The whole point was about overcoming self-hatred, not so much the social anxiety—not yet. We came up with the idea of an anonymous pop-up. It was supposed to be fun, fast, and stylish; nothing over the top or showy—simple.
The plan was to do it twice a year and only show a single piece. From there, it grew into this monster thing that leaned into my personality and made my condition into something cool and unique. People actuallylikedme.
In a way, it morphed into an exercise in understanding and loving my identity. If I could represent myself in a way that was acceptable to society, perhaps I’d feel whole for the first time in my life. Art said what I couldn’t.
My first show, even though it wasterrifying, was almost unnoticed in the art world. It was perfect, and a lot less dramatic than I’d built up in my head. Tragically, it also made me feelgood—maybe even alive—for the first time in my life. Something wasmineat last.
I looked around my little studio. The windows were ajar a few inches, letting in beams of sunlight that were both bright and softened by the shadows of clouds and leaves. Facing the backyard, it was peaceful and predictable, just the way I liked it.
While I never leave my townhouse in the daylight, I’d become a bit of a night person. At night, I felt invisible, as if I were inhabiting a world that was of my own design. It mightbe foolish to roam the city at night, but when life is dull, you risk it. Besides, I have Bill, the most terrifying Border Collie the world has ever seen.
Lick-your-face-off vicious.
Night is my happy place, and when I do all my research for PERL. Twice a year, it’s my job to find a new location for the pop-up. I prefer to look for forgotten storefronts that could use an upgrade in areas that are otherwise rejuvenated. It’s fun getting to leave my mark out there, clean something up, and create a new place for a business to occupy afterward.
Once I find my new location, Dr. Cat helps me contact the owner, secure a deal, and move forward. We do it all over the phone or email; no one ever knows me, or Dr. Cat—all they know is that we want to do a pop-up and will renovate the entire space in exchange, no charge.
No one turns us down; no one asks questions. I prefer it this way. As you might imagine, I don’t need or desire recognition. I do this for myself, and myself alone.
We use the same construction crew every time. They understand the assignment and are prepared to do it on short notice. We pay them well too, which helps.
48-hour turnaround, no exceptions.
The crew is the greatest risk in our scheme, as they know the location a full 24-hours before the public does. I’m sure by now they recognize what PERL is and what it means to New York, and just how much someone will pay for that information. It’s a constant battle to make sure they’re compensated enough to maintain their silence.
It’s nothing Dr. Cat didn’t plan for, though. When you’rea top-tier New York therapist, you know top-tier lawyers with excellent NDA agreements. Still. A broken NDA means nothing if the secret’s out. Therefore, the tight 48-hour turnaround is a must, now more than ever.
Plenty of people have been sniffing around these days, and it’s becoming harder to remain anonymous. At all costs, Ineedmy privacy. I do not want attention. I just want my insignificant life with Bill and Mr. Beans.
Hiring the show staff is different. There is now an on-call list Dr. Cat put together on my website, hosted anonymously of course. Vendors, servers, and musicians who want to be a part of the show, and will take the job on short notice, sign up online. Dr. Cat contacts them on the day of the show. They are also bound by NDAs.
I try to filter through the list often, giving each vendor a chance, but I have to admit I have my favorites. They’ve become an extension of PERL, much like my “secret team.” I trust their discretion, considering how long they’ve proven themselves.
I’m always at the show.
Of course I am.
I blend in as a bartender, server, patron, bouncer, whatever is needed to remain untraceable, unseen, under-appreciated, as I’ve always been. People see me as another vendor who takes any available job and fills a role.
We’re all given a set of rules to operate under. The most important rule is silence. The entire staff is told to remain silent unless it’s a critical situation, such as an emergency.
This helps me to blend in, and I enjoy the ambiguity. Withoutthe pressure to speak, it provides me with the confidence to be around a crowd, but remain invisible. I live in New York, after all. Escaping people is impossible, but in a crowd it’s easy to do.
New York is the biggest, loneliest city in the world.
Returning to reality, I stared at the canvas before me and sighed. Lifting my sleeve-covered hand, I ran the tips of my fingers over the deep bumps and grooves of the piece titledDoubt.There was a deep slash through the center that I’d made with the palette knife to represent the feeling of doubt.
Do I think the art is good?
No.
I let out an audible scoff as I thought it. No artist sees their art as good, if he or she is honest. Impostor syndrome is rife in our crowd.
I think it’s normal to doubt yourself—your art. The critics sure like it though, and I feel like its meaning is out of my hands. It’s up to the spectator to make sense of it at this point. I’ve done my part.
I’ll never shake the feeling of being an impostor. Most days I feel like a thief. It’s like I’m getting away with something precious with little skin in the game. I don’t take this as seriously as other artists do—especially those who want this lifestyle.
To me, it’s still therapy, not talent.
