December 10, 2009

Does my stomach stick out too much? I wonder if my eyes look stressed and bugged out like they do in some pictures? Are the wrinkles in my forehead relaxed or showing? My chin. Oh my chin. Double, triple? Or do I look slim. Has the fact that I have not shaved in 3 days made me look bloated? Older? Filthy? More masculine? What about my hair line? Noticeably retreating? Or holding its ground?

I have self confidence. At the end of the day I am happy with my life and my body and my waistline and my hairline and my skin. There are moments of insecurity. There are days when I feel better about myself than others. There are days I feel unworthy and days I feel oh so very worthy. Luckily the scales usually tip to that side.

I sat for hours in Robert Fontanelli's apartment on Irving Place last night. He lives on one of my absolute favorite blocks in Manhattan. Directly across the street, on the NE corner of Irving at 19th, sits my dream house. Brick. Manicured. Stunning. Gypsy Rose Lee once lived in Robert's building.

Robert's apartment is old. Concrete walls. Exposed radiators. Leaded glass windows. And his house is filled with curiosities of old. Herman Miller's first bedroom set. A Stottsas mirror. More Memphis. Aalto lounge chairs. Noguchi cyclone table. Easels and sketch books. Books and woods and an iMac. Pottery and oversized, glorious, colorful posters from the 1950s by Erik Nitsche for General Dynmaics. Tom of Finland on the walls. His house contains relics of the time before his childhood. An old red LCW showed its wear. It made me miss the pair Ben and I shared. I remarked this and Robert advised me not to purchase things so ubiquitous. Other than that chair his home is filled with obscure, though somewhat recognizable, pieces of the past.

After I took in all his belongings and asked my last question of fascination Robert began to draw. And we chatted. And listened to LCD Sound System, a band I kinda knew of, but never like-liked. Their blend of music styles is a bit infectious. And then Robert told me to stop talking. He needed to draw my lips and mouth. And in those moments of silence I sat or stood and my mind raced thinking about, naturally, what he was seeing. And documenting. And capturing. And exaggerating. And downplaying. And I felt a touch of insecurity. Which is good to go along with the self-obsession that allowed me to ask my mother to pay for a portrait of myself as my Christmas gift.

When Robert showed me what he'd started I was amazed. He said the sitting was the opposite of what he'd imagined. He was expecting color and movement and body. And what he drew were a few faces. Detailed. In muted colors.

And that face was perfect. I saw my mother's father. My own dad. And my brother. In addition to myself I saw the faces of 3 other men who share/shared my own blood. And that was exciting.

I cannot wait to see what Robert creates. What chair or furniture or mirror he juxtaposes with my image. I cannot wait for him to draw Georgi either.

And perhaps a new tradition has started. A yearly portrait. By a different artist. Every Christmas. Capturing someone. Something. My bloodline. In pen and paper. Or paint. Or snapshot. To be displayed. Looked upon. And discussed.

Because all faces tell a thousand stories.