Avery Abigail: If I Needed Someone

I

She’s in her bedroom in France, posing before a camera. Her head appears to be on fire though it is only a trick of the light. Rather, the flames burn inside of her using cliché poetry as kindling. She combs through her hair, dried out and crumbling, with her newly painted fingernails. Hopelessly dancing to find the perfect lighting, she stumbles over crusty panties and overdue homework. Her insecure movements lead her to the spot where she prepares for a picture. The camera clicks. Like a photo negative, she leaches color and her figure is frozen in time. I don’t know why she sends it to me.  

II

Her name is Avery, Avery Abigail if I was angry. She lived in a luxurious brownstone on West 86th Street and would always pronounce that in the future she would never be able to afford a home like “this.” Of course, that was a lie. Avery’s family would never allow their only child to live in anything but the best. Her parents, both products of the Ivy League system, loved their daughter despite her insistence on being an “almost starving artist.” They loved her despite her insistence on being in love with me. 

I never expected to fall in love with a girl. As a young child, I expected to date a tall, dark-haired boy who loved soccer but could also play guitar. Avery was none of those things. She was clumsy and short with the musical prowess of a third grader, and she had boobs. Avery loved to paint and analyze Beatles lyrics. She would wear short skirts that revealed the ends of her male underwear, and she never cared what anyone thought. Avery was the most unconventional person I had ever met. And I loved her.

I remember one day I walked into Avery’s studio to see her lying on the floor, nearly naked. Rubber Soul was playing in the background, and Avery’s limp body was spread like a snow angel. Her light pink bra was covered in sky blue paint.

“What’s up Aves?” I squeaked from the doorway. Avery lay still in a snow of crumpled paper. “I was trying to paint you but I kinda freaked out and poured the paint all over myself. Sorry.” 

Avery’s art was bold; her personality would not allow anything less. Her work was “in your face” and often overtly and intentionally controversial. Yet Avery always allowed for a silent delicacy, one that only she might notice. She, like her work, craved attention but never cared for criticism. At times, I believed that Avery was trying too hard to be “different.” Despite my feelings, she went on to be featured in MoMA by the time she was sixteen. Her first piece in the museum was a sculpture of a sparkly vagina, which I helped to paint.

I used to sneak out to Avery’s brownstone every other weekend. By the end of my sophomore year, I could have travelled the path from my apartment to her house blindfolded and backwards. At the end of my visits, Avery would stuff scraps of paper into my worn-out purse. The receipts, old homework, and index cards would be laced with poetry, song lyrics, or anything that she thought I should hear. The plastic ice cream container that holds her notes still stands on my windowsill.

I’m waiting Honey, waiting here for you

Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble

Très bien ensemble

things are shit but flowers are pretty

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on the snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die

III

We would visit the MoMA once a month to see our Frida painting hanging on the fifth floor. Frida, in full color, a monkey on her shoulder, surrounded by mirrors, would stare back at us. Her life was full of tragedy but she always knew how to turn her pain into poetry. Frida Kahlo once said to take a lover who looks at you as if you are magic. To be fair, witchcraft is a type of magic. Avery always saw me as something unholy, like my heart was an open flame and my hair might wind around her neck like a noose. Like a young god, I could lift her off her foundation and rattle her to her very core. Avery was terrified of me. I was terrified of her leaving.

Frida Kahlo said a lot of other things, too. Avery would quote her to me all the time. Her favorite was, “I love you more than my own skin.” And loving Avery felt as natural as the bones in my body. I remember when she would hold me, her hands would shake and I’d stay lying there, never sleeping. The stars would leak in from the window on her roof. I would be wearing Avery’s high school T-shirt. She would be wearing her stained bra. There was a silent bliss, but her cold hands would make me shiver. 

IV

I hope Paris is treating you well. Like young artists of the past, you chose to run away from the States in search of a new creative epiphany or to drown yourself in red wine. Either one is fine, by the way. I hope you found a silent bench to write silent poetry about the loud, extravagant life you have decided to pick up. I hope your dreams of becoming a hybrid of Gloria Steinem and Yayoi Kusama come true. If you were able to get featured in MoMA at sixteen, you can do anything. I hope you come home soon. And I hope whoever took that photo of you makes you really happy.