Not much fun, this period of my work!
I can remember at the time, 1991, feeling like, alright, I’ve been sober a couple years, I’ve got a little bit of art school left, if I am gonna make work about being a junkie on the Lower East Side, now is the time.
It definitely felt like I was gonna handle the psychic material and then be done featuring it in my art.
And that has proven true. I haven’t felt any need to revisit that period of my life in my visual art and indeed I don’t talk about it much in my recovery community this last couple decades either. I’ve made enough wack mistakes in 31 years of sobriety to have plenty of other material to talk about!
Most of these drawings, which I made in Fall 1991, were photocopied, colored, painted and collaged together in a large piece about addiction and recovery.
It had text from legal documents, old photos of me, and Miguel Piñero poetry. It was a really nice use of my comics background, combining words and pictures. A wash of sickly translucent green varnish unified the surface, except for three bright watercolors.
Dwinkie was a punk girl I used to panhandle with sometimes.
She lived in one of the last totally crazy squats on the Lower East Side, the kind with some stolen electricity, lots of candles, and no running water.
I did two pieces about the last time I was arrested, in January of 1989.
I spent three days, the 72-hour maximum hold, in The Tombs. Cold turkey heroin withdrawal. It was during a bitter freeze so the cops had rounded up all the homeless women and sex workers they could find, along with the junkies. There were about thirty five women in the cell, half of which you can see in the works above and below. I didn’t draw the toilet.
The sex workers, who were mostly not junkies and not in withdrawal like the rest of us, were bored and lively.
At 4 a.m. one night they were playing Simon Says, and I watched, when I wasn’t vomiting or purging black diarrhea on the single open toilet in the middle of the cell. I thought, “This is incredible material. I’ll use this some day.” I dug the pathos, the Hunter Thompson vibe of it.
I don’t think about it that way today, though. I think about how sad it was.
And how sad the carceral state and the opioid epidemic and the continuing criminalisation of sex work is. My part as a participant and witness sucked, but addressing the overarching spectrum of human suffering is so much more important. My escape from the sorrow, degradation and horror was in so many ways a function of my privilege.
I got to be shipped off to a fancy treatment center, and got to stay in a nice halfway house for four months.
I could never have stayed sober otherwise. I also didn’t die when I overdosed on methadone because my mother let me stay at home, horrible as it was for her, while I was using.
My mom was there to call the paramedics, who revived me.
I was so, so incredibly blessed by her compassion for me. Yes, I did the work to stay sober. I have done it all these years. But I also had incredible opportunities, great resources, and tremendous inspiration and support from my mom. Most people have none of those things.
The truth is, I’m not very interested in talking about these shitty junkie stories now.
What I do think is important is how goddam good the work I did then was. The big collage had three bright watercolors in it, about my recovery. The one above is my first night sober, detoxing at Hanley Hazelden treatment center in West Palm Beach on Jan 27, 1989. I painted the night nurse to look a bit like my mom.
This one is me at a year and a half sober, in my white-painted, loft-like art school apartment.
It was the first place of my own I really set up for my work.
And this is me on the phone with the tv station I worked for, wearing my mom’s nice grey suit, in 1991.
At my beautiful Craftsmen apartment with a fireplace, in my last year of school, already working regularly as a courtroom artist and working hard to break into comics. It was the last piece for the collage; I am turned away from the viewer, because the period of processing and disclosing the past is over.
I never forget it, though. Every night when I go to bed, I say a prayer of thanks for my safety and freedom, and I remember that cell in The Tombs.
Every night, I know what a miracle and a blessing it is that I am alive, and sober, and have a bed to sleep in (except for those two nights in recovery I have had to sleep in my car). Don’t leave before the miracle happens.
These paintings and drawings had never been photographed; until now, no record of them existed – if we had a fire or flood they would just be gone forever.
I am incredibly grateful to my Patreon Patrons, whose monthly financial support makes it possible for me to take time to document my art archives.
Your account of this is so beautiful. It makes me sad that i wasn’t there for you at the time. I must have been at college, in my own selfish, stupid,self medicating world. I’m very sorry for that, for my limitations, though grateful your mom was there for you. Love, Victoria
Aw no, please don’t feel bad!! You WERE there for me, and knowing it made such a difference. <3
I didn’t look at these until tonight. How sad and what a miracle that you survived and have this recorded so clearly and painfully. I’m sad to look but grateful to see.
I am grateful, always, for everything you did to save my life. You made all the difference, Mama.