Electroboy (18 page)

The urge to keep moving is insistent, so I make an unnecessary trip to visit Lucy and her boyfriend, Yves, who are temporarily, because of his visa status, living in Montreal. I tell them about the counterfeiting scheme over a long dinner, because I think it will amuse them and I want someone else to know. They warn me that it seems unwise, but I don’t pay any attention to their advice. From Montreal, I fly to London on a ridiculous mission that Kostabi actually approves to recoup money from a dealer who owes him $80,000. There’s not a chance that this dealer will pay,
but I visit him at his gallery anyway. He refuses to see me or speak with me about the paintings he has on consignment. I’m not too concerned; it was just a good opportunity to visit London. I build in a few side trips—vacation days. I’m in the mood to see Paris, so I fly there the next morning and tell Mark I’m going to the FIAC art show. But I spend a few days shopping and hanging out in cafés. I get the urge to go to California, so I fly to Los Angeles and make a tour of the West Coast, visiting a few art galleries and some friends. It feels like I’m adding three cities to my campaign schedule and I just need to keep my body moving or I’m going to crash. I’m enjoying the manic pace. I come back to New York for a brief respite and then travel to the art fair in Cologne, using it as an excuse to go to Europe again. I spend about twenty minutes at the show and do no business at all. Whenever I travel, I pretend that I’m working like a dog. I want to go shopping again in Paris and visit Lucy, who’s just returned from Montreal, but I somehow get on the wrong flight in Cologne and end up in Vienna on Thanksgiving Day. I’m a little confused. But I finally get to Paris and meet up with Lucy, who takes me to the apartment of her friends Deb Copaken and Paul Kogan, where a group of Americans has gathered for Thanksgiving dinner. My behavior is particularly wild this evening—I’m carrying a roll of canvases with me and unroll them for the group and pour a glass of red wine on one of the paintings, explaining that it will only increase its value. They’re all amused.

November 26, 1990. 5:30
P.M
.

I arrive at the Film Center Café and there’s a screwdriver waiting for me. It’s a ritual. And for the first time I’m feeling scared shitless. Annike and I make some small talk, and then I just blurt it out: “I’m in.” She stares at me blankly. I realize that I have to translate that bit of slang for her. “I’m interested in participating in your plan,” I tell her. “I’m in.” She smiles, as if she’s expected that response. What would she have done if I’d said no? I tell her I’ll advance
her the initial $20,000 for the first twenty paintings—$1,000 per painting. She tells me that she’ll start painting in her studio in Brooklyn. We will choose twenty images from the Kostabi “image bank,” books and slides that depict the standard images that are repeated over and over, and I will start discreetly preselling to clients abroad. We decide to meet at my apartment in the next few days to choose the images, confident it’s safe to go with the standard ones. There’s so much repetition of these images that another five or six on the market won’t make a difference.

Annike comes to my apartment on Saturday morning, and already we feel like coconspirators, a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. It feels good. She asks me if I’ve mentioned our plan to anybody, and I tell her I haven’t. She emphasizes that nobody should know about this. Now I’m wondering if I’ve told anybody yet. Just Lucy and Yves in Montreal. I had to tell somebody, and I’m dying to tell more people. Especially Jonathan—he’ll love this story. I’m sure he’ll think I’m as crazy as he is now. I’m excited to be involved in such a great scheme, and I crave the attention. I give Annike the first payment, $10,000 in $100 bills. We make a list of paintings that should be easy to sell, and on Monday I’ll get on the phone and see what kind of interest I can drum up overseas.

Annike moves quickly. She starts sneaking supplies—canvas, paints, brushes, and slides of the paintings—out of Kostabi World late at night in small trips and brings them to her studio in Brooklyn. She shares a loft space with Tom Hogan, another Kostabi World employee, from whom she must hide her activities by only working in the early morning. She keeps me posted on her daily progress when I see her at Kostabi World, and in about a month she has finished the first series of paintings. They’re all popular or classic Kostabis—faceless women carrying bowls of fruit on their heads, a seated faceless woman with her chin resting on her hand, faceless people playing golf, and a faceless man and woman embracing. I’m about ready to make my first trip to Europe to sell them and then on to Japan to negotiate deals for large gallery orders. Annike photographs each completed painting against the
white brick background of her studio walls, and slides are created to show customers.

The night before I am to pick up the paintings in Brooklyn I rent a car, then I wake up at 4:00
A.M.
to be at Annike’s studio by 5:00
P.M.
This will be my first time ever driving to Brooklyn, and I imagine myself being lost until sunup, but her directions are perfect. She is waiting for me outside in the cold and quietly guides me upstairs. We load two rolls of paintings into the car, constantly fearful of waking up Tom, and the first phase of the pickup is done. I drive as slowly and carefully back to my apartment as possible, all the while worried that I’ll be stopped on the highway with the counterfeit paintings. Annike has already signed them—a task usually performed by Mark but sometimes handled by an assistant when he isn’t available. That afternoon I title and date and sign the back of each painting and store them all in my downstairs bathroom, in plain view. My friends who come over or drop in are all aware of the paintings, but I don’t make a fuss about them, just referring to them as my Kostabi reserve. About a week before Christmas I take the paintings to Munich, where I have several appointments to show them to dealers. I’ve invited my friend Pamela to come along; she thinks I’m out of my mind to be involved in this scheme, but she’s never been to Munich and I want to make a vacation out of this adventure and have some fun. The paintings are rolled up tightly and taped, and I carry them onto the plane. Our Munich hotel room is the size of a cage—about twelve feet square, which doesn’t offer much space to show paintings—so I realize I’ll have to lay them out on the bed. Pamela leaves to go shopping while I prepare the paintings. When the first dealer arrives, I apologize for the viewing conditions. I am barely able to move around the bed. She isn’t sure she likes all of them, but I give her a price she can’t refuse and sell her three of them for about $15,000. (A real Kostabi, depending on size, would go for $5,000 to $10,000 retail.) I feel like I’ve just unloaded a couple of used cars. Later Pamela and I go out to celebrate and then meet Annike’s sister, Heike, who lives in Munich, and to whom we are
delivering an envelope containing a $5,000 cash gift from Annike. We have fun dipping into the profits that night, going out to a few bars and a great traditional German restaurant. The next day we take a train to Trento to visit Raffaelli, a Kostabi client, and take care of some legitimate Kostabi business. From there we are off to Milan for a brief stay, where I show the rest of the paintings without much luck and have my ear pierced on the spur of the moment on the street.

When I return to New York, Annike is just beginning to work on a new series of paintings and I am preparing to leave for Tokyo to work on a deal with Art Collection House, now one of our biggest clients. Annike is painting faster than I can sell, and I worry that I’ll have a warehouse’s worth of Kostabi paintings crammed into my bathroom. I’m too nervous to tell her to slow down. I have established a good working relationship with the staff at Art Collection House, sweetening deals by throwing in extra lithographs or paintings, or ordering custom-designed paintings—golf, urban landscapes, and futuristic designs—for the director. With a roll of canvases and sheets of slides—a combination of counterfeits and “real” Kostabis—I make my presentation to Art Collection House. I offer great deals on the paintings I’ve brought with me, and they pay for several on the spot. I also visit other galleries and make similar deals, selling paintings outright for cash. My knowledge of Japanese is useful, even though many of the dealers either speak English or use translators. They are still amused by my language skills, which I picked up as a high school exchange student and at Wesleyan.

After selling a significant number of counterfeits, I start confiding in several close friends about my activities because I feel a desperate need to share with them what I have been doing on these trips abroad. And I think it’s an exciting and entertaining story and that some of them will benefit directly from the money. I was never concerned that anyone I told would report to Mark, and I was right. It wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but I just couldn’t contain the excitement of the secret and my success. But when I tell Lis Fields, she panics and says she doesn’t want to hear any
more because she doesn’t want to get involved. Jessica Doyle hears us whispering and wants to know what we’re keeping secret from her, and I tell her about the scheme. She is equally appalled yet somehow amused. I am surprised by how nervous they are about what I’m doing but also realize that it’s too late to stop the game. Now I am confident that it’s just a matter of time until I’ll be caught. Something will show up somewhere because I’ve left such a paper trail. I feel as if telling the story before I am found out will protect me, will make me immune to later accusations. I tell Jeannette Walls, a columnist at
New York
magazine, the entire story, and she hints that I may have caused some trouble for myself. She suggests that I tell the story to John Taylor, another
New York
reporter, which I do, hoping that somehow he can salvage this mess in a nice, neat article that will portray me as the victim—or even as the hero. Although I certainly don’t see myself in that role, I delude myself into thinking it’s the spin the story needs. My medication has pushed me so far into a manic state that I believe that nothing or nobody can harm me. But Taylor is very candid with me. He tells me that his writing a piece about this affair will only serve to hurt me, and that I will probably get into legal trouble. However, this story is never written. I’m not the slightest bit concerned about being indicted because I don’t feel like I’ve committed a crime. I feel as though I’m creating enough income for Kostabi, and in my mind I’m just playing out Annike’s joke from the bar.

February 28, 1991. New York
.

It’s been a hectic week. I’ve only been back in town for two days, and I’m starting to get frantic about my situation. But I’m looking forward to Friday night’s date. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to it the whole week. Sarah Jones is a well-known fashion designer whose clothes are sold in her boutiques all over the country and in department stores. I had met Sarah a few times at social functions, and finally walked up to her at a restaurant recently and suggested
I call her sometime for dinner or a drink. She seemed delighted. Things must be bad if she was so quick to say yes. I called her the following week from Tokyo and suggested Friday. Great. On Friday morning I call her at her office and tell her that I’ve made a reservation for 9:00
P.M.
at Blue Ribbon, a popular restaurant and bar in Soho. She wears a black dress and bright red lipstick. I spend the latter part of my afternoon at agnès b. on Madison Avenue picking out a simple gray suit and a black shirt. I practically bribe them to alter the pants in an hour. Cuffs? No cuffs? I shave twice so that my skin is perfectly smooth and stay in the shower for half an hour. The entire cab ride downtown I’m extremely uptight. Is the suit too downtown? Do I look too uptown? Maybe I’m neither. Why am I going out with an older woman? Is seven years older too old? I spot her checking her coat and walk over and give her a kiss on the cheek. Totally uncomfortable for both of us. We try to laugh, relax. We both order vodka tonics. This is a good sign. Compatibility. But from the moment we sit down, we both just look at each other, expecting the other to lead the conversation. We have almost nothing to talk about. I notice that her red lipstick looks unnaturally bright with her dark black hair. Can I bring that up with her? Can I ask her if she’s wearing something that she’s designed herself? She waves to a friend across the room. Who’s that? Another designer. A quick question, quick answer. Somehow we start talking about having children—a great subject for a first date—especially since she’s seven years older than me. She makes it clear from the moment the appetizer is served that she wants children soon. Should I just relent and conceive a child with her tonight? After dessert. Luckily, people who recognize her stop by our table to chat and she introduces them to me. We both have the oysters. I have the tuna, and I think she orders just a salad. She tells me she doesn’t want to talk about work—it’s been a rough week. For a moment I’m stumped. I suggest we talk about the oysters. This is my best joke of the night. I’m lucky if any of my jokes get a slight smile tonight. Everybody in the restaurant sees me out on a date with her—even an old college friend who might not recognize me but who recognizes her—but it doesn’t matter. I’m having
the worst time of my life. There’s a table of two couples laughing next to us. How can I find my way into their group and somehow push Sarah onto a group of people she knows? This date has already ended, but I don’t know how to make it official. I tell Sarah I’ve got to get up pretty early the next morning, and she tells me she’s going to go over and sit with some friends. She thanks me for dinner. I leave the restaurant and take a cab uptown alone, which is how I’ve been feeling for two years. I was just looking to have a good time over dinner and get to know somebody. Maybe I wasn’t downtown enough. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. There was no chemistry between us, which I somehow failed to see from the beginning.

One afternoon I’m approached by the brother of a friend of Nancy’s. Nancy and I have been on very good terms for two years, speaking with each other very frequently, discussing business and our successes. Nancy is doing a favor for the salesman by sending him my way. I know my sister well and I assume she’s also getting him off her back. The young salesman is a smooth-talking Texan who arrives at my office looking to sell me five thousand pair of recycled jeans with a patch of the Texas flag sewn on the knees. “Watch them fly out of here,” he tells me. I imagine that I can resell them for $25 each and make $100,000 on the deal. So I quickly agree to buy the lot for $25,000 cash on the spot. A few weeks later, a truck pulls up to my apartment building and proceeds to unload sixteen huge boxes into my living room.