CHAPTER 2
Sybil
I ripped off another piece of duct tape with my teeth. The plastic smell was awful, and it left a sticky residue on my bottom teeth. Spitting a few times, I made a note to find my scissors in this disaster of a studio.
The tape kept sticking to my hands. “Dammit,” I cursed. After wrestling with it a few more times, and barely preventing it from folding in on itself, I finally covered the paint tube’s label, hiding the name. I flipped it into the bucket—another nameless color in a sea of gray.
Colors are nothing but shades to me. My therapist and friend, Dr. Cat, had guided me, with much love and patience, toward accepting this about myself. Being colorblind isn’t rare, but for me, it almost ruined my life.
You see, I was the firstborn child of an artistic dynasty. My parents were famous New York artists and collectors, top of the heap. They were society’s sweethearts. If they didn’t attend your party, no one did. Not a single soul in the city had a bigger, more impressive art collection.
I’m sure you can imagine what having a colorblind child would do to shallow, high-society socialites like that.
They hated me.
I never understood why. They could have spun my condition into something they could show off—I mean, hell, I had. But they weren’t the brightest crayons in the box, or whatever that means.
It was easier, and more familiar for them to treat me like a dirty, smelly sock. That’s just how things were done in their circle. Shun the one that doesn’t belong and maybe they’ll take the hint and leave.
I would never be the art prodigy they wanted. They could no longer carry me around like some uber trendy Birkin bag and show me off, so what was my purpose? I was dispensable to them; a failed experiment they were glad to be rid of.
From then on, I was raised by the household staff: nannies, cleaning personnel, and butlers—anyone they could pawn me off to. My parents weren’t around much, if at all. They traveled full-time—weeks in Paris, Italy, Norway, luxury yachts and parties—so many parties.
Art and color became a nasty little thing for me to hate because of their cruelty and neglect. They loved it more than they loved me. I grew to hate and fear the world instead of embracing it. To me, my life felt insignificant and unwanted. If my parents didn’t want me, who would?
The only reason I’m still here is thanks to Dr. Cat.
When I hit my teen years, I began skipping school and talking back to my parents—standing up for myself. I began breaking things, stealing, yelling, threatening them for what they’d done. I became an angry gremlin they feared coming home to.
Their response was to hire a therapist. I think their default was to hire the best New York offered.
It was the first time they’d given me the best of anything.
Maybe they figured that having the best of the best was the next best thing to performing an exorcism.
Maybe they hoped she’d brainwash me back to the scared and docile child I had been.
She did not succeed in that.
The therapist’s name was Dr. Catherine Sinclair.
She began coming two days a week, then three, four.
There was a point when she started coming daily, almost like a full in-home doctor.
She illuminated my parent’s shortcomings and failures, and explained why I felt the way I did and made me realize it wasn’t my fault—but then the plane crash happened.
My parent’s jet heading from Switzerland to London crashed.
They died. I was fifteen.
The day Dr. Cat moved me out of the penthouse, it was almost impossible to gather the will.
Just ten feet out the door and I had a panic attack.
I was so worn out from life, beaten down from my failures in school and with friends.
I couldn’t do it. My body felt hollowed out and tired, and I hadn’t even lived yet.
Having my tormentors gone made things fractionally better, but fear of the world had replaced the anger. If I couldn’t rage at them, then what could I do? I had no control. It took me a while to shake off the trauma of the move. I’d spent my whole life in that penthouse. This was a major upheaval.
Now under Dr. Cat’s full-time care and custody, and no longer needing to track down my parents for consent, she wasted zero time focusing on the very root of my problems. She dove headfirst into exposure therapy through art, which was like diving into a pool of venomous snakes for me.
Exposure therapy, for those not familiar with it, is when you force yourself to face your fears, and not just the cute ones. In order to get better, you must face the deadly, venomous ones. Creating art was deadly for me, like a stab in the gut every time I picked up a paintbrush.
We spent three years like this, struggling to get ahead. I didn’t see how anything could be harder. But then, on my eighteenth birthday, everything shifted again.
This was when she told me it was time for me to move out of the safety of her home and also begin showing my art in public.
This was her idea of taking things to the next level.
I locked up all over again. I was not, under any circumstance, leaving her apartment to live alone—let alone putting on an art show.
We fought. She won.
PERL was born.
Another tube of paint went into the obscure ‘Bucket O’ Tubes’.
There was no point in organizing them like so many perfect artists on Instagram do; with their perfect studios and perfect art.
I’d mess it all up. Besides, I didn’t take part in social media.
I took a ‘voyeur only’ stance in the game of internet socializing, and I was perfectly happy with it.
When I first bought my townhome, living alone was scary.
I think that was the whole point of the exercise.
While I grew up ‘alone’ in my parent’s penthouse, someone was always there, like a staff member or cleaning lady.
I think Dr. Cat thought moving me out all alone would encourage me to seek companionship outside the home if she wasn’t there.
Little did she know, I would grow to love the solitude.
At last, my world was quiet, comfortable, and the way I preferred it.
I adored my vintage West Village townhouse.
It had a giant library—which now also housed an art studio—five stories, four bedrooms, six bathrooms, private entrances, a small yard for Bill, my unqualified service dog, and a beautiful kitchen where my cat, Mr. Beans, waited for me to drop greasy food on the floor.
There were enough spaces and creatures in this house to keep me entertained.
That was all I was ever going to need.
I scratched Mr. Beans on the head as he sat at the top of his cat tree in the window next to me. “We don’t need anyone, do we?” He blinked, letting out a pathetic yowl.
I was a mess of anxiety and depression, wrapped in a tattered black sweatshirt and leggings.
My life had not been normal, and I doubted it ever would be.
Even though Cat did great, considering the circumstances, I still wasn’t where I wanted to be.
It wasn’t normal for a twenty-eight-year-old woman to almost never leave home.
That’s where PERL excelled. As PERL, I could be perfect. I was perfect. I was brave, in control, and out in the world behind that mask. The baffling popularity of PERL’s art seemed so surreal, and I couldn’t believe it was all an accident.
When it came time for us to plan how to show my art, we’d gone back and forth over what and where. I would never be the ‘art market’ type, or the ‘set up a booth and stand there’ type. No cute, crowded craft halls for me.
Hell no.
The whole point was about overcoming self-hatred, not so much the social anxiety—not yet. We came up with the idea of an anonymous pop-up. It was supposed to be fun, fast, and stylish; nothing over the top or showy—simple.
The plan was to do it twice a year and only show a single piece. From there, it grew into this monster thing that leaned into my personality and made my condition into something cool and unique. People actually liked me.
In a way, it morphed into an exercise in understanding and loving my identity. If I could represent myself in a way that was acceptable to society, perhaps I’d feel whole for the first time in my life. Art said what I couldn’t.
My first show, even though it was terrifying, was almost unnoticed in the art world. It was perfect, and a lot less dramatic than I’d built up in my head. Tragically, it also made me feel good—maybe even alive—for the first time in my life. Something was mine at last.
I looked around my little studio. The windows were ajar a few inches, letting in beams of sunlight that were both bright and softened by the shadows of clouds and leaves. Facing the backyard, it was peaceful and predictable, just the way I liked it.
While I never leave my townhouse in the daylight, I’d become a bit of a night person.
At night, I felt invisible, as if I were inhabiting a world that was of my own design.
It might be foolish to roam the city at night, but when life is dull, you risk it.
Besides, I have Bill, the most terrifying Border Collie the world has ever seen.
Lick-your-face-off vicious.
Night is my happy place, and when I do all my research for PERL.
Twice a year, it’s my job to find a new location for the pop-up.
I prefer to look for forgotten storefronts that could use an upgrade in areas that are otherwise rejuvenated.
It’s fun getting to leave my mark out there, clean something up, and create a new place for a business to occupy afterward.
Once I find my new location, Dr. Cat helps me contact the owner, secure a deal, and move forward. We do it all over the phone or email; no one ever knows me, or Dr. Cat—all they know is that we want to do a pop-up and will renovate the entire space in exchange, no charge.
No one turns us down; no one asks questions. I prefer it this way. As you might imagine, I don’t need or desire recognition. I do this for myself, and myself alone.
We use the same construction crew every time. They understand the assignment and are prepared to do it on short notice. We pay them well too, which helps.
48-hour turnaround, no exceptions.
The crew is the greatest risk in our scheme, as they know the location a full 24-hours before the public does.
I’m sure by now they recognize what PERL is and what it means to New York, and just how much someone will pay for that information.
It’s a constant battle to make sure they’re compensated enough to maintain their silence.
It’s nothing Dr. Cat didn’t plan for, though. When you’re a top-tier New York therapist, you know top-tier lawyers with excellent NDA agreements. Still. A broken NDA means nothing if the secret’s out. Therefore, the tight 48-hour turnaround is a must, now more than ever.
Plenty of people have been sniffing around these days, and it’s becoming harder to remain anonymous. At all costs, I need my privacy. I do not want attention. I just want my insignificant life with Bill and Mr. Beans.
Hiring the show staff is different. There is now an on-call list Dr. Cat put together on my website, hosted anonymously of course.
Vendors, servers, and musicians who want to be a part of the show, and will take the job on short notice, sign up online.
Dr. Cat contacts them on the day of the show. They are also bound by NDAs.
I try to filter through the list often, giving each vendor a chance, but I have to admit I have my favorites. They’ve become an extension of PERL, much like my “secret team.” I trust their discretion, considering how long they’ve proven themselves.
I’m always at the show.
Of course I am.
I blend in as a bartender, server, patron, bouncer, whatever is needed to remain untraceable, unseen, under-appreciated, as I’ve always been. People see me as another vendor who takes any available job and fills a role.
We’re all given a set of rules to operate under. The most important rule is silence. The entire staff is told to remain silent unless it’s a critical situation, such as an emergency.
This helps me to blend in, and I enjoy the ambiguity. Without the pressure to speak, it provides me with the confidence to be around a crowd, but remain invisible. I live in New York, after all. Escaping people is impossible, but in a crowd it’s easy to do.
New York is the biggest, loneliest city in the world.
Returning to reality, I stared at the canvas before me and sighed.
Lifting my sleeve-covered hand, I ran the tips of my fingers over the deep bumps and grooves of the piece titled Doubt.
There was a deep slash through the center that I’d made with the palette knife to represent the feeling of doubt.
Do I think the art is good?
No.
I let out an audible scoff as I thought it. No artist sees their art as good, if he or she is honest. Impostor syndrome is rife in our crowd.
I think it’s normal to doubt yourself—your art. The critics sure like it though, and I feel like its meaning is out of my hands. It’s up to the spectator to make sense of it at this point. I’ve done my part.
I’ll never shake the feeling of being an impostor. Most days I feel like a thief. It’s like I’m getting away with something precious with little skin in the game. I don’t take this as seriously as other artists do—especially those who want this lifestyle.
To me, it’s still therapy, not talent.
I assess my fingertips for any residual wet paint transfer. There isn’t any. The oil is dry enough to show. We’d begun the planning last week, and come tomorrow, the 48-hour window would begin.
“Come on, Bill. Let’s go.” I motioned to him, and he stood, eager for a walk.
Night had long fallen, and I wanted to see the dilapidated storefront one more time before they transformed it tomorrow.
I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, and we made our way to the parlor level to retrieve his leash from the entry bench.