Sunday, January 25, 2015
Another Night Spent
I went searching for studio things yesterday. I went to a wall covering store to look for cheap wallpaper. I don't suppose there is such a thing. Then I went to a fabric store. Beautiful fabrics are much cheaper than wallpaper. How can this be? But it is. Do people ever use cloth to cover their walls? My studio walls will be clothed instead of papered, I can tell you. I bought a twelve foot piece yesterday and shot with it last night. I'll see in the next few days how that turned out.
But I am spent. I shot again last night with my new favorite person. We were in the studio for five hours, then we went to dinner for we were both ready to pass out. The cashews I had in the studio didn't do enough to counter the flagons of wine and liquor that was consumed in the course of the evening. And so a late dinner at a beautiful Italian restaurant with bread and olive oil, caprese salad, lasagna, and some wonderful chicken/pasta/oil/wine concoction with black olives and capers and red peppers. I don't know what it was called because neither of us could read the menu. Just know what you want, I said. Don't bother looking at the menu, just decide what you want. They will have it. I want something cheesy with beef, she said. I can't imagine they will have anything like that here, I said. Lasagne? Oh. . . I hadn't thought of that. I would never think to order lasagne. And more wine, of course. She is so beautiful and young and sweet and we were getting the usual looks. They think I must have hired you for the night, I told her. She was not rebuffed but giggled and looked happy. Maybe women like to be thought of that way sometimes on an imaginary night when everything is out of the norm. And so we sat and drank and talked and man could that skinny girl eat. I truly have a good time with you, she said. I enjoy your company. Of course you do, I replied. This is like some exotic dream compared to your daily existence. You come to the studio and make up stories and try to make art, and it is like nothing else you do, not like work and school and hanging out with your friends, and I take you to an expensive restaurant that isn't like Houlihan's where some dumb boy would take you on a big night out. Here there is the light and a good bar and perfect food served well, and you are young and everyone notices you and you think about how you want to live and decide right now to make some changes in your life because now it seems like a good direction. Yes, she says, that is why I haven't dated for a long time now. Everybody I know seems so negative and they all have problems and they do dumb things. They don't try to be happy it seems, and they are losers who have given up. I don't want that. What do you want? I ask. I want someone who wants what I want, who understands that I have to study and who isn't going to tell me no, let's go out, who will study, too, someone who has ambition and wants to get ahead. I want to be successful, she said, not just make money, but to be a successful person, someone who is happy. That's the right thing, I said. You are pretty wise for a twelve year old. My mother kicked me out of the house when I was eighteen, she said, and I've been on my own since. She said this with a straight back and a determined look about her and punctuated the statement with a sudden nod of the head. She seemed something from a '30s movie, a girl determined and sweet. That was it exactly.
When we had finished, the restaurant was emptying. The air outside had grown cold, colder than we were prepared for, and so we walked quickly back to the studio and gathered our things. I was spent and just wanted to crawl into bed. I'm going to bring you things next time I come, she said. I'm going to bring the wine and I'm going to buy some clothes to shoot in. Oh, no, I said, you don't have to do that. Bring the clothes if you want, but. . . . She stopped me. No, I like to pay my way. Jesus Christ, I thought. She is unbelievable. She wanted to come back again soon.
When I got home, I thought about the big ice cubes sitting in the off-gassing trays in my freezer, and I thought it would be wrong not to try one. I sat down and turned on the television just in time to see the opening of Austin City Limits, and the guest was Ryan Adams. I wanted to go to bed, but I had to watch this. Thirty minutes of music and then an interview. And then it was clear that he has brain damage. No kidding. If you see that interview, you will see someone who has seriously fucked up his mind. It isn't weird, it is infantile. He doesn't even seem to be able to string together a coherent sentence. He seems to have the brain of a scared nine year old. I don't think we can expect any more good music from Retarded Adams. Perhaps it is because his wife, Mandy Moore, is divorcing him. It is a shame, really. I enjoyed so much of his music long ago.
And when that was over around midnight, I brushed my teeth and turned off the lights. Oy, though, I have another shoot in the very early afternoon. Where will I find the energy? I am totally shot. How did I do this in the past? What fueled me? Fear, I guess, and desire. And a taste for the bizarre. I shoot with a blind girl today. I'm not kidding. I have to go to her house and pick her up. What can I say? I am curious and she is sweet. I was supposed to shoot with her before I went to the hospital, and when I cancelled she texted me all the time to see how I was and to give me advice and support. I will make beautiful pictures of her.
I guess someone will tell her that they are.