“Although I am wondering if there are no Black people on the Westside.”
“Population: one. Well, one point five, if you include Anouk.”
“Damn.”
“I encounter far more Black people on a daily basis in Europe than I do in LA.”
She’s quiet for a second, contemplating. Her pert nose screwed up, just so. She looks like she did when we were young. I can see Imogen in her face. Inès.
“You should write a book about that,” she says.
“I’m not a writer.”
“Photojournal it, then. Do a collaboration with Seth. I bet he’d be up for that. A coffee-table book about the modern diaspora.”
I consider the idea. An exploration of race in these drastically different communities. Framed in art. I file it away for a future project.Something that captures this curious in-between time. This living within the microcosm of wealth and whiteness. This intersection, of sorts.
“So about those photos,” I say, pivoting. The real reason I’d sought her out for conversation. “The ones showcased at the armory… We had a rough spot. Fran and I. But we’ve fixed it. We’re…tryingto fix it.”
“Which is why you’re here, in LA?”
“Which is why I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, Cee.”
“Well, French men are going to French men, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“It’s a stereotype, I know. But like all stereotypes—”
“There’s a soupçon of truth.”
“Stop finishing my sentences.”
She smiles at that, and then, “Please don’t feel like you can’t tell me stuff. Sylvie keeps things from me. She’s stifled by this expectation of greatness in our family, and so she hides things. Things in her life that make her less than perfect. Like she has to uphold this image of flawlessness or something, which is just ridiculous.”
I sigh then, leaning against the doorframe, taking in the mid-century–styled space. The redwood-paneled walls, the vintage Berber rug, the mustard-colored upholstered desk chair. The effect is cozy, nostalgic.
“Sylvie is impossible,” I say eventually.
“Sylvie’s just… complicated. I’m not going to pry about the Anouk thing,” she says. “But God, she’s beautiful. I wonder what it’s like, going through life like that. Not just possessing that kind of beauty but being famous for it. I wonder what it’s like to constantly have random people making comments about your face and how it’s changing. Or not. Like it’s a public commodity, and perfectly fine for strangers to weigh in on. So bizarre.”
I nod, allowing the seed to germinate. Perhaps this was what Anouk meant when she alluded to being consumed. Not just that the world is feasting on her image, but that her beauty itself is consuming her.
“CeCe,” she calls after me, as I’m heading out the door. “I knowI said it teasingly, but this LA life, it’s not really bad, you know. As lives go…”
“I know,” I say.
“Just don’t let it kill your art. Or your soul.”
I smile at her. “Noted.”
XXII.AVOIDANCE.MIXED MEDIA.
LOS ANGELES.
JULY. 2015.
