He seemed dazed, rambled on about
too many visitors: McCartney, Jagger,
scouting for good investments.
We’d been invited for dinner, but
Elaine breezed in, grabbed
Bill’s arm, and whisked him away.
We trooped to the studio to view
his work-in-progress … ceiling-high canvas,
with splotches of yellow, wild and full.
I sat in his chair and dabs of wet
paint dotted my borrowed jacket.
“My sister’s gonna kill me,” I said.
Over fettuccine, we toasted de Kooning,
joked about him autographing the jacket,
the millions it’d fetch, and what might have been.
Dianne writes to capture and remember the awe-struck moments from her life. She met de Kooning’s assistant the summer of 1984, who arranged a dinner that got side-tracked.