Advice From a Modern Artist

Advice From a Modern Artist

“You must be an artist, only artists smoke in New York City anymore,”

She exhales up my nose and drops me in her studio like keys on the counter.

“I’m an artist” she says “I paint, I dance, I act, I write, I am versatile…... and visceral” (she winks)

“Drink some beer”

She rubs it on my teeth with a rag, pours it across my face

“and tell me what you do”

“My husband was a poet; never marry a writer then— too much competition, it gets too complicated…..”

She feeds my eyelids and legs through her typewriter, punches through my goose skin flesh, licks her ball point pen.

“And photography, so common, don’t even think about taking photos in this city, too dull darling.

She passes me through her reel, projects me on the wall.

“New York is so boring. Even Paris is old. I miss my French boyfriend. He could make me come twenty times in an afternoon—because he painted, painters can do that…the passion…”

She splashes a bucket of blue in my face, rams a red paintbrush down my throat, straps me to her easel.

“See this painting? I got my first show by letting a gallery owner tie me and whip me…You know, I should have tied him up.” (she winks again)

“He was a sculptor.”

She welds my hands together.

“Anyways, they say Beijing is the new Paris, Berlin the new New York, more beer?”

She opens the can of my throat.

“Let’s dance, I dated a dancer, we did a show together, she was a trapeze artist in bed….”

She wound me tight as her net and jumped.