The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone Page 12

  LUCY LIM: I came down to New York to see Addy for my Thanksgiving break. She was on a high. She’d finished that painting of Marie-Claire, and she’d learned that it had been selected for display in the Armory exhibit. She was wild about Lincoln Reed. The Thanksgiving piece had gone up that previous week, and it was viral, and she was being whispered about, along with the Lutz brothers. The only thing Addison liked better than being gossiped about was being whispered about. She was happy, but not manic.

  Justine and Seventeen and Teen People magazines were all knocking, too. Everyone wanted to know more about the pretty girl who painted Being Stephanie and MCB. Addy was catnip. It bothered her that she was also starting to be called “Girl Banksy.” You know Banksy? That guy who pulls the public hoax stunts? I didn’t. Addy had to show me his stuff—she didn’t think they had much parallel. The Banksy shout-outs were still great press for her. But like all Addy highs, it ended with a crash. And in this case, I was there, and the name of that crash was Jonathan Coulsen.

  MCB by Addison Stone, courtesy of the Broyard family.

  JONATHAN COULSEN, WHO DECLINED to be interviewed for this book, is an American-born art critic whose blog, Juggernaut, is known for its provocative pieces and scathing critiques of international art and culture. While Coulsen’s sharply contentious opinions have sometimes been derided as “party trick prose,” his criticism has always drawn attention for its nerve and poison-dart targeting. While Coulsen is not affiliated with any one philosophy of art, he is occasionally dismissed as an “old-school conservative.” Rights to republish Coulsen’s piece, “Bohemian Bauble: A Closer Look at Addison Stone,” were denied.

  LINCOLN REED: God bless Lucy Lim for being with us over Thanksgiving, the same weekend that we found out about Jonathan Coulsen’s article. Erickson had left, gone to Teddy’s house in Virginia. So it was just us three, Lucy, Ads, and me, making a kickass “Friendsgiving.” That was what Lucy called it. Stuffed portobello mushrooms, maple-roasted Brussels sprouts, key lime pie. None of us were cooks, not like Erickson, and the kitchen was tiny, but nothing mattered except that we were all together.

  At the time I was just in it, you know? Just stupidly assuming it would be the first of dozens of “Friendsgivings” like that one, until we were old and gray.

  Late that afternoon, I’m on my phone, and I see Addison’s name in my Twitter feed, with a link to Coulsen’s blog. Jonathan Coulsen’s a big, swinging dick of an art critic. One of the whales. Everyone knows when he’s showing up at your opening, and everyone listens when he barks. And at the same time that I click the link, thinking it’s going to be Coulsen sending out some love for Ads, I yell out—wishing too late that I hadn’t—“Hey, listen to this!” Mistake.

  She’d have found it anyway. But to this day I always kick myself for being the messenger.

  LUCY LIM: A lot of people thought that Addy could have been the next Lucien Freud, easy. But this guy Coulsen was determined to smack her down just because she was young and hadn’t been to some fancy art school and didn’t know technique or tradition—basically, that she was just a kid.

  At least he admitted Addy’s portraits weren’t just eye-catching because she was. But the gist of his whole rant was that she was image over substance, a bright and shiny poseur in the street art scene—that the Thanksgiving billboard stunt was just a pretty social climber’s way of getting in with the Lutz brothers, who were somehow more “real.” Oh, and he said she was too young to have perfected her technical skill, and she hadn’t studied under anyone significant, and if she wanted to be a good little portrait painter, she should go get mentoring from the greats. On and on. Bitchy and cutthroat.

  Addy always told me, “I never read up on what people are saying about me.” But that was a lie. She read everything. She was curious about opinions—from Nobody in Crappytown’s all the way up to Jonathan Coulsen’s. His take-down knocked her hard that night. She didn’t eat dinner. She opened some wine, which for her was always a horrible idea, while Lincoln and I pretended we’d forgotten about the whole thing, and tried to be all “la-la-la, what shitty review?”

  LINCOLN REED: Addison Stone was a kid. New to New York. Talent like hers can make people seem older than their years, especially to someone like Coulsen. She wasn’t ready for Coulsen’s attack. But I also knew Ads. In just over a month, I felt like I already had a sea-deep knowledge of this girl. I’d look at those long ridged scars on her wrists, and wonder about her. Wonder if she really was doing okay, if she was really doing better here in this moment. Wonder how much she was hiding from us all.

  Anyway, that Friday morning after Thanksgiving, I had only one goal—to get Addison’s mind off Coulsen. And I remembered how Ads and Lucy had occasionally talked about this guy Jonah, and how they used to go road-tripping with him. So I have this ’79 Pontiac GTO. Vintage. Dove gray. I bought it when I turned eighteen. Driving my car is what I like to do instead of drink or drugs or therapy.

  “Boys and cars,” she said when I suggested it. Not even really there. I don’t think she’d slept. Then she perked up. “If we went somewhere, where would we go?”

  I didn’t tell her. I just told her to get ready. Lucy came, too, and we drove the three-plus hours straight to Sag Harbor, where I grew up.

  I took Addison and Lucy to my favorite places in Sag. At the American Hotel, where my dad used to hang out, we all ordered eggs Benedict breakfasts and pots of cocoa. I’d never seen Addison so insecure.

  “Coulsen’s right,” she kept saying. “I’m not trained, I’m a punk. I won’t have a career, I’m not building a legacy, I’m a trend, I’m confetti, I’m nothing.”

  I didn’t know what to say. But Lucy leaned forward and squeezed Addison’s hand, and she said, “Look, Addy, if you doubt this one guy, you will doubt everyone all the time. And I’m not even talking as your friend. I’m talking as a fan of your art. Do not let some cranky old man tell you what you are. I want to see more from you.”

  That was what did it for me, with Lucy. I felt like I had total clarity on how Addison had gotten through her childhood, with Lucy on her side. Watching her, knowing her, saying exactly the right thing when Ads needed to hear it most. Pretty powerful.

  Lincoln and Addison eating breakfast, courtesy of Lucy Lim.

  MAXWELL BERGER: Coulsen’s piece stank up our investment in Addison. We had to act fast. I called in some favors. When one of my up-and-comers gets smacked with criticism that threatens to sink them, the trick is confidence. Bring the artist into the center. Sell harder. Then liking or disliking the art is only a matter of opinion. Not a verdict.

  I dialed a connection to Mirror Mirror to spotlight Addison in their “One to Watch” section. It was a one-pager. The title copy read “GENUINE STONE.” It was an introduction of Addison in the mainstream press. With some copy about her high-wire public art, her billboards, her boyfriends.

  My stroke of genius—I had just signed another artist, Etien Koort, who was also doing a lot of portraits. Koort’s got a very styled, jet-set approach to young New York, and he’d been after Addison to do her portrait. Let me tell you, that article went down just right. With the painting, Addison looked like a class act again, like one of those old 1970s Hollywood-type stars. We “accidentally” leaked the Koort painting, exhibiting it months before it came out in February—and then I sold it to a Hollywood bad boy.

  It did what we wanted and put the attention back on Addison as somebody we all wanted to see more of. But Addison herself? She was angry, and she came at me.

  “You used me. You made me into an object. I’m not a part-time artist, part-time publicity stunt. You can’t just decide when I should be controversy and when I need to be some kind of glamour kitten.”

  She started badmouthing me around town. Maybe she had a point. I didn’t care. Bigger things were at stake.

  Glamour Portrait of Addison Stone by Etien Koort, courtesy of T. Jay Gerhardt.

  ERICKSON MCAVENA: I can draw a line in the sand from the Ko
ort portrait to when Addison decided to rob Bergdorf Goodman’s.

  She was a fearless artist, but that was nothing compared with what a ballsy thief she was. The summer before, we both were so flat broke we’d pour Pabst Blue Ribbon on cornflakes for dinner. So damn poor we knew which hotel conventions were serving complimentary breakfasts. Once we hit up a Marriott to steal the tiny shampoos and mouthwashes from the cleaning ladies’ carts. But by fall, Addison had sold her Billfold series, and she’d sold Being Stephanie. So I thought she wanted to make purchases.

  She’d planned it all out before. I didn’t know that. She scampered into the dressing room with an armload of outfits. Later she told me she’d packed this little pair of hedge clippers to remove the security tags. She stuffed the new clothes into her backpack and replaced them with something close enough that she’d found at the Salvation Army. On the surveillance cameras, you can’t see what’s going on. It looks like she’s marching in and out with the same items. She wasn’t. Total damage was almost ten thousand dollars.

  “That’s a felony, Addison,” I told her.

  “That’s all right,” she answered.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Oh, I’m sending it back. I just wanted to show them how easy it is.”

  She was proud of herself. I remember thinking, Sweet Jesus, who’s gonna cut this girl a switch? It was like Addison had no feeling that this was a bad thing or a wrong thing. Especially when she sent Bergdorf back four boxes marked, Stolen and Returned, xo Addison. She had to have her own little catawampus. She had to get that mischief out of her system.

  STARGAZER LUZ: Well, right off I should say that’s not my real name. I wish! Stargazer is how everyone around here knows me. First I was known as Robard Reed’s daughter. Now I’m known as Lincoln Reed’s sister. But down here in the Keys, I’m more of my own person.

  I drove down here after I dropped out of school. I failed math every year. But you don’t need to know algebra to sing. That’s what I do now, I sing at the Crystal Room at the La Dee Dah. It’s the only supper club in Key West.

  Lincoln and I have different moms, but I wasn’t surprised when he took up with Addison Stone. Lincoln grew up in Sag Harbor, around artists. I’m five years older, so I sort of knew our dad. In fact, I’d seen Dad the hour before he drowned himself. He’d been dismal, all out of kilter for weeks, and everyone knew it.

  Addison Stone had that same blank thing her eyes. Like, really intense but also spaced out. You’ve had to have seen it to recognize it.

  “She’s got a piece of Dad in her. And I didn’t need to notice her wrists first,” I told Lincoln.

  And he said, “Maybe so, but I can save her. We couldn’t save Robard, but I can save her.”

  “If you say so,” I told him. I’m not proud to admit this, but it made me hate Addison. Just a little bit. I guess I hated the doom she dragged in, those memories she woke up in me of Robard. And I hated that she had so much power over my kid brother.

  LUCY LIM: Addy told me she wasn’t coming to Rhode Island for the Christmas holidays, but I was bummed when she and Lincoln decided to go to Key West, out where his sister lived. Mom and I saw Addy’s mom and her O’Hare grandparents at church on Christmas. None of them had a teaspoonful of information on Addy. They didn’t even know where she was. Her brother, Charlie, wasn’t home for the holidays, either. He’d gone skiing with friends in New Hampshire. I never liked Addy’s folks much, but I felt sorry for them on Christmas Day. These sad old people, sharing a hymnal, singing without any thread of joy in their voices.

  From: Addison Stone

  Date: Dec 27 at 6:53 PM

  Subject: wish you wuz here

  To: Lucy Lim

  Lulu, Key West is the freaks.

  It’s full of the most rando people-trees-flowers.

  All the creepiest-crawliest species stretching-reaching-flying as far down the coast as they can go.

  This description also includes “Stargazer Luz.” That’s Linc’s big sister.

  I am not fan-zoning this chick.

  Stargazer strolls around the bungalow, blonde and burnt, drinking green slop for her throat, and telling us about guys who come to her cabaret act and fall madly in love with her and download all her songs.

  We went to see her sing last night.

  I’m surprised that she’s got that gig at all.

  Marilyn Monroe with extra helium.

  But I’m happy!! I might be catching Keys Disease. Time ain’t nothing here.

  All day Lincoln basks in the sun like a lizard.

  I am losing hours of my life to staring at him.

  His skin is already tawny.

  He smells like sex and soap.

  We’re hardly ever apart. I swear I get sad when he leaves to go to the toilet.

  This note is making any sense? I’m dwunk.

  Mojitos is the Key drink of Key West & they go down a leetle 2 EZ.

  We’re coming back to NYC for Eve.

  Gonna be the sicccest party and you need to train for it.

  Fall was the big real, huh? The deep end.

  I hope next year I can take a few more calm breaths.

  & enjoy Enjoy ENJOY.

  x!o! & I’m so glad you liked your bracelet!

  Addison in Key West, courtesy of Lincoln Reed.

  Gil Cheba and Addison Stone at MXP Studio opening, courtesy of Cormac Mulvaney.

  VIII.

  “HE’S JUST SO STICKY AND USELESS.”

  GIL CHEBA, a.k.a “DJ Generate”: I’m the DJ at Bembe, a club lounge in Williamsburg. I was born and raised in London, and I moved to New York about five years ago, when I was eighteen. When I first met Addison that night on New Year’s Eve, I’d just returned from a stint in Ibiza, where I thought I might live and DJ happily for a while. As it happened, while I was over there, I fucked myself up rather badly on X. To the point where I knew I’d have to walk away from my entire life in Ibiza, and all the people in it, if I wanted to sort myself out.

  So off I popped to rehab. Ah, rehab. It saved this poor sod’s life. And once I was saved, I came back to New York City only slightly worse for my time away.

  I’ve always thought myself a lucky chap, and I quickly got some bookings at Webster Hall, and then at the downtown Hotel Quest on New Year’s Eve, which had set up two events. General party in their dining lounge, and the VIP invite-only gig was up on the rooftop around the pool. They wanted me downstairs till midnight at the general party, then zzzzp! up the elevator to spin for the VIP set till sunrise.

  Addison Stone was the first VIP I noticed. Stunning, slinky as a mongoose, wearing a frock made of some sort of aluminum foil, violet feathers in her hair. You’d have reckoned that she was “somebody” just by the way she stood in the room. But I knew who she was. Most people did. I’d spun at countless gigs, but that night was a standout crowd. And Addison was a standout in that crowd. I remember peering down from the booth at her and thinking, You brilliant, cheeky girl, don’t you just have the world at your feet?

  LUCY LIM: Addy’d invited me to tag along at this scene-y New Year’s Eve party at Quest. So intimidating! So many famous people, I was blown away. Addy was at the center of everything, and she was so on. She was being paid to wear a metallic dress of a young new designer, Kimber Jalloh—everyone knows what a Jalloh bag is now but I’d never heard of him then.

  Addy kept telling me that she got to keep the dress. She was so excited about that. Not that she could ever wear it again. It was too fragile, like tinsel! It was falling apart. “Do NOT try this at home!” was Addy’s whole style that night. She had thick silver sparkle smeared on her eyes and her trademark purple with a pair of gloves she’d dyed herself, and eight-inch platforms so she was taller than all the women and most of the men. She’d stolen a bunch of long red proteas from the hotel lobby vase and was handing them out. Proteas are a mean-looking flower, long and heavy like a sword. We were having the best time, dancing an
d laughing and mugging it up, and she was introducing me to a zillion people. It was all so good, till Zach Frat showed up with Sophie.

  GIL CHEBA: Zach’s a known tosser, and of course he wouldn’t arrive anywhere without being fully crewed up with his hangers-on. The one hanging on his arm that night was Sophie Kiminski, who everyone knows as a very posh party girl and not a particularly good actress. The only vaguely thing interesting about Sophie was that she’d been on and off with Lincoln. I knew it, the room knew it, and most especially Addison Stone knew it.

  Straight off, I see that Zach is putting on a show, flaunting Sophie, making a spectacle of himself so that Addison will notice. It was all quite sad, actually. Alexandre—who’s not a bad bloke if he’s made the decision not to act completely pretentious—was attempting to keep the peace. And so were Addison’s people, everyone was stepping up hard to keep Zach away from Lincoln, to keep Sophie away from Addison. Clusterfuck is what I believe the term was for that.

  ERIKSON MCAVENA: Thing was, Addison didn’t like a circus unless she was the ringmaster. And when pretty, wispy, tipsy, coked-up Sophie tottered in, she was certainly getting a lot of looks. It was more drama than the Kentucky derby backstretch, I’ll tell you that much.

  But just to put in one good word about that night—my shot of Alexandre Norton. He’d found a pair of little kids’ water wings, and he’d stuck them on for fun, and I was inspired. I asked him to jump in the shallow end. I reckon he’d have done anything that night to distract Zach from Lincoln. Plus he was a little buzzed. I used the picture in my first solo show. So not all was lost.

  Photograph of Alexandre Norton, courtesy of Erickson McAvena.