“Happy twentieth, Jen and Len,” she said. “I made a painting of you both.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
I had to hand it to her; it’s—I mean, there we were, Len and me, captured in a moment that I don’t remember from any photograph, but to this day can remind me of when we’d just moved into our first apartment in Boston, as newlyweds. The painting is who we used to be, back when Len was in med school and I was working three jobs to pay rent. You feel our reliance on each other. You see my uncertainty and even my hope for our future just in the way I’m looking sidelong at Len. You can see his steadiness. His carefulness. It’s amazing.
How did she do it? How did Addison know us, before she was even born? There’s no photo of it that she might have copied. There’s no answer.
When I got Jen & Len framed, I learned the dimensions: 38 × 51. That’s a very big, expensive frame. But we paid for it, even with the museum-quality glass.
On that day, I realized that my niece, so exasperating—infuriating, even—also could do things that other people couldn’t.
Jen & Len by Addison Stone, courtesy of Leonard and Jennifer Meyers.
MAXWELL BERGER: As Addison’s primary art dealer, and the de facto executor of her estate, I am familiar with the painting Jen & Len. Hell, I drove to Princeton to appraise it myself.
Jen & Len is technically part of her juvenilia. Addison hadn’t been studying art at the time. She hadn’t come into her known technique. Essentially, she was a kid. But a genius kid. And that’s why I had to eyeball it. She told me once that in grade school she’d seen a documentary on the artist Alex Katz, and the influence in that painting is obvious—seductive yet aloof. The smooth palate. It might be a work of art by a young person, but there’s nothing childish about it.
I imagine Dr. and Mrs. Meyers are well aware that the hammer-sale of Jen & Len, if they ever wanted to put it up, would exceed the worth of their entire home and everything in it.
MADDY MEYERS: Mom would never say this, but Addison ruined Mom’s and Dad’s twentieth anniversary party. She made it so it wasn’t about my parents at all. Everyone went oooh and ahhh and told Addison what a talented girl she was. Addison is all anyone remembers about that night.
LEN MEYERS: She stole my Rolex that same weekend, I’m pretty sure. She was a little cutpurse, that kid. I could never prove it. But anyway, it’s a great painting. I’d have bought it for some real money. And now it’s worth more than I could afford.
CHARLIE STONE: My sister started to make cash from her art in ninth grade. She was a hustler. She set up an art stand every Saturday in front of the Peacedale movie theater. “Ten bucks a drawing! Come get the best doodle of yourself you’ll ever own!” Then to me, she was like, “Go get me some business, Charlie, and I’ll give you 10 percent.” And I’d do it, too. Addison was fair to the point of over-generous. Usually she paid me about a 25 percent split on the profit if I could pull in buyers.
Addison could get your likeness down in five seconds. More like a portrait than a doodle, but she called them doodles, I think to show that she didn’t take them too seriously. So nobody’d crap all over her if they didn’t look right.
But damn, they looked perfect. Then she’d scribble a random note at the bottom. I actually kept a couple of them, ones she decided were mess-ups but were funny to me. “Everyone wants you, but you want my shoes,” or “I’m less awake today,” or “I’ve got a secret that is also a plan.”
She made real coin till the cops shut her ass down. She had no license, and she was earning over two hundred bucks a day. Way more bank than your average lemonade stand.
Sketches by Addison Stone, courtesy of the estate of Addison Stone.
LUCY LIM: Addy would never babysit or wash cars or do bake sales or chores or any kid jobs. She earned money by entering art contests. There was this one time when we all had to draw a bicycle for art class freshman year. Addy’s was so incredible that our principal wanted her to donate it, to be on permanent display in the South Kingstown hall. Addy said no donation, thank you very much. If the school wanted it, then it would cost a hundred dollars. And you know what? The school paid up.
Bike by Addison Stone, courtesy of South Kingstown High School.
She needed money so that she could buy top-of-the-line art supplies. But as soon as she had what she needed, she was stupid with her cash—like she’d blow it on some designer jacket or super-expensive gifts. She loved to come sweeping in with presents. She bought my mom bouquets of roses—for her birthday, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s. Once she bought me a Navajo fringe bag I’d been coveting from this vintage shop we loved over in Providence, and another time she got me a pair of moonstone earrings.
Of course when it came to gifts and Addy, you had to be careful. There was always a chance she’d stolen it. She was a bandit, the queen of the five-finger discount. “A clean heist is art,” she’d say. I think that’s why she loved crime movies—Ocean’s 11, the James Bonds and Elmore Leonards. Where bad behavior looks cool and slick.
CHARLIE STONE: Have you ever talked to Lucy Lim about Green Hall? I’ve got my version. It was fall, I was thirteen, so Addison and Lucy must have been fifteen.
Green Hall is one of the Rhode Island Mansion museums. There’s a mess of ’em over the Newport Bridge. The Elms, The Breakers, Green Hall, Marble House. A museum tour is not my idea of party time, but Mom was like, “I’ve got free promotional tickets. Let’s go.” Mom loved freebies. It was March, and it was cold. All we had to pay for was gas and restaurant lunch. Addison invited Lucy, and then Dad wanted in, too—mostly because he never liked it when Mom drove the car alone.
When Addison finally jumped in the car, she was wearing black tights and a black T-shirt, like a burglar. I knew something was up. She didn’t talk at all, just mmmed under her breath, which she did when she was thinking crazy. Like last time she mmmed that way, maybe a year ago, she’d painted the word LAND in orange paint on our roof. She said she wanted to see if anything would land there.
When we got to Green Hall, she disappeared.
LUCY LIM: We kept looking around, but we couldn’t leave the tour group. I was annoyed that she’d slipped us. I mean, who wants to hang out with your friend’s weird family without your friend?
Addy’s mom was scared, and I didn’t get why. Addy vamoosed a lot. Like we’d be watching TV at my house, and she’d say she was going up to get a glass of water, and an hour later I’d find her taking a nap in my bed, or in the kitchen gossiping with my mom, or out on our patio, making chalk drawings—Mom always kept a box of sidewalk chalk out there for fun.