The Museum of Modern Love(14)

Levin nodded, instantly disliking the image. He felt certain that she was going to ask him if he was married. But she didn’t.

She smiled and said, ‘So how did that happen? That you started making music for movies?’

‘A friend of mine . . . a writer/director . . . We met at Julliard.’ He shrugged. ‘It often happens that way.’ There was no point in mentioning Tom. It was the death on his shoulder.

Jane said, ‘And you must have won awards?’

‘There’ve been a few.’

‘Oscars?’

‘Three nominations but no win. Still, that’s nothing compared to Randy Newman. He’s been nominated something like seventeen times and only won once.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Jane, ‘I think to be famous must be like having a disease. Everyone who meets you or sits next to you at a dinner, they all know you have it and I’m sure they change how they are because of it.’

‘That’s kind of true,’ said Levin. ‘Unless they have more of it than you, and then you change. And in the film business it’s very obvious who has more of it.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Well, I shall promise to try to be entirely unimpressed by you.’

‘That would be terrible,’ said Levin. She was pretty when she smiled, he decided. He would have liked her to be his art teacher back in middle school.

‘Shall we have dinner?’ he asked. ‘We could walk over to the Meatpacking District. Although here is very good.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve eaten here and it’s fabulous. I’ve done the Tribeca Grill too, and the Macao, which was wonderful, but it’s hard on your own not to feel terribly conspicuous. And it seems such a shame to get room service when there’s so much to see.’

‘Well, there’s a little place that does a very good French fusion . . .’

‘Are you sure your wife won’t mind?’ she asked, indicating the ring he wore. ‘You having drinks and dinner with a strange woman you met at MoMA?’

‘No,’ said Levin. ‘She’s . . . away. She travels a lot. She’d be pleased to know I . . .’ Wasn’t lonely, he thought. But instead he said, ‘That I was being hospitable.’

‘Can I have ten minutes? I’ll go upstairs and freshen up. And we won’t talk about my husband or your wife. Shall we agree on that?’ She added, ‘And maybe not cotton farming.’

‘Cotton farming?’

‘It’s what my husband did, until he died. But that’s enough about that.’

When she returned she had swapped her jeans and sweater for a black skirt and a pale blue silk shirt. Her sturdy runners were now a pair of unassuming black flats and her hair was up. Suddenly she was an imperfect replica of Lydia, Levin realised, one from a fun mirror that had slightly distorted her, and he felt a wave of doubt sweep through him. What was he doing? He shrugged. She was a tourist. He was being hospitable.

Outside they were met by a fine but persistent drizzle. The doorman offered them umbrellas.

‘Shall we walk?’ he suggested.

‘Alright,’ said Jane, laughing. ‘It’s an adventure. I’m in New York and I refuse to curb my enthusiasm!’

At first they walked in silence, and then she said, ‘So, Levin, why do you live here, not in LA where the movies are made?’

‘Well, there are a lot of movies made here. And it’s a good town for music, New York, and a better lifestyle.’

‘So are you between jobs?’

‘No,’ Levin said. ‘I’m working on an animation.’

‘For children?’

‘No, adults.’

‘Is that unusual, an animation for adults?’

‘It’s a Japanese film. There’s more of a tradition . . .’

‘But it’s not going so well?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, because you’ve been watching Marina Abramovi? for—what? Five or six days in a row, if I’m correct.’

Levin grimaced.

‘Is this how you do it? Distraction as a form of gestation?’ she asked.

‘Well, it’s a difficult project. I’ve never done an animation before.’

She nodded. ‘Still, you’ve made a lot of music with great success. Does that help? Knowing that?’

‘Not really.’

They paused at another set of lights. As they waited for the traffic, Jane said, ‘You know, in the twenties there was an artist called Tamara de Lempicka. She was Polish, but she’d studied in Paris and developed a remarkable style. She became one of the most famous painters in Europe. In a way she was a precursor to the whole fame thing that Warhol exploited. Her technique was very bold, almost photographic. Despite all her early success, by the time she was thirty-five she never produced anything of significance again.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ Levin said.

‘No, and yes. I mean, I think every artist . . . well, I’m only a teacher, so I don’t know. But what I’ve observed,’ Jane said, biting her lip and looking sideways at him, ‘is that all art seems to belong to a time. And some of those timeframes are quite short. Either because the world moves on, or the artist does—either metaphorically or literally. So when we do see longevity in an artist’s output—when they go on for decades producing brilliant art—I think it’s more the exception than the rule. What you’ve achieved already, well, it’s incredible. Incredible. And I am sure that whatever this gestation is, while you sit and watch Abramovi? or whatever, you just have to trust it. Everything is important, that’s what I’ve observed. You have to be alert, and you’ll get going again.’