Letter

Laura says her aunt told her she has a boring face. It makes her self-conscious. She thinks she’s not photogenic. Luckily for her, I’m not a photographer. I also don’t know what makes her face boring. Are there exciting faces? I’d guess there would need to be extra features for that to be true. Spare eyes maybe? Extra ears or noses? Skin color that doesn’t occur in nature?

I’ve made many many portraits. Not a one was done because the subject’s face was interesting or exciting. I was interested in the person who the face belonged to, not the face as such. Some have been beautiful, others ugly, still others plain or forgettable. But each was attached to a particular being rather than a collection of facial features chosen on the basis of aesthetics.

The faces I’ve painted for money for others are this way too. Though they may not mean anything to me, they do to the ones paying. Dogs, cats, wives, boyfriends, grandmas——not a one was picked for their looks.

Even a nude model I never speak to, who changes poses every five minutes, has to, at least in my mind while I’m working, have to be connected either to me or someone I know. It doesn’t work otherwise. The relationship can be imaginary but it has to be there. Otherwise I’m just looking at a bag of meat.

Hell, after two years of looking at nothing but dental hygienists, every face is remarkable.

I imagine in fashion and advertising it’s the exact opposite. The adman is looking for types rather than individuals. They’re living mannequins. It’s horrible to even think about. They have to slot people that look certain ways to fit a closed vision in their minds. Some kind of ideal world.

There are artists too who deal with tropes and styles rather than actual people. I can’t get into that mindset. That’s why Laura talking about her boring face throws me. I don’t understand what that could mean. The nose, eyes, mouth, ears, skin, and hair I’m looking at are hers. If any of them were different, she would be someone else. Neither more exciting, nor more tiresome; just a stranger.

After I finish her portrait, I ask Laura whether she still believes her face is boring. She says it feels like a burden has been lifted. A good thing, I think.

[Mallory and I talk about Stir of Echoes.]

[RIP Dallas Good of The Sadies.]

A couple women visited my collage show a few weeks back. Then one of them ordered a pet portrait for the other. I get photos of said pet while I’m in LA. I write the pet owner that it might be a week or two before I can get to the painting. But it eats at me the whole drive back to Chicago. I hate feeling work hanging over me.

So when I get home and see the place isn’t yet habitable, I pack paper and paints along with a few days’ clothes. I move the hotel table so it’s by the window and set up a makeshift studio. Amazing how few objects it takes to make a room feel like it’s mine. A couple of glasses with paint-greyed water, some crumpled up napkins, gouache, brushes, and a paintbox. A t-shirt and some socks on the floor. A flannel half-draped over a chair back. A couple books on the night table. All but one pillow thrown off the bed. Now it’s home.

I finish up with Nessie on my second day at the hotel and go to Target to buy a cheap frame. It only takes a couple days to develop a rhythm. I really could live here no problem except for the nightly bill. I write the pet owner I’ll deliver her painting the next day.

I wonder how many weeks in this room it would take to amass a bunch of crap like I have at home. I bet it wouldn’t take that long. Back in my place now, I think about how hard I’ve tried to purge myself of things, yet there’s still so much here. Maybe I should pretend this is a hotel.

I take the Red Line north, then one stop on the Purple, then walk west a couple blocks. It’s a mid-century apartment building with an intercom. I hear Nessie before I see her. She’s barking bloody murder. Her embarassed owner hopes the dog will calm down but she never does. Eventually, she’s locked in another room so the humans can talk. I tell the woman about living with a dog not unlike Nessie for a time. This dog would yap and yap every time I got up from the table. He knew I wouldn’t be there forever. That it was just a matter of waiting me out. And he was right.

The woman says the painting is cute and thanks me. I don’t ask her why she named her mutt after the Loch Ness Monster because it’s self-explanatory. I take the train back downtown to my temporary home.

I paint the view out the window one more time before it’s time to check out.

I’m staying in a hotel in downtown Chicago. I’m here because there are still holes in the walls and ceiling of my kitchen. At first, I was irritated that the contractors hadn’t finished by the agreed-upon time, but then decide to turn it into something I’ve never done; I’ll be a tourist in my own town.

I’ve lived in Chicago since 1990 but never stayed in a hotel here. Why would I? People do that sometimes for anniversaries or holidays. It’s a chance to change perspective on the familiar. To see a place you know well as if it’s brand new.

I didn’t grow up staying in hotels. Campgrounds were more my family’s speed. As soon as I had a say in it, I stopped sleeping anywhere without walls and a roof. I’ve mentioned my feelings about nature here before. So, because they weren’t part of my reality, hotels retained a fascination.

Looking out the window of my room, I realize that the intersection is one I drew before. A few years back a writing professor commissioned a large drawing for his office of this very spot. In my drawing, I’m looking north rather than west (as I am now), and I used Google Streetview freezeframes rather than my own eyes. But it’s the same place.

I chose this hotel because when I drove cab there were always picketers outside its doors. They were there the entire nine years I drove. Then, a year or two later, they disappeared. I don’t know whether the labor dispute was resolved or the union just gave up. I always wanted to know what it looked like inside.

The building is from the late 1800s. Judging by the wall fixtures and furniture, there was a remodel sometime in the early 60s which has been left to wither. Aside from cheap flatscreens and taped-to-the-wall signs, there’s not much to peg this place to 2022.

The little restaurant that serves guests breakfast just off the lobby is deserted. Occasionally, the waitress calls orders to a coworker across the empty room. One woman handles the tables, the other, room service. In an alcove decorated with faux brickwork, I see the cook darting in and out of view. Out the dusty window, through harsh winter glare, I look at Grant Park. There’s a disconnect between inside and outside. It’s as if I’m looking at today out there from a room that’s long ago.

I’m on the seventh floor. One time, I decide to take the stairs. Most hallways on the floors below are barely lit. On the third floor, the stairway ends. I walk through a pitch black hallway to reach a different way out. It’s not quite the Overlook, but there is certainly an abandoned vibe. Not many people are staying in this enormous place. The emptiness is palpable.

There’s a long history to artists living in hotels. Some of Matisse’s best pictures were done in them. Henry Miller lives exclusively in flophouses throughout Tropic of Cancer. I can see the appeal. I’ve been pretty productive here. It feels a bit like skipping school. Not that anyone checks up on me when I’m home, but this feels even more incognito.

I’d change some of the furniture, but other than that, it’s refreshing not to be surrounded by all the crap I chose and love. I’m looking forward to being in it again, but I won’t forget this room, where I felt like a stranger, in the best way possible.

[Saw a play about a bathroom tiger and stop-motion animation about a cursed house.]