The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone

At least he admitted Addy’s portraits weren’t just eye-catching because she was. But the gist of his whole rant was that she was image over substance, a bright and shiny poseur in the street art scene—that the Thanksgiving billboard stunt was just a pretty social climber’s way of getting in with the Lutz brothers, who were somehow more “real.” Oh, and he said she was too young to have perfected her technical skill, and she hadn’t studied under anyone significant, and if she wanted to be a good little portrait painter, she should go get mentoring from the greats. On and on. Bitchy and cutthroat.

Addy always told me, “I never read up on what people are saying about me.” But that was a lie. She read everything. She was curious about opinions—from Nobody in Crappytown’s all the way up to Jonathan Coulsen’s. His take-down knocked her hard that night. She didn’t eat dinner. She opened some wine, which for her was always a horrible idea, while Lincoln and I pretended we’d forgotten about the whole thing, and tried to be all “la-la-la, what shitty review?”

LINCOLN REED: Addison Stone was a kid. New to New York. Talent like hers can make people seem older than their years, especially to someone like Coulsen. She wasn’t ready for Coulsen’s attack. But I also knew Ads. In just over a month, I felt like I already had a sea-deep knowledge of this girl. I’d look at those long ridged scars on her wrists, and wonder about her. Wonder if she really was doing okay, if she was really doing better here in this moment. Wonder how much she was hiding from us all.

Anyway, that Friday morning after Thanksgiving, I had only one goal—to get Addison’s mind off Coulsen. And I remembered how Ads and Lucy had occasionally talked about this guy Jonah, and how they used to go road-tripping with him. So I have this ’79 Pontiac GTO. Vintage. Dove gray. I bought it when I turned eighteen. Driving my car is what I like to do instead of drink or drugs or therapy.

“Boys and cars,” she said when I suggested it. Not even really there. I don’t think she’d slept. Then she perked up. “If we went somewhere, where would we go?”

I didn’t tell her. I just told her to get ready. Lucy came, too, and we drove the three-plus hours straight to Sag Harbor, where I grew up.

I took Addison and Lucy to my favorite places in Sag. At the American Hotel, where my dad used to hang out, we all ordered eggs Benedict breakfasts and pots of cocoa. I’d never seen Addison so insecure.

“Coulsen’s right,” she kept saying. “I’m not trained, I’m a punk. I won’t have a career, I’m not building a legacy, I’m a trend, I’m confetti, I’m nothing.”

I didn’t know what to say. But Lucy leaned forward and squeezed Addison’s hand, and she said, “Look, Addy, if you doubt this one guy, you will doubt everyone all the time. And I’m not even talking as your friend. I’m talking as a fan of your art. Do not let some cranky old man tell you what you are. I want to see more from you.”

That was what did it for me, with Lucy. I felt like I had total clarity on how Addison had gotten through her childhood, with Lucy on her side. Watching her, knowing her, saying exactly the right thing when Ads needed to hear it most. Pretty powerful.

Lincoln and Addison eating breakfast, courtesy of Lucy Lim.

MAXWELL BERGER: Coulsen’s piece stank up our investment in Addison. We had to act fast. I called in some favors. When one of my up-and-comers gets smacked with criticism that threatens to sink them, the trick is confidence. Bring the artist into the center. Sell harder. Then liking or disliking the art is only a matter of opinion. Not a verdict.

I dialed a connection to Mirror Mirror to spotlight Addison in their “One to Watch” section. It was a one-pager. The title copy read “GENUINE STONE.” It was an introduction of Addison in the mainstream press. With some copy about her high-wire public art, her billboards, her boyfriends.

My stroke of genius—I had just signed another artist, Etien Koort, who was also doing a lot of portraits. Koort’s got a very styled, jet-set approach to young New York, and he’d been after Addison to do her portrait. Let me tell you, that article went down just right. With the painting, Addison looked like a class act again, like one of those old 1970s Hollywood-type stars. We “accidentally” leaked the Koort painting, exhibiting it months before it came out in February—and then I sold it to a Hollywood bad boy.

It did what we wanted and put the attention back on Addison as somebody we all wanted to see more of. But Addison herself? She was angry, and she came at me.

“You used me. You made me into an object. I’m not a part-time artist, part-time publicity stunt. You can’t just decide when I should be controversy and when I need to be some kind of glamour kitten.”

She started badmouthing me around town. Maybe she had a point. I didn’t care. Bigger things were at stake.

Glamour Portrait of Addison Stone by Etien Koort, courtesy of T. Jay Gerhardt.

ERICKSON MCAVENA: I can draw a line in the sand from the Koort portrait to when Addison decided to rob Bergdorf Goodman’s.

She was a fearless artist, but that was nothing compared with what a ballsy thief she was. The summer before, we both were so flat broke we’d pour Pabst Blue Ribbon on cornflakes for dinner. So damn poor we knew which hotel conventions were serving complimentary breakfasts. Once we hit up a Marriott to steal the tiny shampoos and mouthwashes from the cleaning ladies’ carts. But by fall, Addison had sold her Billfold series, and she’d sold Being Stephanie. So I thought she wanted to make purchases.

She’d planned it all out before. I didn’t know that. She scampered into the dressing room with an armload of outfits. Later she told me she’d packed this little pair of hedge clippers to remove the security tags. She stuffed the new clothes into her backpack and replaced them with something close enough that she’d found at the Salvation Army. On the surveillance cameras, you can’t see what’s going on. It looks like she’s marching in and out with the same items. She wasn’t. Total damage was almost ten thousand dollars.

“That’s a felony, Addison,” I told her.

“That’s all right,” she answered.

“You’re crazy.”

“Oh, I’m sending it back. I just wanted to show them how easy it is.”

She was proud of herself. I remember thinking, Sweet Jesus, who’s gonna cut this girl a switch? It was like Addison had no feeling that this was a bad thing or a wrong thing. Especially when she sent Bergdorf back four boxes marked, Stolen and Returned, xo Addison. She had to have her own little catawampus. She had to get that mischief out of her system.