Chapter XXXVIII. October Surprise.
XXXVIII.
OCTOBER SURPRISE.
LOS ANGELES.
The first Friday of October, I commit to spending the day in my studio.
The kids are at school and Fran is in ADR sessions on the lot.
And Leelou’s absence feels greater than usual.
So after a bike ride at the beach, I pack up my computer and headphones and head down to Palms to work on editing voice recordings and sorting through more images.
I spent four days in New York at the end of September photographing and interviewing a handful of friends. Their diverse faces rounding out my collection for the exhibit.
Audrey Fahrenkopf, my brilliant and beautiful half-Japanese, half-Jewish college roommate.
Audrey’s mom, Yukiko Shibata Fahrenkopf, seventy-five, with a mane of silver and skin like porcelain.
Natalia Addo, a Ghanaian writer, whom I’d met working for élan magazine my first year out of college, with classic Ashanti features and a flawless ebony complexion.
Pilar Anchorena, a fellow artist from Argentina—dark hair, soulful eyes, olive skin.
Alex Locke, my closest friend from Hartsdale High, with her striking and unusual blend of German and Lebanese traits.
Hooded eyes, sharp cheekbones, elongated limbs. And my cousins, Sylvie and Jane.
Sylvie was shocked when I’d asked her to sit for me.
I believe she thought I was pulling her leg until she showed up at the rented studio.
I’d hired a stylist each for hair, makeup, and clothes to make everything move faster.
And two assistants and a studio manager, so that there was someone to change over lighting and backdrops while I conducted interviews in one of the dressing rooms. I’d never felt more like I was running a factory, but it worked.
I was making my final choices on portraits for the slideshow portion of the installation when the news came over NPR.
An old clip from an entertainment-news show had somehow been unearthed featuring a presidential candidate sounding decidedly unpresidential.
Sounding predatory, in fact. He was boasting (joking?
Gloating?) about groping women. The things one could get away with under the cover of celebrity.
And using shockingly coarse language to do so.
It cut. Like jagged fingernails on freshly bathed skin.
And it clung, like something dirty I could not wash off.
And the fact that it was on every news station, at the top of every hour, playing on repeat, was oppressive. Triggering.
Eventually, I turned off the news. Shut down the computer. And went home.