But then, of course, the Whitney came knocking.
DR. ROLAND JONES: Until those last weeks, the last weeks of her life, Addison was very good about appointments. She’d spent some of them working on a painting of me. A wonderful portrait, if only I could have afforded it, ha! So I got to know her both as a client and an artist. Over that winter into spring, she was busy, industrious, but, no—I didn’t feel that Addison was overwhelmed by any one aspect of her life.
In particular, she always spoke of Lincoln Reed in an upbeat manner. She called him her “soul mate” and said that she “had never known and been known as well by another person.” She’d mention his healthy habits—how he ran and biked, that he vehemently abstained from drinking, and that he liked to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. So when she informed me that they were moving in together, this seemed—from my professional point of view—a positive thing.
She also told me that she’d been trying to break a bad habit of slashing her paintings. She confessed she’d often strike a red or black X through a piece if it wasn’t working the way she wanted. Apparently, Lincoln had spoken up numerous times against this act. He called it sabotage, a vandalism against herself. He thought she gave up too easily. He seemed to be sensitive to her self-destructive impulses in general.
Doc, a painting of Roland Jones, by Addison Stone, courtesy of the Deutsche Bank private collection.
LUCY LIM: Moving in with Lincoln was a huge mistake. I love Lincoln dearly, but Addy never, ever should have done it. He wanted to rescue her. He wanted to try. She hated to be alone. But no matter how vulnerable Addy felt about the whacked-out games Zach was playing, no matter how insecure she felt about the Coulsen article, no matter how much she said Lincoln Reed made her feel loved and safe … those two artists—too much together, too soon after meeting—equaled Very Bad Idea.
She begged me to come visit during a face-bitingly cold weekend, right after she moved in with him. She paid for my train ticket on the Acela and then a private town car from Penn Station to downtown, the usual Addison treatment. The Fieldbenders had also asked if I would please report back, and so I knew they were worried, too.
Lincoln lived on Elizabeth Street, smack in the chic heart of Soho. The freight elevator opened up right into his raw living space—it must have been two thousand square feet. Addy loved all that space and light—she was like a kid, showing me how the door to the bedroom slid sidewise like in a barn. She loved the concrete floor, the industrial cool, and of course those strangely hypnotizing Lincoln Reed canvases propped all along the walls.
But I think a lot of Addy’s identity got left behind on Court Street. She’d painted her purple walls with such joy. The tub was back there, plus other things people had legit given her—Marie-Claire, for one, had delivered Addy a life-sized stuffed rhinoceros from FAO Schwartz. The Lenox had sent her a tree stump from Colorado, with the bark polished to sable. Those were her own special things, and they were part of her story. But Addy insisted that she didn’t care about any of that, and she didn’t want to take anything but bare essentials to Lincoln’s.
“I like thinking about The Queen’s Shame looking exactly the same,” she said. “That place is like an art installation of my past. I don’t want to tamper with it.”
Lincoln didn’t believe in clutter or possessions. Addy wanted to play along. But Addy, a girl who could create some of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, never really owned anything valuable or interesting till New York. Typical Addy, she just walked away from it all. Maybe she had a point. Maybe the only thing of value in an Addy-charged environment was Addy.
Elizabeth Street was Lincoln’s territory. Starting with his artwork and ending with his artwork, because Lincoln painted in the same place where he lived. His canvases were everywhere. Addy’s workplace was up in Chelsea. So none of her prints or paints or in-progress work were at home. But she didn’t want to bring anything to Lincoln’s space, either.
“I’d rather get lost in Lincoln’s brain,” she told me once. “I want to come back from my studio and forget about myself for a while. Soak him in.”
I didn’t ask her if she missed Erickson, but I did. Erickson was a different roomie groove than Lincoln. He’s a laid-back, sweet presence. His and Teddy’s love is a big hug that invites you in and warms you up. Plus Erickson is a natural host. When I’d come visit on Court Street, Erickson would always whip up his Southern specialties, like fried zebra tomatoes with deviled eggs and sweet hibiscus tea.
Lincoln is the opposite. An absentminded-professor type. That guy can’t even boil water. And from what I could tell, he’s always been a loner.
“You want to rescue her,” I said to Lincoln when Addy was in the bathroom, and we had a brief moment alone. “I get it. But she’s a full-time job. She was my job, and then she was Erickson’s, and now she’s yours. And you never saw what happened last time, when Zach tried to take over that job.”
“I won’t f**k it up, Lucy,” he said. “I promise.”
I looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. But I also knew he couldn’t possibly have understood what he was getting into.
Lincoln Reed, parking his bike in his studio on Elizabeth Street, courtesy of Lucy Lim.
ERIKSON MCAVENA: Oh, yeah, I was incredibly depressed when she left. Sure, it was fun to start playing house with Teddy. At this point, we’re like a pair of old socks. We’ve been together so long, almost seven years now. But it had been barely six months I’d lived with Addison. And then she was gone.
The good news was we’d always meet for brunch at this great breakfast place, Cafeteria, after I was done with my 10 A.M. photography class in Union Square. We’d get johnnycake and cheddar grits and a giant pot of coffee, and we’d catch up.
One morning she came in looking kinda dazed. Her hair in braids, too, which always meant she was prickly.
“I’ve been up most of the night,” she told me. “You’ll never guess. I’ve been sent a message in a dream. The message was from Willem de Kooning. We were riding the elevator together, and he said the strangest thing to me. He said, ‘Claim what is valuable. Take back what’s yours.’ ”
First I thought this was Addison’s ass-backward way of telling me she wanted everything she’d left behind at The Queen’s Shame. Then I thought she was messing with me. So I started making fun.