I openly admit that I have, what I call, a freedom problem. Its dogged me since I was a teenager living on my own in Italy and Austria. Its related to the intimacy-problem-don't-tie-me-down issues I have. But its more about not being tethered to anyone or anything in order to experience life to the fullest - alone, on my own terms, fully. And while that equation has changed with the introduction of Nico (and my husband, Bob, for that matter), the fog of baby-ness is lifting and Freedom is there, promising the whole world in the palm of its hand. Its a drug. And I am the addict.
As a chicken in my 20's, I lived quite the life in New York City. My freedom problem wasn't a problem anymore. I satisfied every crazy whim I could come up with. I was bad. And it was good. I worked in the high-end art world as a curatorial assistant at MoMA. I regularly socialized with celebrities. It was the life. And I loved it. The best part - and the most addicting - were the "perfect moments" that would strike like lightning with crystal clarity. Tiny parcels of time where I was able to say to myself, "This is a perfect moment in time. And I am here - now. This is the most alive I can be. Right. Now." They came when I least expected it: in the middle of the night, on a hot summer day, on a desperately cold winter night, in the corner of a crowded room. When they arrived, I breathed it in. The Patti Smith book has reminded me of these perfect moments. Indulge me, while I share a few.
The one that sits at the top of the list was a John Cale concert in Central Park. It was a hot summer day with a stiff breeze. Bob dragged me to it. I hate crowds and this promised to be a nightmare of people - in the heat. I bitched profusely. But we found seats in the shade, up high, with a perfect view of the stage. And as I settled myself, he came on stage, all dressed in white. He sat down at the piano and began to play. And then it hit: I was watching THE John Cale play "Paris 1919" while the wind swayed the branches of the trees. It was beautiful. I was there. The music washed over me. The moment would NEVER be replicated. It was perfect.
Another was at an opening at the Guggenheim. Again, I was dragged there by a friend. I went for the celebrity of it. Maybe I could get another shot in the Style section of the Times. Why not? Right? It wasn't MY museum and I really didn't know anyone I cared about. As I picked up a new glass of wine, I noticed a gaggle of older men in one spot. One of them didn't have a shirt on - just a denim vest. He was portly and obviously drunk. I rolled my eyes and thought, "Great. Freak." As I approached, I could see that one was Lichtenstein, "Oh Jesus, " I said to myself and went to turn away. I must have made a face, because the denim-vest-dirty-old-drunken-man came up to me and asked, "Do you not approve?" I turned around and said, "I have no idea what you're talking about," in the bitchiest voice I could muster. "Walk with me," he said and he put his hand around my waist. And so, I followed him up the Guggenheim ramp. I consciously remember smelling his wine-y breath, noting the closeness of his face to mine and not being bothered by his proximity, pressed against me. It was dangerous and somehow, sexy. We stopped at a particular piece and I turned to him and said, "This is the only decent thing in this lame show." His reply: "Thank you. I try." In slow motion, my head turned to look at him, my mouth went dry, my left eye twitched and I think a little pee leaked out. I was being attitudinal, opinionated with (not to mention pressed up against) Donald Judd - my idol. And in that instant, the crystal clear moment of perfection materialized. Shortly after that opening, Judd died. I mourned his loss. As a sculptor myself, he was/is the master. But that moment is mine. I will never forget it.
I could go on and on. There were many: the notorious drive across the Brooklyn Bridge at 4am, dancing at the Rainbow Room, hanging off the side of Empire State Building. But the book got me to thinking about moments I have now. Granted, they aren't like those from 20 years ago. They are different and yes, a little more fleeting: Laying in the grass at Valley Forge while Nico rolls down a hill, laughing; closing my eyes, with her little cool hands on my face while she sings a song about freckles, watching her master her fear of the gorillas at the Zoo. Those moments are frozen in time. And they are perfect, too.
I pray she doesn't have the freedom problem. I pray she isn't always chaffing at the bit of the moment for something bigger and greater. But, on the other hand, as I write, I know the truth. She has it. And that's okay. This summer we begin our "adventures" again: Traveling to places neither one of us has gone to. She is "excited to find rivers, Mommy." And I am, too. As I figure it, she'll be ready to do Antarctica by the time she's 13. Freedom, here we come!!!
