“Waitress, fill our water glasses.”
One day he came by and was just staring in the window so I went outside and asked him what he thought he was doing.
He said, “I’m watching you, Venus—just watching you. Why don’t you come over later?”
I said, “No!” And then he grabbed my arms and said that he missed me.
I went to see him about one week later. He was so famous now that everything between us was very strained. People called him from all over the world and everyone was telling him how great he was. It was very sad because he did not seem to enjoy it at all. For example, Jean would be on the telephone talking to some German art dealer and then he’d get off the phone and go into the bathroom and vomit because of the drugs. Or an art critic would come by, drink some good wine, and go on and on about Jean’s place in the art world. Jean would walk behind the guy and stick out his tongue. Jean hated art critics; he called them “maggots.”
I left after a week and I don’t think I ever slept with him again. It was too painful because by this time he could only think about heroin. I went to visit him and I went to dinner and parties with him but I never slept with him again. Then slowly, slowly I cut him out of my life completely.
THE LAST TIME SHE CALLS
The last time she calls up Jean-Michel on the telephone is when Andy Warhol dies.
She says, “Jean, Jean, I am so sorry about Andy. How are you? Do you want me to come over?”
Jean says, “No.” His voice is slurred and Suzanne can tell that he is very high on dope.
Suzanne keeps insisting, “Should I come over? Do you want me to come?”
“Come and give me a bath, Venus,” he says.
“Okay, Jean,” she says. “I’ll be right over.”
When she gets to the loft Shenge opens the door. “Go home, Suzanne,” Shenge says. “He is asleep, um, and dope-sick. Go home.”
Suzanne kisses Shenge’s hand. “Yes, yes,” she says.
I called Jean when Andy died. I knew he would be very upset. But he could hardly speak to me he was so out of it. In a slurred whisper he kept asking me, “What fables do you know?”
RUBY DESIRE
Suzanne changes her name to Ruby Desire. She has a big cowboy belt made that has a big brass buckle that says “RUBY D.” The buckle is so large and heavy it looks like it could tip her over with its weight. It makes her walk leaning her body slightly to the left. She cannot run or skip anymore.
She sings, “Do, re, mi, fa. Do, re, mi, fa,” over and over again until it becomes her own private language.
When people stop her on the street and say, “Hi, Suzanne,” she answers, “I am no longer Suzanne, I am Ruby Desire. Do, re, mi, fa.”
I decided that I wanted to sing. So I started taking voice lessons with a jazz singer. I went three times a week. I saved up all my money and went into a little studio with an engineer and produced and made a demo tape.
I booked myself a show at Area and hired two big black bodyguards and a sax player. Everyone came. I sang two or three songs. I think I was probably really bad. But at least the hype was good. I had my hair done up like Priscilla Presley in the ’60s and it took a lot of guts.
I made the bodyguards follow me around everywhere and light my cigarettes for me. I called myself Ruby Desire. I looked all over town for a red limousine but couldn’t find one. So I knew all these East Village guys that drove old ’60s classic motorbikes. A whole pack of them came with me and the leader had a red motorbike so I drove with him but with a scarf over my head so as not to ruin my hairdo. It was great. I sang “Fever” and another song that was very poor that I wrote myself.
After singing I mingled with the crowd and my bodyguards followed me around everywhere. I heard someone say, “Who the hell does she think she is with those bodyguards?” It was really a lot of hype. I put myself out there and was surprised at how good I was at promoting myself.
At this time I
One day he came by and was just staring in the window so I went outside and asked him what he thought he was doing.
He said, “I’m watching you, Venus—just watching you. Why don’t you come over later?”
I said, “No!” And then he grabbed my arms and said that he missed me.
I went to see him about one week later. He was so famous now that everything between us was very strained. People called him from all over the world and everyone was telling him how great he was. It was very sad because he did not seem to enjoy it at all. For example, Jean would be on the telephone talking to some German art dealer and then he’d get off the phone and go into the bathroom and vomit because of the drugs. Or an art critic would come by, drink some good wine, and go on and on about Jean’s place in the art world. Jean would walk behind the guy and stick out his tongue. Jean hated art critics; he called them “maggots.”
I left after a week and I don’t think I ever slept with him again. It was too painful because by this time he could only think about heroin. I went to visit him and I went to dinner and parties with him but I never slept with him again. Then slowly, slowly I cut him out of my life completely.
THE LAST TIME SHE CALLS
The last time she calls up Jean-Michel on the telephone is when Andy Warhol dies.
She says, “Jean, Jean, I am so sorry about Andy. How are you? Do you want me to come over?”
Jean says, “No.” His voice is slurred and Suzanne can tell that he is very high on dope.
Suzanne keeps insisting, “Should I come over? Do you want me to come?”
“Come and give me a bath, Venus,” he says.
“Okay, Jean,” she says. “I’ll be right over.”
When she gets to the loft Shenge opens the door. “Go home, Suzanne,” Shenge says. “He is asleep, um, and dope-sick. Go home.”
Suzanne kisses Shenge’s hand. “Yes, yes,” she says.
I called Jean when Andy died. I knew he would be very upset. But he could hardly speak to me he was so out of it. In a slurred whisper he kept asking me, “What fables do you know?”
RUBY DESIRE
Suzanne changes her name to Ruby Desire. She has a big cowboy belt made that has a big brass buckle that says “RUBY D.” The buckle is so large and heavy it looks like it could tip her over with its weight. It makes her walk leaning her body slightly to the left. She cannot run or skip anymore.
She sings, “Do, re, mi, fa. Do, re, mi, fa,” over and over again until it becomes her own private language.
When people stop her on the street and say, “Hi, Suzanne,” she answers, “I am no longer Suzanne, I am Ruby Desire. Do, re, mi, fa.”
I decided that I wanted to sing. So I started taking voice lessons with a jazz singer. I went three times a week. I saved up all my money and went into a little studio with an engineer and produced and made a demo tape.
I booked myself a show at Area and hired two big black bodyguards and a sax player. Everyone came. I sang two or three songs. I think I was probably really bad. But at least the hype was good. I had my hair done up like Priscilla Presley in the ’60s and it took a lot of guts.
I made the bodyguards follow me around everywhere and light my cigarettes for me. I called myself Ruby Desire. I looked all over town for a red limousine but couldn’t find one. So I knew all these East Village guys that drove old ’60s classic motorbikes. A whole pack of them came with me and the leader had a red motorbike so I drove with him but with a scarf over my head so as not to ruin my hairdo. It was great. I sang “Fever” and another song that was very poor that I wrote myself.
After singing I mingled with the crowd and my bodyguards followed me around everywhere. I heard someone say, “Who the hell does she think she is with those bodyguards?” It was really a lot of hype. I put myself out there and was surprised at how good I was at promoting myself.
At this time I
Similar Books
