Whitney Rice presents:

THE COLLECTOR
November 1994 Issue No. Twenty-two www.WhitneyRice.com
HIT NE RIC YLEE E

DRI

TEL E (703 PHON E )599 -579 4

LA T VIN RAFFI Los G MISS C: Ang D eles RAMA , CA @W

Doing Business (Naked)

LIVING THE LIFE OF A PROFESSIONAL ARTIST
The year before I entered kindergarten, my parents moved the family to Parker, Arizona. Oh. You cant nd it on the map? That is because Parker is a mirage, a town not recognized by the United States government, but denitely by Circle K, Payless, and Wal-Mart. Parker is the place where you are pregnant by the time you enter the 8th grade and join a gang before you can learn the word no. Scorpions nest in the pit of your running shoes. The harassment from the sun makes outdoor fun impossible; people pay more in air conditioning than they do for their groceries. If you have leather car seats, your entire pants collection is screwed. It was in this boring, heartless, and desolate town that I started my own business.
Continued on Page 2 The Collector, 1234 Main Street, Any Town, State ZIP | 123-456-7890 | www.apple.com/iwork

Parker, AZ

Sisters, Whitney and Alex Rice

Sketch

...Parker is a mirage, a town not recognized by the United States government...

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The Artist

Dog Drawing

I was an odd kid: when I learned how to scream like a dinosaur you could often nd me practicing my new talent in front of my bedroom mirror; I decided that red ants were the perfect pet, so I collected them in my jean pockets; and I consumed whole oranges while sitting near cacti because I thought it was romantic. Despite my many oddities, the combination of being able to draw well and my desire to grow-up is what landed me my rst job in 2nd grade. My mother was once an art teacher, so my sister and I learned how to draw, paint, and color in-the-lines very quickly. We were usually referred to as The Talented Rice Women, like we were some traveling trio act that slept with the most powerful clowns in our circus. Wed laugh at our artless father whenever he would attempt to join us as we painted the Arizona landscape: What are you going to do? Draw a stick gure on a mountain?! I am realizing now that I probably need to apologize for years of verbal abuse. I was that child who was born thinking she matured 45 years in the womb.

When crossing the street, Id yell I HOLD MY OWN HAND and dash in front of oncoming trafc, my 6 4 father galloping after me, wondering how the hell he got stuck with this midget monster. A favorite time in my life was when I found fake, red, presson nails in the sand of the school playground; although I found only seven of the ten nails, I pressed those sandy things with their remaining glue against my cuticles and pranced around like I had just grown a pair of tits. Though I was painfully shy for the rst 14 years of my life, I acquired a taste for attention the instant a formula bottle was placed in my mouth: feed me. Because I had no idea how to interact with people, I often found myself eating lunch alone in the school yard, while doodling in my class notebook. I drew intricate renditions of dogs on the backside of my old math homework while my teacher lectured about Native Americans. I noticed my classmates would hover over my desk to take a look at what I was drawing. I was the 2nd grade mystery.

...I consumed whole oranges while sitting near cacti because I thought it was romantic...

THE COLLECTOR
Finally, someone spoke up: Umm. Will you draw me one of those frogs you do? I am pretty certain my freckles jumped right off my nose and relocated onto a new part of my face. I nod my head yes. I notice how excited this makes the girl, Crystal. I get to work immediately. Shortly after Crystal received her frog drawing, I acquired a signicant number of clients. People wanted these drawings for their rooms, their notebooks, and to hold up and say look what I did, though they couldnt even spell their name properly. I sacriced my cursive homework, my math test score, and my participation grade to pursue a career in business. I was a slave to attention, recognition, and success. Draw me a car, with cool wheels and stripes. I got smart. I got cocky. Condence overwhelmed me. Ok. What are you going to give me? Shocked? Didnt think I would start charging for my services? Guess what classmates: no more pro bono publico. ...my mom has this pretty, gold canary broach. Want that? That will do. I started a collection. I was a rich woman: Endless bottles of fancy perfumes, fruit roll-ups, a C-cup bra, cassette tapes, pogs, horse gurines, barrettes. I mean my underwear drawer was full of treasures. I guarded that drawer like a doberman pincher protecting her lawn; it was the rst time in my childhood that I offered to put away my clothing and let my mother rest.

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My mother had quite the collection of sketch books: How-tos on drawing cartoons, the human face, hands, horses, landscapes, and inanimate object. Cartooning was by far my favorite genre. However, the cartooning book wasnt only dedicated to goofy characters and imaginary animals; the very back of the book contained how-tos on drawing sexy cartoon women. Sexy, NAKED cartoon women. Obviously, I kne w that section existed, but I felt like I would be caught immediately if I ventured Cantaloupe Planet into the details of every page. So the section was forbidden, by myself. I rendered the set of pages a temple dedicated to adults ...although I only only. found seven of the My career path took a change the instant Sam, the popular boy in school, noticed me drawing a woman in a bikini on the margins of my arithmetic exercise. Hey. Draw me one of those. I want one. I didnt charge him. He paid me in attention. He paid me in noticing my talent for drawing semi-nude, cartoon women. Sam became my best customer. Once a week, I smuggled a well-folded piece of halfway naked artwork to him. In return, he gave me a smile. But Sam was also my most difcult client.

ten nails, I pressed those things with their remaining glue against my cuticles and pranced around like I had just grown a pair of tits...

THE COLLECTOR
Cant you do something other than a bikini? Not until my twenties did I recognize that Sam was probably going through puberty. I ran out of ideas. My repertoire went only as far as bikinis. So, naturally I broke my adult temple rule. At home, when I was supposed to be nishing my cursive homework, I would spend several minutes in the bathroom, memorizing every curve, nipple, and mole on these cartoon women who were cast to the back of the drawing book. They were bent over. They sat mermaid, 1950s pin-up style. They were laughing, arms over head. There was no difference in cup-size; looked like cantaloupe was in season at the time the book was published. I can assure you: The author of this book loved his detail. On the days that I deliver the material to Sam, I am silent in the car as my parents drive me to school. I am more nervous than a tornado chaser. Like my pink backpack is stuffed with weapons of mass destruction. However, once my feet made it to school grounds, I knew I was baller. I am the leader of this town. The girl who gets you the goods. Pencil and paper for your pleasure. Aint nobody gonna bring me down. Except for Sams mom. Approximately three weeks into my private mission, my mother receives a phone call. The woman on the other end of the line said that she found crude and distasteful images in her sons closet. And that Whitney Rice was written on the bottom righthand corner of each drawing. And BAM. Just like that. My bu s i n e s s va n i s h e d . I c r i e d dramatically on the sofa. I confessed my guilty company sins. My mother searched my treasure drawer. I had to return every item to their original owner. My name was tarnished in the school community. I was embarrassed to hold a pencil in the presence of others. My clout was no longer.

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However, just like all great empires, we fall. I picture my young self chatting with Rome and Exxon Mobil over a cold wheat beer, discussing our downfalls and how we can rebuild our wealth. I shouldnt have signed those drawings, Id say. Next time I will have a pen name. Like J.K. Rowling. I didnt think the hippies would be a problem, Exxon Mobil would moan. And Rome would be silent and drinking red wine from a chalice, because Rome only speaks Latin. And I cheated my way through high school Latin. The Rice family no longer owns that cartoon book. At least, not to my knowledge. But it doesnt matter; I had a full semester of studying hips, legs, necks, and breasts. One day, my name to fame will be that I can draw a female body with my eyes shut. No eraser needed.

Dream Team

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