A short story.
Ford McLain
From: Fyodor MacClesh
To: Suzanne Beauchamp
Sent: July 25, 2024 11:18 pm
Subject: RE: Fifteen Years
Dear Painter’s Lover,
Just a few days ago, I stood in the large empty room that had been my studio for the past five years. It was sterile, free of any sign that I had taken photographs, sketched, and painted there. The walls had been painted over and were now white. The floor, once marked with oils and acrylics, boot marks and cigar ash had been sanded and stained. My table that once held books and small canvases, chess board, wine bottles, rocks glasses and cheese plates, had been shipped off to Spain with a few other pieces of furniture and of course my paintings and books. My napping couch was thrown out. I have already ordered a new one for the cottage and it is on its way. It was strange, dear. The room was no longer a studio, and for all the memories I had there…that we had there over the past five years…during the last moments I stood there, I felt no attachment to the empty space.
I’m glad that you wrote me before I left, because for the first time in our 15-year relationship I was actually concerned – hell! I was scared – that you were not talking to me. Perhaps you needed time to adjust to the change. Perhaps you were angry that I followed through with my promise to move to Spain. Or were you hurt? The last e-mail didn’t say. Actually, it didn’t say much.
Your light touch and warm kiss the last time you were here were wonderful. The silence with which you handed me the bourbon and walked out was gut-wrenching. The lack of contact for the weeks after made me a nervous wreck.
And of course, when I become a nervous wreck, I indulge in my hedonism. Gallery Seven – the very gallery in SoHo where we finally physically met 13 years ago – wanted me to do a reprise of the “cheeseburger” series. Once I learned about it, I tried to reach you, to give you first dibs on the feast I would consume, but you weren’t responding. So, a few friends came over for the next two weeks. We ordered burgers from various places and with various toppings, photographed them, devoured them, played conga drums and Velvet Underground songs, drank lots of Anchor Steam, and then I kicked them out around midnight and painted for four hours. I’d nap, wake up around noon and start the cheeseburger orgy all over again. The paintings will be shown starting next week and will include the following:
1. blue cheese with bacon,
2. provolone with guac,
3. tomato and ketchup,
4. buffalo wing sauce and blue cheese,
5. onion ring and American cheese,
6. egg foo yung (with the sauce), and
7. tomatoes and cukes.
It was fun…but very lonely without you. You sitting on my couch, enjoying the guac and provolone burger, licking the guac off your fingers and lips while I took your picture would have been a great last hurrah for my last weeks in New York.
But there was little sleep. Four hours a day, at most. Lots of drinking, a little pot, and a few young art protégés who didn’t mind cleaning my paintbrushes or running down to grab the burger deliveries. But there was no you. And if you were there, I would not have had such a party, nor would I have put on ten pounds (which I hope to work off with half hour walks down to and from the local cervezeria).
I am so glad you wrote. So glad that you touched base before I left. Your message was short and cryptic, and I’m not sure what it means. But you wrote. And I was happy.
Spain is going to be great, and I can’t wait for you to visit. I want you here with me. Hell, I need you here with me. Even if it’s for a few days once a month, I will find a way to get you here, if you want. Just as I offered the last time I physically saw you.
(OK, going to take a break from writing and walk down to my new bar. There’s a lovely young American sculptor, Sophie, who is fun to talk with. Not here a few days and I’ve already made a new friend. This letter will continue. And I want to go deep.)
It’s two hours later, and I’m back. Good and buzzed but still able to type and spell check.
Sophie bartended and we talked about sculpting and painting, women and beer. She’s a great gal and I think we’ll be good friends. Haven’t figured out what kind of friendship we’ll have, but I enjoy her company, so whatever works.
On the walk back up to 7 Calle Gaudi, I thought of the past 15 years. I thought about our friendship and how it took us two years to finally physically meet. I thought of the night that you surprised me at Gallery Seven, when I had expected you to be in Chicago. Remember what you were drinking? A red blend from California, called Menage-a-Trois. In hindsight, I kind of overused that joke that night. With you, my publicist, any other woman who came close enough to us at the gallery bar. But I was a bit looped and giddy from the event. After all, it was a great night and the first time to have pieces hung in a NYC gallery. And great that you surprised me. And later, at my hotel, when we finally got away from the party and upstairs, and for the first time we made love (I must have been a bit looped, because until that point, I didn’t realize you were auburn-haired).
From that night forward, it was all over for me. I was sunk. I had sworn to live the life of a confirmed bachelor, promised never to re-marry, never to fall in love again, never to commit to anything more than friendships with benefits with any woman who might be crazy to ask for more. But as we lied there in the darkness, as you slept and I ran my hand down your gorgeous, tanned back, I knew it was over. I was hooked.
And you knew it. You knew I was yours and you knew that you would have me from that point forward, until one of us died. Sometimes, you can just tell.
Yet, for fifteen years, you enabled my fantasy (or delusion?) of being the single guy, the painter, the philanderer (not that I was all that successful at it), the teacher/mentor to future young artists. You kept your distance, gave me my space, never hovered over me those times that we were together, and encouraged me to play, knowing full well to whom I truly belonged. I always wondered why.
And you facilitated my dream of going overseas. How you must have been sick of it! Every time we were together, at least once, I talked about this move. For fifteen years. In writing, over the phone, and in person. And except for that one time in the hotel about seven years ago, you never questioned it, and never tried to change my mind (maybe you realized it was hopeless). And you stayed with me even after you knew I would physically leave – not that I didn’t offer for you to come with me. Neither of us was attached to anyone significant.
So I planned, and you even helped me plan: researching real estate in the area, learning about ESL programs where I could teach, looking up fun restaurants and bars, and finding out where the best galleries and dealers were. Your enthusiasm was never muted. And as the time got closer, you got more involved, until I found places and made negotiations.
Then you started to back off, about six months ago, when things were starting to solidify. And at that point forward, the more excited I became and the more I talked about Spain the less you responded…
Oh (writes the painter, as the bat finally hits him over the head)!
Fuck!
My selfishness wins again. Dammit! Goddammit! You never wanted me to go. You had aging family and obligations in the United States; it wasn’t so easy for you to leave as it was for me. I could have stayed, at least for another ten years or until you were ready, if you were ever ready. I was doing well in NYC. I didn’t have to leave. I didn’t need to be so inflexible.
What was it like for the past 15 years to love such a narcissistic bastard?
And what was going through my head?
Why would I not bend?
Why would I not sacrifice or at least moderate my plans to accommodate you?
You wanted to stay and even if you tried to tell me, I would not have budged.
But I loved you. No, I do love you.
Even as you kept silent and supported my ambition, even though I knew that you were not ready to be so far away from the States, I always envisioned you coming with me. You always made me feel good about myself, and I hope that I did the same. You did what you wanted, in terms of work and art; you took photographs, made movies, designed costumes. I figured you were totally happy. I thought we were happy. Hell, we were happy with our arrangement, weren’t we? No marriage, no new kids, just us.
This happened before, at the end of my marriage. The hubris, the selfishness, the complacency. Thinking everything was great and then realizing otherwise when it was too late.
This one thing, this stubbornness of mine to go overseas, not considering whether you wanted to go or not…and my not caring.
Suzanne? My love? My soul mate? We’ve been through a lot together over fifteen years, made love, made art, and aged well. Why didn’t I have this revelation during that period that you didn’t respond to me, before I left New York? Where was my head, if not up my ass?
Did I lose you?
Write me, when you can. Write me and tell me what an ass I was to run off. You were supposed to be my long-term companion, the one for whom I pretty much forsook others. Write me and tell me what I can do to fix this. Write me and let me know that you are still the painter’s lover. Please. I need to get hit over the head with a club. I don’t do well with subtlety from others.
Your last message was so cryptic. What the hell!
Four words: “Be patient. Have faith.”
(There’s a knock on the door, guess I should answer it, get rid of them, send off this e-mail, and then figure out what to do…).
