“And he absolutely had to find her at once to tell her that he adored her, but the large audience before him separated him from the door, and the notes reaching him through a succession of hands said that she was not available; that she was inaugurating a fire; that she had married an american businessman; that she had become a character in a novel; that she was dead.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire
crop top + platforms by UNIF
photos by Juan Beltran
We never had a sense of there being a right or a wrong side of the room. She had razor sharp wit, a slighting sardonic drawl that comes with having lived a thoroughly adult life since her early teens. She had self-assurance by the bucket-load, but emanated it as charm rather than ego. We curled up in the Bowery Hotel’s soft king bed and made sad faces when we had to leave it for our studio sublet.
Things are not what they seem. After a year of romance, she learned that he was capable of absolutely anything except moderation. Even when he wanted to rein himself in, whatever was building inside — passion, inspiration, aggravation, hilarity — inevitably came fire-hosing out. Artistic luminaries are often this way, detached and aloof to the feelings of their lovers.
She smells of midnight, barefoot in a baggy sweater. Another night of of watching him sink slowly into an oblivion of fear and chemicals. Inebriated as you can get off your latest sold painting. “Unlike you, I’m not afraid of life, or my passions,” she said. Now begins the falling out, the shifting sands into courage. The courage to detach from the need to hold on to people and things. In essence, you can never own anyone or anything anyway.
bell bottoms by Lip Service Cult
metal bustier by UNIF
tights by Pretty Polly
charm bracelet and rings by Katie Dean
photos by Raymond Croft