“I like the necklace.”
I reach to finger it. My gift from Anouk. The stone cool and reassuring against my skin. The memory of the darkened road in Bel Air. The way we’d fled.
“Thank you.”
He extracts his cell phone to take down my number and I am thrown by the image of Lorry Kenter, former self-described technophobe, mindful-awareness guru, toting around an iPhone 7.
Oh, LA, ruining the best of us.
When there are only a handful of us left and the Hammer team is cleaning up, and Keely is raving about the reception, and I have changed into ballet flats, Sylvie approaches me. Her demeanor, typically aloof, has been different all night. And there is something there that strikes me. Something like admiration.
“I know tonight must have been overwhelming for you,” she says, her expression sincere, “but I just want to say how incredible your work is, CeCe. Like, absolutely riveting. I had no idea what to expect, but I am so ridiculously proud of you, cuz.”
For a moment, I’m thrown. Sylvie does not hand out compliments easily. Especially to me. I anticipate a backhanded follow-up, but there is none. Just her, standing there, beaming proudly.
“Thank you, Syl.”
“You’re doing it. You’re doing the art thing.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’resucceeding.”
“Thank you,” I say, again.
“You didn’t sell out. And that makes me so proud. Go home and get some sleep,” she says. “Because the phones will be ringing off the hook tomorrow. Well done.”
XLIV.AZIMUTH RISING.
LOS ANGELES.
DECEMBER. 2016.
Sylvie was right. In the days following theOn Beautyvernissage, a floodgate opens. Calls from Cherry and Martin, and Keely, and Khalil with offers and interviews and interested buyers. Not to mention stellar reviews. TheLos Angeles Times,Artnet,ArtReview. Suddenly, it seems, my art matters. My voice matters. And with the threat of an incoming administration where voices like mine might be diminished and dismissed, the media is determined to celebrate it.
Khalil wants to bring the show to Paris, either as a gallery solo exhibit or an installation at the Palais de Tokyo. Cherry and Martin are making a pitch to the Whitney. Things I have spent well over two decades working toward are beginning to come to fruition. And yet I cannot seem to move beyond the sobriety of feeling lost, untethered. Something essential is missing.
On the second Thursday of December, Sony Pictures premiersAzimuth Rising: Before the Fallat the Westwood Village Theatre. It is a star-studded affair, with the entire A-list ensemble cast and numerous celebrity guests in attendance. The red carpet—actually silver, to match the space theme—stretches out before the landmark 1930s SpanishRevival theater. They’ve closed down all of Broxton Avenue for the step-and-repeat with no fewer than forty press crews and photographers on the scene. It is not the level of Cannes, but it makes most Parisavant-premièreslook like child’s play.
The film has not only garnered serious buzz, but it’s tested through the roof, and Sony has put millions into its P&A and marketing. The release feels like an event the likes of which we have never experienced. In an attempt to make the rollout feel more international, the studio has invited the stars from Fran’s past projects, specifically Victoire de Fleury and Élodie Cloutier. With everything that is happening, I don’t have the energy to work myself up over my husband’s former mistress being in attendance. Which, for me, is progress.
I make a (very brief) appearance on the carpet to be photographed with François, and then go inside to find my seat and avoid all the hoopla. The waiting around while Fran works the carpet, the exchanging of pleasantries with those involved whom I do not know. There’ll be enough time for that at the after-party. But there is something absolutely thrilling about seeing my other half being lauded and appreciated on such a grand scale. And while the world is discovering François Charlot as a visionary filmmaker, to me he is still the twenty-six-year-old boy who showed up at Philippe LeRoi’s studio. The one in the thrift-store sports jacket, with his grandfather’s Hasselblad slung across his narrow frame. And that is the image I hold on to as the lights go down.
After, when we are reveling at the reception at the W Hotel, and Fran is basking in the glow of so much adulation and top-shelf tequila, I drink in the eccentricities of Hollywood. Pretty young girls in pretty small dresses. Male models as caterers. Self-important studio execs. The effortfully thin. Too many looking drawn and snatched and plumped and taxidermied.
There are numerous food stations and endless trays of champagne and silver-and-white décor that is supposed to evoke an extragalactic planet.
“Enjoying yourself, Cecilia?”
I am marveling at the celestial ice sculpture near the dessert buffetwhen Fran’s entertainment lawyer, Noah Feldman, and his wife, Amy, approach. They’re a lovely couple we’ve dined with on a few occasions. He is warm and sincere in a business where warmth and sincerity are scarce. She is a brilliant and witty television writer. But to Fran, the icing on the proverbial cake is that Noah grew up in Montreal, is fluent in French, and is able to explain contractual minutiae in two languages. Three, if you count his ability to switch to Québécois.
“I am, thank you.”
“Your husband seems to be happy.”
“Very happy,” I say, glancing over to Fran at the far side of the room, where he is holding court. A swarm of sycophants in suits surrounding him.
“CAA’s new darling.”
