Everyone is Watching (15 page)

These photographs are just a hint of how beautiful everything is.

If the man who battered her dreamt at all, it was a dog dream, with fleas and hunger and a picture-perfect link between what he had done and the pictures she took of her face the next day, of
the thing she saw there in her face when she looked in the mirror and held up the camera, when she could barely see because the bruise on her face was as inflamed as a badly pummelled peach.

The photographs she displays on the screen are not moments from her past, they are moments extracted from it. The images begin and end within the frame of the shot, and the world is contained
there.

She dedicates the sequence to her sister, who showed great courage one day in lying down on the commuter tracks in Washington DC and waiting for the train.

The last image flickers on the screen and she turns off the projector. The audience applauds and she walks offstage. She gets a drink at the bar like an ordinary person. She remains in the same
place, as a seed does, burrowed down, showing excellent potential, buried in a basement bar in New York City. Her camera is stored safely behind the bar with a virgin roll of film.

Her art is related to the death of her sister but Nan refuses to let this become the focus. She thinks of the batterer’s face and wonders whether showing a photograph of him isn’t
just the same fucking thing as showing a picture of a train.

The ability to love is a rare gift. Nan shows it through the photographs she takes, but the photographs also show how she possesses people.

After her sister’s death, Nan had an affair with an older man and learnt what it meant to be truly sexual. This man took advantage of her body and of her grief, and she wanted him to. She
wanted to be whole by connecting with another. She wanted to live every moment to its fullest in case it was her last. She wanted her sister to see that what had happened didn’t matter. All
the while she thought of her sister. It was like she was giving life to her by fucking him. She transformed this man into her father then she transformed herself into her sister, and the train and
the tunnel and this nation’s capital all formed a link, and she was the apex of that link, the connecting part, the coupling, the coupler between the engine and the carriages behind. She
lingered there in the arms of a stranger. She felt young and alive. She felt unconscious like her sister. She felt limbless.

She photographed every part of her body. She recorded every part of her life in vivid colour. She wanted to be that woman in the photograph. She wanted suddenness. She wanted to see the detail.
She wanted to blow her own mind with the detail. She wanted the blood to be a deep red, like a certain shade of lipstick, like the colour of her bloodshot eye after she was battered. She wanted
someone to find beauty in that comparison.

Nothing is real.

What is real to Nan is this hot basement bar, the buzz of the projector, the cold vodka in her hand, the fixation of her stare on the bar, the solidity of the cigarette in her hand, the silence
of the audience behind her, a sign that they have moved on to some other art.

Robert Mapplethorpe is walking through the streets of Manhattan in 1986. He is walking to meet a friend for dinner. He is too busy to sleep. Although he needs sleep, there is
no time to sleep. He will probably have sex with the friend he is meeting. Robert will take his picture first. He will suggest he take his picture and they will both know what that means.

At the restaurant, Robert is shown to his seat. He is an hour late, as this guy was expecting. It is all right. He has the time to wait for Robert Mapplethorpe.

Look, I can take your picture sometime, sure, just make an appointment with my secretary, Robert laughs.

They both laugh. The friend goes to the bathroom. Robert sits there.

The noise of the restaurant.

The rain falling in the street.

The creak of leather.

He plays with his French fries.

The friend returns.

I’m tired, Robert says.

Can’t do it any more.

He’s just teasing.

Look at the smile cut across his face.

Robert’s collection includes: Lisa wearing a white veil, ghost. Finger pointing. Reclining. See the crease on her leg from her stockings – here she is wearing a
bikini. Her arms, hands and feet are large. Stockings, gloves, garter belt. Her panties are pulled down. Stretch marks across her buttocks. Lisa looks in the mirror. Her left nipple is showing. In
a plastic dress, astride a shaggy horse. Nike sneakers, workout girl, bent at the waist, angle of the sun against the wall. In Paris, on a balcony, Eiffel Tower in the distance. She wears a
bathrobe. Standing against a white wall, in straw hat and bikini thong, elbow masking her breast, the shadow is caught on the wall. Astride a motorcycle, dressed in Tom of Finland leather. Her
anus. Painted gold, she strikes a pose with her arms covering her face.

The portraits of Patti Smith include: Patti sitting wrapped in white muslin, lightning-strike tattoo on her knee, long dark hairs growing on her legs, dazed, dazzled. Bells
around her ankle. Patti is listening to the statue, cupping her hand around her ear and leaning forward. Her hand against the white wall, looking back. First Patti holds the doves to her. Then she
pushes them away. Patti with long, crimped hair and a wistful expression. The Patti Smith Group, and the doves are caged. Patti waves Robert away, she is laughing, smiling, the same dress as the
shot with the doves. The photograph for Patti’s album,
Horses
, white background, chain has come round to the centre, tie. Monogrammed shirt. The shirt is loose. Creases. Knots in her
hair. Button undone. Patti sitting before a radiator, off-centre. The lines of the wooden floor and the radiators and the windows. The creases of her belly. The smooth line of her shoulders.

In 1988 Robert tells the interviewer that he couldn’t do the leather pictures now. It wouldn’t be right to do them now. No, he doesn’t think about the future
or the past. He thinks only of the present moment. In the present moment he is photographing classical statues and still-lives. He is coming back to inanimate form, light, shadow and physical
structure. It’s not about investigation any more, although he is still learning. He only photographs things that he wants to learn more about. He would like to get into film, he says. He
would like to know more about that. He doesn’t know what he will do next.

Mapplethorpe’s flowers:
A Cactus Blossom
, tall, straight. Tall roses.
Babies’ Breath
. White flowers lit from behind.
Bird of Paradise
.
Giant daisies in a vase. Chrysanthemum in a vase, 1984, a flower placed in a vase. The vase is consuming the flower.
Jack in the Pulpit, Morgan’s Hotel
,
1984
, lily-looking,
very straight.

In 1986 Robert takes a trip to East Hampton. He finds a secluded spot on the beach. He lies down in the sand and closes his eyes. It’s not like the days of the golden
bikinis or the royal portraits. Couples are walking their dogs on the beach. He listens to the ocean as he falls asleep. The sun is beating down on him as he lies still. As he is dreaming he has
that feeling you get when you know. He knows something is terribly wrong. Something is happening to his body. Robert no longer has any defences. His camera has always been his protection. He would
rather live the experience than photograph it. His camera was how he stayed safe. He wakes up. He has burnt himself head to toe in the sun. This is so easily done these days.

The sicker he gets, the harder he works. Reproductions of classical statues have been moved into Robert’s studio. They stand against the wall staring with blank eyes into
the room. Being reproductions, they possess no marks of age. They are perfectly white and clear. Robert dresses some in vest tops and scarves, the whiteness of their bodies, bright, illuminated by
the studio lamps. He photographs some of them nude, moving slowly around the figures as he used to his live subjects. He cannot move as fast as he once did. He no longer looks out of the window.
There is no time to look at anything that is not art.

Robert sits quietly in his rocking chair wearing his dressing gown and slippers. He chain-smokes, gazing into the middle distance. Everywhere, people are watching him, his
assistants and secretaries. No one knows what’s going on inside his head. He breathes in, he breathes out.

Robert’s mother sends a priest to his apartment. She says Robert must prepare himself for the presence of God. He must ask forgiveness for all his sins. Robert invites
the priest into his apartment. They sit surrounded by Robert’s ornaments, his collection of glass and antiquities, the many objects that depict the devil, his photographs. Robert says he
likes to arrange things as all good Catholics do but he does not seek religious comfort. There is no comfort for him now. Robert will not confess his sins. These sins mean that he was once
alive.

Edmund looks into the window of the Museum of Sex. Two seats have been positioned beside the store’s counter. The mic is bent low so that he can sit as he reads. There is
a table, a glass, a pitcher of water. A cardboard cut-out of the Manhattan skyline has been placed behind the seats. A man is arranging chairs for the audience. Edmund enters the museum and
approaches the counter.

I’m here to see the curator, he says.

Excuse me a moment, the young woman says. She picks up the telephone and dials a number.

She’ll be down in a moment, she says.

There are a variety of objects for sale on the shelves. Pornographic playing cards, designer dildos, saucy lingerie, vintage pornography, lubricant, poppers, sexy aprons. He picks up a book
about Japanese Shunga and flicks through the pages. He puts it down.

Mr White?

The curator is reaching for his hand.

Would you like a drink before we start? she says.

She shows him down a set of narrow stairs to a dark underground basement bar.

They approach the empty bar. A table along the back wall is filled with copies of Edmund’s books.
City Boy
is the most prominent amongst them, the book he wrote about New York. He
is young in the cover photograph, his face in his hand.

What would you like? the curator asks.

Just water, thank you.

Have you been here before?

No, he says. I wonder how you can have a museum about sex. Is it already dead?

The curator laughs. Far from it, she says.

She hands him a menu from the bar, a list of aphrodisiac cocktails and a schedule for sex workshops, classes on how to give the perfect blow job, stripping classes, discussion forums.

It’s about education, she says.

I wrote
The Joy of Gay Sex
, he says.

Yes. You’re a pioneer.

Am I?

She leads him into the museum.

On the second floor there is an exhibition about sex in the digital age.

Have a look around, she says. Enjoy yourself.

A wall is filled with pictures, a full list of fetishes: shoes, grannies, baby dress-up, leather, food, role-play, bi, tri, watersports, instruments, outdoors, cars, enclosed spaces. A screen
shows couples fucking on CCTV: in an office, in a staff room, in an elevator, in a hospital, in a telephone booth. This is what it means to be a voyeur, to be looking from above. Edmund has seen
his fair share of this. He has seen it in the flesh. He has lived it.

Many people don’t understand sex, the curator says. Even in this country, people are afraid to ask. We at the museum want it to be transparent. We want people to know as much as possible.
We have tried to make the museum as open as we can. For a long time the entrance was on 27th Street. We moved the entrance to Fifth Avenue and put in large windows so that people could see what we
were doing. We’re renovating the upper floors so that we can display more of our permanent collection. We’re renovating the bar to attract a larger custom. Because we are not funded
with public money we can pretty much do whatever we like, but it also means that we have to fund ourselves, and so the bar and the store are important. We also run courses, which you have seen.

Edmund is watching a video on a loop. A man mounts a woman who is lying back on a small sofa in an office. Her legs kick as the man thrusts. The video loops. Edmund sips his water.

Edmund listens to his summarized life. He doesn’t want to hear it now.

It is an honour to be here, he says.

Piers.

High Line.

Bryant Park.

Times Square.

Tonight, I will read a passage from my new book.

He describes his entrance to the city, his temporary apartment, all the places he has seen. He describes himself.

I came here following the man I loved and ended up falling in love with the city, he reads.

But he feels the awkwardness of now. None of this is sitting correctly. The faces in the audience are very young. These people are from another world. They want to live in this city even though
it is so difficult. They believe they are a part of a story that really ended long ago. Look, they are smiling, they are happy about it. But they must return to the outer boroughs when this night
has ended because they can’t afford to live in Manhattan. The whole time they are looking from the outside towards the centre, from Brooklyn, Queens and New Jersey. They believe the city
needs their presence. Edmund knows this isn’t true. They have travelled here for the sake of old dreams. The people who dreamed them have already left.

A young boy is peering through the museum window. This boy is not allowed inside because the subject of the museum is inappropriate for children. Life has not begun for him yet. For the moment,
he is spared the anguish of physical love. He looks through the glass at Edmund White. Edmund doesn’t know what he sees. Perhaps he is looking at the cardboard backdrop of New York City
propped behind Edmund. It is the past, a movie set. It is a panel from a comic book. The boy is standing in the city but he doesn’t know that yet. The city is out there, behind him, not in
here with Edmund.