She was painting Stephanie Norton, and she was also working on a few studies for a painting she’d do some months later, of her therapist, Roland Jones. She liked offbeat faces—she enjoyed learning more about a person through the rendering of their face.
Addison thought Roland—“Doc,” she called him—was a smart therapist because he was a really careful listener. I told her whatever, she just wanted to paint his Old Wise Man beard. That girl could log in some hard hours painting. I don’t think I ever met anyone who worked harder. I’d have to text her reminders to come home. Then she’d drag herself back bone-tired to the apartment. I’d have soup, mac & cheese, all her comfort food ready. But she liked to work.
Zach Frat was the unwanted distraction. He was always putting pepper in the gumbo, trying to bribe Addison into going out with him to the clubs—and you can’t fool me; I knew half the reason was to get his face in the paper with his It Girl arm candy.
He’d show up all hours at the Court Street apartment, looking for her. He could be such a pain in the ass. “Why is Addison still at the studio?” he’d ask me. “Text her, tell her we want her to come home.” Like I was the butler.
Or, he’d give me the sad version: “Do you think she’s forgotten about me?”
Or, the paranoid version: “Do you think there’s another guy?”
Or, the bro-to-bro version: “Erickson, give it to me straight. Do you know what’s up with Addison? Does she ever talk shit about me? ’Cause if you know, you gotta tell me!”
I never knew what Addison saw in Zach. There’s a Southern saying—you can’t know the depth of the well by the handle of the pump. Zach was a shiny handle. But there was no depth to that guy.
Addison and Erickson in the kitchen of their apartment, courtesy of Marie-Claire Broyard.
ZACH FRATEPIETRO: Look, I understand artists, okay? I was raised by them, no kidding; all my babysitters either smelled like sculpting clay or turpentine. I get their narcissism and their insecurity. But I’d done everything for Addison. I’d set her up huge. I watched that Addison ate real breakfasts and took her Zyprexa. I made sure she was checking in with her therapist, Tuttnauer—“Nut Tower,” Addison called her. And also with her New York therapist.
“Shake, rattle, and Roland Jones,” I’d remind her whenever she had an appointment. I’d even stay in the waiting room. Just so she had me to lean on after. She was ashamed of her therapy. She hated being reminded that she needed it. But I never minded. Artists and shrinks go together like milk and cookies.
And I made sure that Addison wasn’t in her studio till four in the morning. I’d break those nine-, ten-hour work sessions just as much as Erickson did. And I did it by getting her out to meet friends. When I look back, I realize I’d put my own life on hold. I was a glorified gardener, pruning and watering and watching for every new mood blossom on the Addison Stone tree.
All I wanted was some respect. All I wanted was for her not to jerk me around with prima donna behavior. But power corrupts, right?
Like maybe I’d get on her case—just a little bit—for not showing up to somewhere. So I’d call her and say something like, “Hey, where are you, Addison? We are all at Blue Ribbon; it is so-and-so’s birthday party. Thought you were coming to this.”
And she’d go, “Oh, yeah, I’ll be there in twenty. I’m leaving right now.”
Then an hour later, I’d call her. “Where are you? You said you were just leaving?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, Zach. I’m not coming anymore.”
And I’d be like, “Fucking hell, Addison! We haven’t even ordered dinner because we’re all sitting around with our thumbs up our asses, waiting for you!”
Soon it got to be a habit. If she felt too cornered, then it was: “Fuck you, Zach, I didn’t come to New York City to be your trophy! I came here for my own trophies! If I fail, then what’s left for me? I’ll be an assistant at some second-rate gallery in Providence or Boston. Unlike you, I can’t rely on my million-dollar trust fund.”
Addison saw her life as all or nothing. Winner take all, loser eats dust. I tried not to step in the ring with her, but it was hard. I’m part Italian, so it’s natural for me to get my dukes up. We’d fight, and we’d say nasty things to each other. Addison liked to throw dishes. I liked to punch walls. But I also like to make up. And I was always looking for the compromise. Not Addison. She’d never go to Blue Ribbon once she decided she didn’t want to go. She believed in doing only what she felt like doing.
Eventually I knew that her selfish side wasn’t good for me, and I had to let her go. So I did.
MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: However Zach needs to make it right in his head about how he and Addison ended, let me tell you, it didn’t end like that. Their breakup crushed him. Here’s the short version of what happened. When Addison got back to New York City that fall, Zach’s rich-boy glamour didn’t hold the same appeal. So, thud. She dropped him. And she didn’t exactly tell him, either. Not straight. Not clean. Not the way she should have.
I’d been out with Zach plenty of times that September through October, when Addison was supposed to show, and she’d just stand him up. And he’d lose his mind. “Where is she, goddammit? She always does this!”
I have to admit, this was the first time I’d seen Zach unravel over a girl. Here’s Zach Frat, modelizer, a hundred different girls in love with him, and Addison Stone had the arrogance to dump his ass. But dump his ass she did. Actually, it was more like a series of a hundred little dumps. Maybe she’d find something at Film Forum she just had to get to, or there was a flash sale, or a Phoenix concert.
She’d call me and say, “Let’s go see the Renee Dijkstra retrospective at The New Museum, and then hit Jemma on the Bowery for biscuits and gravy—and pleeeease don’t tell Zach. He’s expecting me to be at the Gansevoort.”
Now I love Zach to pieces, but he’s not the fastest boat in the harbor. He hadn’t realized that his scene had lost its luster. Addison’s boredom was obvious to everybody but Zach, whose brain would never, ever sail into the realization that she’d had enough of flitting around and wasting time being fabulous at the best parties. But when Addison was done, darling, she was done.
CARINE FRATEPIETRO: I will speak a little bit about this, but I must remind you that on this topic, our lawyers have advised me to be brief. With regard to Addison’s relationship with my son, I was always quite protective of Addison. “Please do not attend Addison Stone’s next opening,” I told him. She had finished Being Stephanie along with some other pieces, and we were showing them, with a very few other select artists, at Berger Gallery. It was a carefully curated show, and I didn’t want it turned into a media circus with Zach’s presence. Addison’s mental stability was also something to consider.