Flavor of the Week: Starving For An Artist

OH, ARTISTS: I’ve always had a thing for you. I don’t care if you’re broke—if you’re straight, cute, “working on your novel” or so much as doodling on a crumpled Post-It, I’m yours. It’s no secret I prefer a guy with a chisel in hand to a guy with chiseled features.

This must stem from the fact that I’ve always longed to be creative myself. Growing up in a conservative Korean family of doctors, I felt conflicted in my desire to be different. “Dear Diary,” I scrawled in my grade-school handwriting, “I want to be a writer when I grow up, but Mommy and Daddy say writers don’t make money.” Unlike my older cousins, I opted out of the path to Seventh Day Adventist medical school, the proven pipeline for good Korean daughters to land their M.D. and Mrs. degrees.

When I moved to New York after college, I considered rejecting my privileged suburban roots for a “bohemian” lifestyle. Instead, I became a 23-year-old account executive worn down by the 9-to-5 grind. Lately, that had meant analyzing a slew of erectile dysfunction commercials that typically featured blissful couples swinging in hammocks to the sound of Marvin Gaye. While market research dictated this image was the ultimate muse for men to just “make the call,” I felt uninspired. Sick of cures for getting it up, I admired people I viewed as “really pursuing their dreams.” They were scrappy, passionate and wouldn’t quiver at quitting a job with salary and benefits.

Trolling Craigslist one afternoon, I encountered an ad seeking volunteers to help stage manage an Off-Off Broadway play—I knew I had to apply. When I met Jack, the director, he was still constructing the set. I eyed his ratty T-shirt with a parrot on the front that read “Sam’s Taco Shop.” I should have known I’d be putty in his sexy, calloused hands. Jack was a Midwestern transplant who wore wirerimmed glasses to accompany his wiry frame. His face was ghostly pale, no doubt from time spent squirreled away in the dark theater. What dedication, I marveled while smoothing my pencil skirt. He’s so consumed by his work he hardly eats or sees the sun. He climbed down, offering me a cheeseburger from a McDonald’s bag. I accepted and took a bite. See, I’m not uptight, I thought with a mild grimace, stomaching a mouthful of orange rubber. I can be fuckin’ artsy.

The first night after rehearsal, Jack and I went out for drinks before sleeping together in his barebones apartment. When I discovered Jack was 37, our 14-year age difference felt exciting, sleazy and illicit. Other than my tween crush on Captain Von Trapp from The Sound of Music, I had never fantasized about older men, but Jack’s easy confidence made males my age seem like boys. I was hesitant to trust him, certain I was another naive girl he had seduced into the sack. “I’m not a ‘couch director,’ you know,” Jack informed me. Unfamiliar with the term, I asked him to elaborate. Couch directors, Jack explained, made a hobby out of bedding the cast and crew. Taking my hand, he told me to let my guard down: “Be open to the possibilities. You’ll get played sad and sweet melodies in life. You never know what’s coming, but another melody always comes along.” Finding this profound, I devoured the lines he fed me. As a free-spirit-in-training, I couldn’t remain too cautious.

We fell easily into our Pygmalion roles. Starring as the wide-eyed girl who called stage cues and organized headshots, I cast Jack as the principal character with experience to impart. Three days a week after my office job, I schlepped to the theater district, clutching a stack of programs I had photocopied during my lunch break. I craved being around dreamers who waited tables and endured rejection to do what they loved. They took Jack’s directions obligingly, hungrily. Our own scenes in the bedroom weren’t much to reenact. I got more turned on watching him coach his performers, admiring his expression of determined frustration, as he requested the scene be read again.

Jack told me about working as a pharmacologist and how his parents called him “gay” for his acting aspirations. He had opened the theater just a few years ago; reminding me aging didn’t have to be a deterrent to pursuing one’s passions. “It’s hard to be honest about your interests and have your family accept you for who you are. But I’ve always known what I’ve wanted,” he said. Since I was exploring my more “creative” side, he encouraged me to learn from him. “Perhaps I can give you a lesson in other subject matters,” he suggested, winking.

One day, I heard from a crewmember about Jack’s involvement with an actress at the theater—a busty, bookish brunette named Claire. According to Claire, they had been together for months, and she was “expecting a ring any day now.” While I knew the two had dated before, Jack told me he wasn’t seeing her anymore. Appalled, I wrote my man off as a womanizer. I hadn’t realized being under him meant playing understudy to his leading lady.

I avoided Jack until the opening night cast party. He looked uncharacteristically suave in a suit, and complained that I hadn’t responded to his “AIMs.” Too impatient to clarify for him the difference between an instant message and a text message, I told him off. Crazy Claire had a new boyfriend, Jack responded, and I had jumped to conclusions instead of communicating with him. He was right, of course, but I was too amped for my grand finale. “I’m young,” I announced, stating the obvious. “But I wasn’t born yesterday.” Tossing my hair, I turned sharply to exit stage right in my own mini soap opera, teetering towards the elevator in my too-tall heels. I had little dignity intact, but at least I was walking away looking leggy. In an entire roomful of thespians, somehow the biggest drama queen ended up being me.

Jack and I eventually reconciled, but one night, when he couldn’t get it up after a few martinis, I felt relieved. I knew our fling had fizzled into a curtain close. Sure, I was immature, insecure and incapable of emotional intimacy, but I was still searching for a role that fit. The next day, I picked up the phone to make the call. It was time for me to get up the nerve to register for an improv class and quit living vicariously through my starving artist. Another melody would come along in his place, but right now, I was hungry to feed myself.

Iris Chung is a freelance writer living in New York City.