldn’t get it together. He drank the rest of my scotch, and then he sort of collapsed in a stupor on my sofa. Finally after midnight, I was starving, so we wobbled over to The Restaurant at The Mark Hotel for poached artichokes. Zach is a pathetic drunk. Back at my apartment, I ran him a bath like a baby. He sat in my claw-foot tub, and I bathed him, and then we had sex—charity sex, I should mention. Sweet and comforting, but charity sex is never the solution, is it? Unfortunately, sometimes that’s what you do when you’re not sure what else to do. The next morning, I hate to admit it, but I sort of threw him out like a dog.
But I was walking a fine line, balancing my time with Zach and my time with Addison—she was coming uptown quite a bit, doing some studies for my portrait that would become her beautiful painting MCB. She was so giddy in love with Lincoln, she never even mentioned Zach. I was always so nervous that Zach would come around while Addison was over.
Even to this day, Addison still haunts Zach. And I don’t want to talk myself into a corner here, but whatever happened that night she died, Zach was in town. And there are question marks all over that relationship, what with all that one-upmanship, and all the ongoing nonsense between them.
ADDISON STONE (from ArtUnite): In the fall, I fell in love. I was painting happy things. My brain was in dreamland—I wanted to feed grapes to my boyfriend. And so that’s why I started some pencil studies that would become the painting of my friend Marie-Claire, who is so refined and delicate.
But I’d also met Dom and Cam Lutz, the brainpower behind some really avant-garde and very cool installations that had been cropping up all over the city. I’ll always love street art and pranks and creating a spectacle. So we conjured up this idea to do a billboard collage of twelve people who’d been imprisoned for their political beliefs, all around a Thanksgiving dinner table. From Bobby Sands to Aung San Suu Kyi to Mahatma Gandhi to Maria Alekhina from Pussy Riot. We wanted to give thanks for these people. Look, I didn’t want to make money from it. I didn’t want to sell it privately. I didn’t even want to sign it. I wanted to make public art. From me, for everyone. That’s the beauty of it.
Dom and Cam were famous vandals. They were pulling fun, big-scale stunts. Their latest thing was screwing around with statues of old war heroes. You know those statues you see in the parks? They’d spray-paint ’em, dress them up so it looked like they were all in ballet costumes.
Once the Lutz boys got on board, we assembled the collage with blow-up photographs and decided to plaster up the whole installation at the Queens Midtown Tunnel, which links midtown Manhattan with Central Queens and the Long Island Expressway. It’s a thick traffic artery. And Dom had found an empty b
illboard. If a corporation is running an ad on a billboard and you replace it with your own shit, you’re screwed. The company has a big temper tantrum, and then their lawyers make you take it down. But an empty billboard? Gold mine. We determined that the least amount of traffic was between three and five in the morning. Good weather, no rain. Just cold November. All systems go.
There’s a rush of getting an installation up before daybreak, sweaty and hoping not to be caught. Then seeing it, truly seeing it, for the first time in public. It’s sorcery! And knowing how pissed Max Berger was going to be—hell, yeah, that added to the fun. But we had a few hair-raising moments. I slipped out of my harness, for one. But all’s well that ends with you alive to see your work, and not getting caught in the process.
MAUREEN STONE: Addison called me very early in the morning, the same morning that she’d put up that billboard. She was hardly ever in touch anymore. And she’d been ignoring my emails and voice mails, all my questions about if she might be coming home for Thanksgiving. She said I nagged her. Lord knows, I didn’t mean to nag. Of course I wanted to give her the space she needed. Gracious, I was too scared of her not to give it.
“I almost died on the freeway, Mom!” she said. Then she told me she’d slipped out of her harness and fallen. She hadn’t been hit by a car, but she’d had to scramble off the highway, fast.
My heart was thudding in my chest. I had no idea what she was trying to tell me. Only later did she start from the beginning.
“I’m okay, I promise! Some bumps and bruises, that’s all.” She was laughing, out of breath. “I’m okay!”
I didn’t know what it was all about, but I understood that she’d had a moment of pure fear. And I was so grateful that, inside that fear, she’d called me. And I was even more happy that she was glad to be alive, but now always when I think back over on it, I wonder if maybe she was just glad she’d lived long enough to put up her art.
The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone Page 11
