Dating : I’m Alive

“I’m Alive” by Jackson Browne is playing on the jukebox in this modern, hip, downtown L.A. diner. Bennet looks into his black hole coffee cup and is reminded of the cosmos. How many things do we not know, he thinks. Do we act upon our feelings when they’re at sea level or low tide? Who’s to say that a bipolar person is not the sanest in the room? Janine the waitress brings over his midnight stack of pancakes. Mmmm. A sugar caffeine rush will push him through his darkest hour. Soft butter melts and runs down the edges. Thin warm organic maple syrup is soaked up by the fluffy round bread. Bennet takes a bite and is transported to better times. Celia used to be sitting across from him. She would sip tea and crunch toast while critiquing the progress of his latest abstract painting. For every three points she made, one would be correct. This was better than average for all civilians and most art critics, who focused on benign areas that gave no weight to meaning or understanding.

“I’m coming to your show next week.”

Janine became a fan once she Googled Bennet and discovered his twenty year oeuvre. She told him that his pictures pack a lot of juice. A great compliment considering Bennet’s coldness. Could it also attest to his virility? Should he test this theory on her? Why complicate his work life with PYTs? Too much hassle. At 69, Bennet prefers to talk.

“I hope you get something out of it,” he says.

“I’m writing a piece about it for my magazine,” she says shyly.

Janine writes for an online culture site, Raven’s Edge. An interview with the obscure, highly private painter would give her some much needed credibility. Photographer Nan Goldstein chatted with her for ten minutes one day but that led nowhere. Metal guitarist Ricky Cervanka delivered a rambling monologue into her smartphone one morning after rough sex. Janine’s hipster editor Hamilton wouldn’t run her very funny commentary interspersed with the transcription because he said Ricky didn’t fit the “pure culture” framework. WTF???

“Try not to make it too thinky,” Bennet says between bites.

“I won’t. Would you want to clarify some of your themes with me?”

Janine looks away because she can’t stand to see Bennet’s refusal face. Why would he ever talk to a waitress about complexity in art? Artists never explain themselves.

He stops chewing and sips the coffee. An Eagles song plays now. The thought of talking to her instead of The Times amuses him to no end.

“You want me to give away my secrets?”

Janine turns to him quickly, offering a sincere…

“No, not at all. I just want to understand your work better.“

He looks deeply into her eyes, seeing a hunger for wisdom and a fiery intelligence. Maybe they can have tea in his studio. Maybe they’ll both learn something.

“Alright. I’ll give you an hour. At my house. When can you be there?”

Janine looks at him, not sure if he’s for real.

“How about tomorrow?”

“Okay. I’ll be expecting you. Three o’clock.”

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

Bennet scrawls his address on a green guest check and hands it to Janine. She smiles at him then walks away so he can finish his pancakes in peace.

_______________________________________________

Living near Los Angeles has done wonders for Bennet’s art and health. No more brutal Midwest winters to dread and suffer through has made him more focused. In the past he’d be so consumed with keeping warm that a painting would take a season to materialize. Now in the California sun, it seems as if the paint can flow from his soul without impediment. Solar panels were installed by his dealer in the name of profit and prolificity.

There’s a dozen new works leaning against the studio walls covered in brown paper. They’re ready to be transported to the gallery along with 12 never seen before blueprints which came out of the blue during an obsessive architecture phase. He thinks he’ll fill out the show with black and white photographs. Looking through old prints, Bennet lingers on one of Celia taken on their garden patio. She’s wearing white and seems very happy. Before this picture can affect his mood, the doorbells rings. It’s 3:05 p.m. on a Friday.

Bennet has water boiling in his teakettle. A box of sweet and savory snacks from Kicker, a boutique gourmet snack shop downtown, is sitting on a small table by the front door. He’s wearing cuffed khakis, blue Converse, and a paint-splashed New Order t-shirt. He turns off the stove and answers the door.

Janine is waiting patiently on his porch. A mix of nerves and enthusiasm rushes through her thin small-framed body. She’s wearing a sundress and pink Converse. When Bennet opens the door, Janine smiles when she sees they’re wearing the same shoes.

“We have something in common,” she says to break the ice.

Bennet’s unshaven face registers warmth as he ushers her inside.

“Welcome to my bungalow,” he says, shutting the door behind them.

And it is a bungalow. Bennet bought the place in the late ’60s with money he made from writing a minor pop hit. It got to #58 on Billboard and the record company dropped him, saying his songs weren’t Beatlesque. There’s the old guitar in the entranceway. The home is small but a pastel decor gives it an expansive feel. Natural light pours in through most of the house.

“I was expecting something darker.”

“Don’t confuse the artist with his art,” Bennet says, getting teacups out of a cabinet.

The action movie producer Joel Silver said, if you wanna know what I like, don’t look at my movies; come to my house. Bennet’s home is tranquil: a place to meditate on the qualities of art and life, not a place that mirrors the violence of his striking, edgy pictures.

With cups and snacks loaded onto a silver tray, Bennet leads the way to his backyard garden patio. They pass through an elegant living room where Janine notices a shelf of Blu-Ray discs. Manly titles such as The Wild Bunch, Five Easy Pieces, and Taxi Driver catch her eye. Books on alternative energy are below the films. A beat-up Leica camera sits on the same shelf. She follows him out through sliding doors.

Bright rays of sun reflect off the glass tabletop but Janine doesn’t want to wear sunglasses. If she does, he might, and she wants to see his eyes. The yard is modest, with flowers and a vegetable garden at the far back. Bennet sets the tray on the table and they both take a seat. He pulls out a smartphone and suddenly music is playing from a small round speaker sitting in the center of the table. It sounds New Wavey, something her mom would listen to.

“It’s New Order. ‘Age of Consent.’ Thought it was appropriate.”

Janine looks at him and wonders if he’s a dirty old man. She takes a sip of her Earl Grey. He seems depressive, she thinks. Most artists are bi-polar though. Does he have it under control?

“I like them. It’s happy music,” she says.

“What’s interesting is how this band was formed from a suicide. Their world was shattered yet they continued, and had success.” Bennet’s positive spin.

“Good came from bad. I like that. What’s your opinion of suicide?” Why should she start with a softball question? He said an hour, right?

“I’m a fan of survivors. For me it’s not an option, but I understand.“

Of course he’s not gonna be critical and be quoted endlessly online. Too many taboo subjects where we have to keep our true opinions mute. Everything is political now.

“Have you been affected by suicide?”

Bennet looks at her as he would a mischievous child.

“Well, besides many musicians whom I loved, losing Celia hurt like a motherfucker.”

Oh fuck. Janine’s research was spotty at best. She basically Googled Bennet’s images and read a brief bio. Who is Celia? How did she miss her?

“I’m so sorry. I… How long has it been?”

“Ten years. Shouldn’t have happened. But I saw symptoms.”

Bennet looks down as he sips his tea. Janine’s mind races. Can she salvage this interview? Is it over before it gets started?

“Was Celia an artist?”

Bennet looks up and smiles.

“She mostly made pictures. That’s her camera you saw on the shelf. She was concerned about homelessness around the city; thought showing photographs of despair to rich people in galleries would lead to some kind of change. It never happened.”

Janine knows that efforts to alleviate this problem have been met with mixed results. An old boyfriend was harassed constantly for sleeping in his car. Only in the past few months has the momentum turned.

Bennet continues.

“She didn’t give up though. Everything just got too heavy.”

Janine is upset at herself for not going deeper into Bennet’s life. She needs to focus and talk about his current situation.

“Are some of the new paintings an homage to her work?”

“Yes, definitely. After years of experimenting I looked through her pictures and found something to riff on. She’d probably be amazed.

Janine absorbs the peace and beauty of the garden and yard. It seems to be a sanctuary for contemplation and reflection.

“Was she responsible for some of your earlier ideas?”

Why am I still talking about Celia, Janine thinks. Bennet seems unfazed.

“We kept our work separate. Celia had no time for some of the things I was interested in… but we did pollute each other’s waters occasionally.”

He is hard to read; not giving anything up.

“What do you hope will happen with the new show?”

“I’d like to move some of the issues to the front line. Maybe this generation will have better luck and ideas than previous ones. They already seem to be smarter with the earth’s resources.”

“I know this is almost a cliched question, but can art change the world?”

Bennet pours more tea into his cup and starts crunching on salty snacks from the colorful, cleverly designed Kicker box. Janine realizes she can let her interviewer guard down for a moment and just be a guest. She crosses her legs and leans back in the chair, taking in the afternoon glow of Bennet’s Zen-like backyard.

“It’s a cliche because it’s always asked and never answered properly. I like the Nietzsche quote: ‘We have art so we don’t die from the truth’… now we’re back to Celia.”

Janine has a strong desire to hug him. He seems to be in pain and at peace at the same time. She wants to stop the interview and be a girl. Were you married? Did you love her?

“How long were you together?”

Bennet looks directly into Janine’s eyes.

“Twenty years, off and on. We met in Hollywood. It always seemed like we were in a movie together. The synchronicity was there.”

Janine can see the couple hanging out with Dennis Hopper and Nicholson. That’s why she moved to L.A. Her father was obsessed with ’70s cinema; tried to go the indie route and went bust when he blew his life savings on an art film modeled after Hopper’s Last Movie. Anybody could have told him that was a bad idea…

“Did you guys know any movie stars?”

Bennet brightens up.

“Yeah, we bumped into a few at galleries and premieres. Celia worked for various independent newspapers and magazines; she got close while trying to get a story. Like you, I guess…“

Before Janine gets too many stars in her eyes, Bennet brings her back to earth.

“But we were way out of the mainstream. If Celia got an interview with Henry Jaglom, that was big time. It was somehow better that way. Not so much a well-oiled machine.”

For Janine, struggling in the city for so long, being part of a heavily funded entertainment industry would definitely have its advantages. Hamilton has been stringing her along for three years with promises of promotion. She’s thinking about using this piece for leverage…

“Is that why you didn’t talk to journalists for awhile? It got too commercial?”

“Sometimes you just have to go away and do the work. L.A. can be so distracting that nothing ever gets done. You don’t want to lose your ideas by talking too much.”

Bennet scrolls the screen on his smartphone. Now, the West Coast sounds of Chet Baker signal the last segment of the interview. Where should Janine direct her questions? Her host has been so welcoming and polite that she doesn’t want to push his buttons. But maybe one more…

“You said in a Times article in the early ’80s that artists were the most unfit for real life. Do you still believe that and, if so, how should they live their lives?”

She pours herself half a cup of tea while the words sink in. It’s quite pleasant in this space in Bennet’s company. Will he be inviting her back? If so, under what circumstances?

“I’d say yes and no. At the time I thought definitely yes. Artists are the most sensitive souls and real life is red hot sun. They get burned. But I’ve met musicians, writers, painters with stainless steel armors. They can be the toughest also. Celia was both.”

Instead of continuing down a dark path, Janine decides to lighten up the mood.

“Which musicians have you gotten to meet?”

Bennet points to the speaker.

“Mostly jazz guys. We met Baker at one of his last gigs. Bowie stopped by a gallery one afternoon. Bob Dylan bought a couple pictures. When I was playing guitar full time I used to bump into Leonard Cohen a lot…”

Janine can see a resemblance in Bennet to Cohen. Was he a former ladies’ man? Did Celia save him from a life of groupies and hangers-on?

“I’m glad I got out of music. Painting has given me a good life. There’s a generous amount of intellectuals in the business to keep me amused.”

Bennet smiles, stands up.

“Thanks for coming over and giving my work some attention.”

Before she can blink, her time is gone. Janine stands and shakes his hand. Bennet leads her back through the French patio doors, through his house, to the narrow entranceway. She was expecting a peek at a picture or two but he really is all business. At the door, before Janine can help herself, she gives Bennet a hug.

“Thanks for your time, and for the tea. I really like your house.”

“My pleasure. I’m looking forward to reading your article.”

“Oh, by the way, my theater company is doing some Chekhov plays. I’d be honored if you came to a performance.”

“I’m a big Chekov fan. I’ll be there. It’ll take my mind off all of this art bullshit.”

Janine laughs, shakes his hand again, and pulls out a flyer for the downtown L.A. performance space. Bennet takes the paper and automatically analyzes its graphic design.

“I’ll look for you in the audience. Come backstage when it’s over.”

“I’ll see you there.”

Bennet leans closer to Janine and kisses her cheek.

“Bye darling. Be safe.”

Janine says a shy “Goodbye.”

The door closes behind her. Janine soaks up some Pasadena sunshine on the way to her car. She wonders if she could live here instead of L.A. Nah. For all of its negatives, Los Angeles is still the most exciting city she’s lived in. Janine opens the door to her Toyota. She sits for a minute and stares at Bennet’s bungalow, confident in the fact that she has her story. From the front window of his house, Bennet watches her drive away.

__________________________________________________________

The office of Raven’s Edge is in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of L.A. In the past six months, this area has become a hotspot of hipster activity: cafe’s, pop-up restaurants, a pickled vegetable emporium, a butcher shop. Hamilton shares the warehouse with Red Edge: a right-wing take on left coast life. When Jon Voight stopped by to have his picture taken, both political camps asked for autographs. Roddy, Red Edge’s editor, often has lunch with Hamilton. They keep each other sharp and on point. Magnus Carlson, the investor in both sites, thought they’d be at one another’s throats. When they became friends, his hands were tied.

Janine is in early for a Monday morning: 11 o’clock. She worked on her article all weekend and just finished editing. Will Artforum be interested, or do they only deal with established writers? Is she at the mercy of Hamilton’s questionable editorial taste? There he is, by the Keurig. After a morning of coffee, Janine wants tea. She pops in a Twinings English Breakfast K-Cup before making eye contact with her boss. Then the day begins…

“Hi J. Have an exciting weekend?”

Hamilton is dressed in khakis and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His brown penny loafers are shiny. Janine is sure he’s wearing argyle socks. She looks through his tortoise-rimmed glasses. There, what’s behind those eyes?

“I was writing. For us. The site.”

She stirs a small amount of raw sugar into her cup.

“Oh really. Good for you. And us. What’s it about?”

“Do you know the painter Bennet Tripp?”

“Yeah. Vaguely. Fill me in. What’s his style?”

Janine steps back from Hamilton, who’s gotten a little close.

“Mostly abstract in the past. Now he’s doing semi-representational drawings and paintings based on photographs. The subject is poverty and homelessness around the city.”

Hamilton looks around the office.

“Don’t let Roddy get a whiff of this… Why are you writing about him? Where’s the relevance?”

How is the city’s poor relevant? Janine sips her tea, tries to be nonchalant.

“He’s having a retrospective starting next week. Surely our readers will be interested.”

Hamilton pushes up his glasses, drinks coffee, and smiles at a new girl across the room. Oh, back to Janine…

“Send me the story. I’ll see about it.”

“I will. But I need to know something by tomorrow. The L.A. Reader is interested.”

This is the first time she’s contacted a rival publication first. Pressuring her editor for an answer feels good. She’ll remember this in the future.

“Really? Suddenly friends with the enemy? I thought we were closer than that.”

No, we’re not close at all, Buckcherry.

“Raven’s Edge always has first look. This is home.”

Hamilton gives Janine one of his patented looks of disbelief and slowly walks toward his corner office. So the boss is mad at her on Monday morning. The week must get better…

She enters a large industrial elevator and rides up to the rooftop. Magnus has refurbished this former animal feed storage facility into an extremely open, workable, inspiring space with many creature comforts and a design that facilitates flow. Even though Hamilton can be an assy editor sometimes, the work environment is better than any Janine has ever seen. Part of the roof is a glassed-in cafe’. One of Puck’s former sous chefs runs the place with precision. Simple, savory/ sweet snacks and lunches keep the staff well-fed and happy. Janine spots Lana lunching by herself in a corner. They’re on equal standing with Hamilton since they were both hired at the same time. Janine gets a slice of kale quiche and sits with her.

“Hi Janine. We have a few minutes before Ham and Roddy get up here.”

“Good. Who does Ham think he is? God of Culture?”

“Yeah, ever since Britny blew him in the bathroom at the Met.”

Janine hesitates before taking a bite.

“So gross.”

“Maybe, but the interview with her made him semi-famous.”

Janine looks at Lana and smiles.

“I got an interview last week. If it doesn’t run here, The Reader is gonna take it. I just told Ham. He’s probably fuming by now.”

Lana’s eyes are wide with awe.

“Good for you! Congratulations! Maybe we’ll feel a tectonic shift around here… Who did you interview?”

Janine stops eating, sips tea…

“Bennet Tripp. The abstract painter. He’s sort of underground and not on the city’s radar, but his work is powerful. He comes into my diner sometimes.”

Lana is a modern art snob. She appreciates this.

“What’s he like?”

“Looks like Leonard Cohen a bit, but more casual. Easy to talk to. Philosophical. His partner committed suicide ten years ago and he mentioned her a lot. The new show is work based on her photographs.”

Lana loves him already.

“Is he still grieving? That’s so sad.”

Janine looks around for Hamilton.

“He seemed a little melancholy, but mostly in good spirits. He’s glad to be getting another project in front of people. He has high hopes for our generation…”

The elevator doors open delivering Hamilton and Roddy to the cafe’. They’re laughing and talking loudly; about a late season Dodger game and an actor who gave up his sordid lifestyle to evangelize the Christian conservative cause. Janine and Lana clear their table quickly as the boys go chat up Chef Danton and check out the day’s special. Janine compares this spectacle to the serene scene in Bennet’s backyard. How lovely to be there now, she thinks, as the memory is superimposed onto the present moment and the elevator doors close behind her.

_______________________________________________

Pasadena, CA. 1983 — Late Afternoon

Bennet and Celia have just returned from seeing a matinee of The Big Chill. They like going to the movies early because there’s not much of a crowd and way less noise to interfere with the onscreen drama. Afterwards, they love to sit on the garden patio and discuss the film over a glass of wine. The temperature today is a perfect 75 degrees.

Bennet comes out through the sliding doors with a bottle of 1979 Chateau Montelena Chardonnay. Celia twirls her empty glass and watches him uncork the bottle. There’s a plate of cheese, crackers, and cashews in the center of the table, along with a silver ice bucket. Bennet uses the corkscrew like a master and pours them both enough to swirl and sniff. He places the bottle on ice then sits down close to Celia. She’s not a fan of the film…

“Too much nostalgia for me. I wouldn’t want my friends trying to figure out why I killed myself.”

Bennet sips the chard and listens. He knows there’s more to come.

“I mean, they weren’t even close friends. So how could they have really known Alex? By the time he was out of college for so long, he became an entirely different person. Don’t you think so?”

Bennet finishes chewing a cashew, swirls his wine.

“They were all close at one time, when they were much younger. That creates a powerful bond. Maybe Alex’s friends didn’t stop caring about him.”

Celia has some cheese and a cracker.

“You’re defending the movie’s faulty logic. I’m not saying it wasn’t entertaining. I just had a problem with its basic premise. I didn’t think this group of people would be so sad and heartbroken over someone they hadn’t seen in over a decade.”

Bennet tries to see her point.

“Out of sight, out of mind.”

Celia leans closer to him.

“Exactly.”

Bennet knows it’s not checkmate yet.

“So, if I don’t see you for fifteen years, do you think I’ll stop loving you?”

Celia sits back in her chair, takes a sip.

“It’s possible. Especially if there’s a new girl in town.”

Bennet pours himself half a glass; swirls, snacks, crunches. She’s hardcore, he thinks.

The sun is beginning to set. It’s very quiet.

Celia can’t stand the silence.

“Would you rather I be more sentimental? I’ve seen where that leads.”

Bennet takes her hand.

“I just want you to be you.”

Bennet can see her eyes glistening in the available light. As much as Celia may want to give in to the dumb joys of the world, she’ll always go where her wild mind leads. There will be no hesitation or remorse. She can’t change her nature.

Bennet grabs the bottle of chardonnay and stands up. He follows Celia back through the sliding doors. He considers himself lucky to be in California with such a fierce soul. His life has always been on the ragged edge. Getting cut will happen from time to time. That’s how you know there’s blood in your veins.

Bennet’s heart skips a beat.

At least I’m alive.