When I read that an artist would be drawing portraits at a Tribeca gallery, I figured, Why not? I could write about the experience for my Tribeca blog, and besides, sitting for a portrait was on the long list of life experiences I'd like to have. (And it would have to be less weird than taking a pregnancy test.) The artworks were to end up in a show at the gallery, and I had visions of attending the opening, overhearing people discuss my portrait.
Last night, I confirmed the appointment—we were to meet at 8 a.m. today—and asked how long I should expect my sitting to take. Two hours.
I'll spare you the blow-by-blow. The artist was very nice, though I found her hard to understand, given her accent and the echoiness of the room. Her style is fairly simplistic—on purpose, I'm sure—so I was surprised that she'd need two hours, but then I learned she'd be taping our conversation. Her plan for the exhibit was to play a loop of snippets of the various subjects speaking.
All that sitting in a chair, trying to look straight ahead, was sort of like attending a concert at Carnegie Hall (without the music), but at least there I can sleep. We talked about Tribeca, 9/11, Century 21, the worst gift I ever gave Adam, and who knows what else. At one point, she asked if I wanted to stretch my legs, and I said that I might like to use the restroom. (I'm sure that'll be my snippet: "May I use the restroom?") I checked my phone: We were two hours in. Then I got back to the chair, and she had left the drawing face up. She was a third done, tops.
When she returned from the restroom, she said I looked a bit pale: "Are you OK?"
I nodded weakly.
After another hour, she said we were almost done. Finally, she stood up. And then she placed the drawing on the floor so I could see it. "I still need to work on the chin," she said.
"I don't see the resemblance," I said. Realizing how that sounded, I added, "I mean, I'm not sure I would, though. We all have ideas of how we look, right?"