Dead Stars (66 page)

CLEAN

[Jacquie]

Dead Stardust

In

the months following her daughter's death, Jacquie was hired for a ½dozen portraitures. Two were in private homes. One of them was an 8-year-old girl with cystic fibrosis.

Jacquie thought of moving away. She talked about it with Dawn, who gave her blessing. It was understood that Dawn & Jim were going to raise the girl, & Jacquie felt guilty about that. She had no desire to be a parent again and questioned whether she ever did. Dawn comforted her, tho one can only be comforted so much. Jacquie knew she was depressed but resisted Dawn's suggestion to medicate. She went on the Internet & learned the possible side effects of antidepressants were “new, worse” depressions &/or
suicidal thoughts and attempts
. Jacquie never heard anything so insane in her life—a pill you took for depression that walked you to the gallows!

. . .

Pieter came to town.

This time, they didn't sleep together. Albie joined them for dinner—the boys got along like a house on fire.

Pieter said he'd be spending more time in LA, working at Gagosian. He didn't bring up Beth Rader nor did he ask Jacquie about her “avocation,” for which she was grateful.

He brought her a gift, a beautiful book of full-face black & white portraits. The text was in German. Pieter explained that the artist, a man in his 70s named Walter Schels, had permission from his dying subjects to document moments before and after death. On the left side of the book, the subject stared straight into the camera; on the right, he was dead. Pieter said the pictures were often taken mere hours apart. One was of a young boy who looked so prosaic in life, so beautiful in death. Another reminded her of the photograph she took of Jerilynn & her granddaughter, only in perverse negative: a mother sat on a couch cradling her dead baby in one arm, with her remaining child, a living toddler, riding her hip. The nasal cannula that supplied oxygen to the baby still hadn't been removed. The lovely thing about the portrait was the duality—parity—of the living & the dead. The mom's serene indifference reminded that the opposing states coexisted, were in fact interchangeable. She looked like she was in a trance. The handsome woman gazed off-camera, like she might have been listening to someone, perhaps someone posing the question,
Which one is alive, you or the baby?
Jacquie thought the woman might have got it wrong.

. . .

She put the house up for sale.

. . .

She cooked Pieter dinner and got drunk.

He stayed over.

The sex was dirty and bruising. She couldn't remember having so much fun in the sack.

During breakfast, Pieter announced he happened to be “au courant” on her postmortem work. The only person who could have talked to him was Albie; in that same instant, she was certain that Albie had told him about her portrait of Jerilynn as well. Pieter played dumb and she could see the bind he was in. Asking to see the Cedars picture would egregiously violate Albie's confidence—it was one thing for Albie to have spoken in general terms, quite another to have shared about
that
. Such a sensitive revelation might threaten their friendship, and Albie would have known that. While Pieter didn't want to detonate his own relationship with Jacquie, she knew he was willing to carefully navigate any kind of minefield whose end result was being shown the
memento mori
of her baby.

Jacquie already forgave Albie in her head. None of it really mattered anymore. She was getting out of Dodge, bound for Marin. One of her portraiture clients had offered her a guesthouse for as long as she liked. Jacquie thought she might use it as base camp for traveling the world. Hell, the guesthouse was three times bigger than the house she was trying to unload.

“So—do you want to see it?”

He played dumb again.

“It's hanging in the garage.”

. . .

A week later, Beth Rader called. Jacquie knew that she would.

Pieter probably told her to wait a respectable few weeks before checking in. Jacquie cut her off at the pass by saying she appreciated her interest but was in the middle of a major move. Beth said Pieter mentioned she was relocating to Mill Valley and that it was one of her
favorite
favorite places, she grew up in Petaluma/Cazadero, bla
.

Then she made her play.

“OK, Jacquie, I don't want to take much more of your time. I'm going to be straight up because that's the only way I'm going to feel better, that I was at least upfront & tried my best. And I hope you'll be OK with it because I assume if you're anything like me you prefer just hearing the truth instead of someone just rambling. Pieter told me about the picture of your daughter. And her baby. & let me just say I feel privileged just—that he
shared
it with me. And that you, of course, shared it with
him
. & you need to know he told me about the photograph in the
most respectful way
. The hair on my neck stood up; it's standing up now. It
so moved me
, Jacquie. I just had a nephew pass—of lymphoma—he was just 14, & I wish there'd been some way to
memorialize
that. Not for me but for the mom.

“What I really want to say is
you're a
great artist
. You have a body of work that should
not
be ignored. That you're not better known, more
collected
, is criminal. I don't think you've
ever
had representation up to the task—that is my
opinion—
I don't believe you've ever had anyone in your corner who really
understood
the world of Jacquie Crelle-Vomes. The aesthetic, the palette, the precision, the narrative. This new work you've embarked on—& make no mistake, it
is
your new work, whether you choose to
show it or not
, & I don't care
what
you decide, it's
your choice
, I think it would be a
shame
for people not to see it but that of course is
1000%
up to you. Goya had his ‘black paintings,' he did them on the walls of his house, never wanted anyone to see them, and they didn't until he was dead and gone. So you can leave them to the wind but
whatever
you do, it's still
art
. Because
art
is something you can't help but make. That's what you do, Jacquie.
You make art.

“I think you're ready for a show. I really do. Everyone at the gallery does. A retrospective, with the bonus of the new work—again, should you choose to show it. I think it will arouse
tremendous
interest. About where you've been. & where you're going.

“All right, I'll shut up now.”

“Beth, it's
very
flattering. And you may be right—about everything. But I've closed that door. What I do, I do for me. I know you'll understand.”

“Absolutely.
One hundred percent.
At least I'll sleep tonight—I made my little pitch.
Best of luck,
Jacquie
,
and you know we're always here. And good luck with the move! Kiss Marin for me!”

. . .

She awakened in the middle of the night thinking about Fergie, the Mill Valley girl with cystic fibrosis. She remembered something her little sister said.

After she died, the mom tried to explain things. Well-intentioned friends had been coaching her to talk to the sister about Fergie's
journey
, how one day we were all going on the same
journey
. Right after Fergie passed, a close friend even held the mom in her arms and said,
She's begun her journey.
So later that night when the mom tucked her in, the little sis said, Where did she go? The mom said,
Back where she came from. Where all of us came from.
The girl said, Where? The mom nodded toward the ceiling.
Where the stars are. She went to where the stars are.
The girl asked if Fergie would be cold. The mom said no, she didn't think so.
Did you know,
said the Mom,
that people are made from stardust?

dust?

That's right. People are made from stardust, from all the light that comes from the
s & the sun.

Mama, do stars die?

Everything does.

But where do they go?

Well, stars live a long, long time. And even when they die, they keep giving out light.

But how?

They just do. It's their nature.

When a baby dies in the mama's stomach, is it a dead star?

No, said Mom, on the verge of losing it. When a baby dies, its
dust goes back to be with its friends again. The other stars.

If Fergie's back with the stars, & all the
s die, even if she dies too, then will she give out light?

Yes.

For a long, long time?

That's right. Now it's time for sleep.

. . .

“Hello, is this Jacquie?”

“Yes, who's calling?”

“Steve Martin.”

“O
hi
Steve! What a nice surprise.”

“I usually don't do this—Beth Rader gave me your number. I should add I was holding her at gunpoint.”

“Hahaha! No, it's fine—really.”

“I was trying to remember the last time we saw each other.”

“I think it was—wasn't it at the Central Library?”

“That's
right
. Gee. Beth said you're moving away?”

“Yes! To Marin.”

“I love Marin. I just called to say that Beth showed me some images you took that I thought were extraordinary. The young couple with their stillborn.”

“Mmmm. Yeah—she's quite taken with them.”

“So was I. I know your work, by the way. I've always been a big fan.”

“Thank you. Back atcha.”

“I've always regretted that I never collected you. I remember how controversial you were—those images of your little girl––––––––––––
wait
. You didn't happen to be at Gus' opening in London at the Gagosian. Gus & James Franco?”