Hips Don't Lie

The year was 1986, and I had just graduated from college that summer. I was working for Pamela Auchincloss in her art gallery in downtown Santa Barbara; her new husband, Garner Tullis, had built one of the largest monotype printing presses in the country and a revolving cast of well- and lessor-known artists were often invited to come and print for a week at a time. Pamela had decided to hold a show of Francis’ paintings while he was working in town. I recalled reading about Sam in my History of American Artists textbooks in college, and was excited to be asked to pour wine at his impending gallery opening. Pamela promised she would introduce me to him, but as the night got underway with important collectors coming in from L.A., she became distracted and managed to forget about me. I needed to take my fate in my own hands if I was ever going to meet someone of merit; after all, wouldn’t it be fitting for me as a gallery employee to introduce myself to the artist we were showcasing? And so I walked up to Sam at a quiet moment in the evening and offered my hand as a means of introduction. Sam was in his late 60s, somewhat stout and not what I would have termed handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but I was still excited to meet someone who was regarded as a significant painter by modern day standards. I tried my best to be charming without seeming too obvious or star struck, and Sam seemed to find something about by confidence alluring. He had just married his fifth wife, who was expecting a child any day now and was therefore not present, but this didn’t seem to deter him much. From the moment he took my hand in his, he began to grace me with compliments. He said something about how all the men in the room seemed to naturally gravitate towards me (I scoffed that was probably because I was responsible for keeping everyone’s wine glasses full for the evening). He protested, saying I had fascinatingly feminine hips that exuded the power of a Chinese water buffalo; I of course had no idea what he was talking about, but it occurred to me that being likened to a large bison was probably not the most endearing of comparisons I could think of. Since I was a teenager, I had felt cursed by my shapely figure, wishing instead to look more like those girls with flat, boy-like silhouettes whose tiny butts could fit into the smallest of jeans. Regardless, I remember feeling both unworthy of his praise and deeply flattered that perhaps he saw in me something special. I also recognized that I should probably extricate myself from the conversation soon, before either the bubble burst or he decided to make a move on me, of which I was completely unprepared to handle. And so I excused myself to get back to my job, and politely avoided him for the rest of the evening.

The next day, Pamela apologized for not introducing me to Sam. “Oh, I did it myself,” I explained. “You did?!” she said, sounding surprised by my boldness. Later that day, she had plans to have lunch with him at Garner’s studio to see how his work was progressing. When she returned, she announced, “Well…you made an impression.” I didn’t know what he’d said, but she eluded that he had included me in one of his prints, stating so with a bemused look on her face. I couldn’t ask her any more, as I felt like I had somehow crossed a line already with my forthrightness. But as brief as our introduction had been, the moment quickly passed: by the week’s end, Sam had to return home to be with his wife for the arrival of their child and I never saw or heard about him again. For weeks, though, I wondered what type of impression I might have made during our short meeting. After all, how do one’s womanly hips inspire a true artist - through especially graceful strokes of the brush, or perhaps a suggestion of passionate color?

Finally, a couple months later, his prints were delivered from the framers to be hung for a solo show. Pamela pulled one in the series aside and declared, “Well, there you are.” I looked at the bright all-over swirls of color, a cross in styles between Jackson Pollock and Matisse’ cutout works. Unlike his purely abstract paintings, Sam’s new prints contained more literal shapes and symbols imbedded within them. It took me a minute or so to finally see it, but eventually, the imagery made itself known to me; there in the middle of the vibrant field of color was what appeared to be a large, upside-down heart, a shape meant to signify my ass. And on it lay an open handprint. I didn’t know what to say to Pamela, who in turn seemed apologetic that I had become the object, if only momentarily, of a lustful older gentleman that she’d somehow brought into my small-world stratosphere. We never talked about the painting again, but I did manage to sneak off with a slide of it to keep as a momento… I have no idea where that slide is stashed today. But whenever I find myself in the United terminal at SFO, I look up at the enormous Sam Francis painting that hangs above gates 80-90, and think back fondly to a time when I was once someone’s water-buffalo muse.