About ten years ago, I was friends with and secretly in love with an amazingly talented artist. Brilliant and crazy and sexy as all hell. I did press kits for him and hung out with him whenever he was around. (He would disappear for months at a time.)
There were shows on the far west side of Spring Street and parties in warehouse lofts in Williamsburg and Long Island City. At one of those parties in LIC, we had both taken some acid and ecstasy. While I was on the roof professing my true love of the symmetrical beauty of water towers, the artist of my affection was sort of having a freakout, taking off his clothes and standing on top of the kitchen counter.
It was decided to take him to my place. Two friends joined the artist and I as we walked the mile in the cold Sunday morning. We passed people filing into churches and noticed little glimpses of beauty in trees, architecture, and pebbles. The artist was still agitated when we arrived to my place.
To calm him, we gave him crayons, markers, pencils and paints and a large blank wall of my place. He drew in a mad frenzy and created a garbled dimorphic cataclysm filled with rage and confusion and anger.
A couple years passed, and I'd met a more stable business-minded person. In time he moved in with me and, partly from dislike of the piece and partly (perhaps more so) from knowing the work was of a past crush, he demanded the wall painted over. The wall was covered in a cream nondescript paint.
The relationship lasted six years. The artist disappeared forever around 2002. The wall remains covered in the nondescript paint. Occasionally, when every light in the room is on and I'm looking at the right angle, I can see a slight flush of red in the center of the wall. Those are good times.
*The above started as a comment on Gawker, but seemed suitable. It brought back memories of an interesting time.
