Twelve

THREE YEARS EARLIER

I didn’t go to the MoMA opening. I had an exam the next morning. Initially, I was so bummed to miss the opening that Isaac tried to get me out of the test, but when he couldn’t, I found I didn’t mind all that much. I wanted to be with Isaac, share in his moment of glory, hobnob with the rich and famous. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to listen to everyone raving about 4D, about Isaac’s great talent. Of course, it would be quite the rush to see one of my paintings in MoMA. And it wouldn’t be.

So I stayed home and studied. But I had trouble concentrating. I kept picturing what Isaac must be doing at every moment. Here he was, pacing the empty gallery, scoping out everyone else’s work. Waiting. Then the crowds. From silence to pandemonium. The beautiful people strutting. The critics clucking. Then the congratulations, the glad-handing, the cooing, the fussing, the sucking up. And, if all went as Markel expected, Isaac being feted as the new of-the-moment man.

Isaac called a bit after midnight, and I could hear the drinks he’d had. “The museum arranged for a fabulous suite. Views of the park. Full minibar.” The rattle of ice. “I’m exhausted, but I had to talk to you.”

“Was it wonderful? How’d it go?”

“Only thing that could’ve made it better was you. Oh, babe, I thought about you all evening. Wanted to share it with you. A victory for both of us.”

“This is your time, Saac. I’ll get mine soon enough.”

“Very soon. Very, very soon. Breakfast with Karen tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

I was filled with a warm rush of gratification. This was the type of relationship I’d always dreamed of. Mutual respect. Mutual support. Great love. “Tell me about the show. Any indication on the reviews? Any noise on a sale?”

He mumbled something I didn’t understand, followed by, “—meeting with the committee next week.”

“Committee? What committee?”

“Acquisitions.”

“At MoMA?”

“Karen said there’s interest in buying it.”

I was stunned. “MoMA wants to buy 4D?”

“For their permanent collection.”

“Isaac, that’s wonderful, astonishing. It’s—”

“Don’t want to talk about it. Jinx it.”

I was well aware of Isaac’s many superstitions and laughed. “Okay, okay, we’ll wait until it happens.”

“Wouldn’t even have a chance of happening without you.”

ONE OF MY paintings was hanging in the Museum of Modern Art. In New York City. Part of the permanent collection. The pinnacle of any artist’s career, a peak few live to see. And here I was: twenty-eight, alive, and bursting with work, full of hope for my future.

I admit, sometimes it was tough to watch Isaac get all the acclaim. But mostly, I was just so thrilled for him, thrilled with his improving mood, thrilled with our plans for our life together, that it didn’t really matter. And he’d managed to get Karen Sinsheimer to promise to review my slides the day they arrived. As I’d told him, it was his moment, and I was willing to wait for mine.

It was all so mindboggling. Dizzying actually. 4D was a hit. A huge hit. It had somehow touched a nerve—and not just in the art world, in the general public as well—and was streaking toward iconic. Like Andy Warhol’s soup cans. Or maybe it was just the Internet. Viral marketing and all that.

Whatever the cause, Isaac Cullion and 4D were linked, and they were stars. He was on the Today Show, and 4D was on the cover of ArtWorld. We joked that 4D had almost achieved refrigerator-magnet status. A week later, MoMA started selling them in their gift shop.

Then Isaac began to believe his own press. The more he talked about 4D and the new paintings he was “working” on that it had inspired, the more he seemed to buy into his own lies. Only I knew he wasn’t working on any new paintings. He was as blocked as he’d been before 4D. Maybe more so.

Isaac was fragile at best, unstable at worst, and the situation was sending him to the wrong end of his continuum. But now, for the first time, I saw his temper. He snapped brushes in two and threw canvases at the walls. He stayed locked up in his studio for days, refusing to speak to anyone, including me, screaming at any poor soul brave enough to knock on his door.

And then we started to fight. First over little things, then over bigger ones, but never over 4D—the elephant that was driving him crazy and driving us apart. I loved him and wanted to help him. I alone understood his situation, knew the depths of his lies, appreciated what playing the imposter does to your psyche. Because, of course, I was living the mirror image. Not that Isaac ever acknowledged this. And not that I ever brought it up.

It wasn’t his fault. Any more than it was mine. We’d never thought about what would happen if 4D became a phenomenon. And why would we? It was a one-in-a-million shot. So I decided that if I was patient, if I waited long enough, he would make peace with it. And maybe I would, too.

Instead, one day, he showed up at my studio in tears. He told me I was his soul mate, that he loved me more than he loved himself, more than life itself. Then he told me he was breaking up with me. Going back to Martha.

“You need someone younger, happier, healthier,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, figuring that one of his sulks was in control. “I don’t want someone younger. Not even happier and healthier, although that does have its appeal.” I reached over to hug him. “I want you. Just as you are.”

He jumped from the couch. “You deserve a man who’ll appreciate you, love you the way you should be loved.”

“You just told me you loved me more than life itself.” I was trying for levity, but there was something about the look in his eye, the slump in his shoulders, that told me this wasn’t an ordinary Isaac mood swing.

He took a few steps away from me. “I can’t, I won’t, be the one to stop you from finding true happiness.”

And then I understood what was happening. “Bullshit,” I yelled, standing and coming toward him. “That’s a load of grandiose crap.”

“No, no. I’m hurting you,” he said, backing even farther away. “Every day. And I don’t want—”

“This isn’t about hurting me,” I snapped, furious at his purposeful self-deception, his cowardice, his excuses. “This is about what hurts you. It hurts you every time you look at me because you know that I know the truth.”

Isaac stood silently, his head bowed, as I gathered up everything he’d ever given me, including Orange Nude, and threw it into the hallway. “Get out and take your shit with you, you asshole,” I ordered.

And he did.