The Sweet Collaboration: How a Sugar Relationship Inspires Artistic Expression

My father was a painter. Which probably explains why I hated the art world for so much of my life. To this day, the smell of an art supply store brings me back to being a little kid, sitting outside the door of his art studio in our home, balancing a toy car on my knee and waiting for the moment that he would come out for a snack. Of course, when he was in the middle of a painting or gearing up for an exhibition, he would open the door and step right over me as if I were a misplaced piece of furniture. There was no time for distractions.

Wow, okay. That started dark. And, I won’t shy away from the fact that it was dark. My dad wasn’t only an artist; he was a tortured artist. Usually drunk, always mad, and never successful enough to support the family.

So, you can understand why I grew up with my eyes set on whatever job would get me out of there. I was always pretty good with math and problem-solving, so I settled on accounting. I built myself a really successful career and made good investments. I married someone with money (whom I loved adequately), and we had kids who would also go on to lead successful business careers.

But I was never happy. Got divorced. Moved into a beautiful home with zero style because it had been my ex-wife who was in charge of interior decorating. My dad passed. I kept his ashes in the guest room.

As my mom got older and lost her politeness filter, she would tell me frequently, “Dave, you’ll never be happy until you forgive your father. And you’ll also never be happy until you connect with the part of yourself that he passed down to you.” She was referring to the fact that when I was a kid, I used to want to be an artist just like my father. Every kid has that phase. And then, one day, when I was around 5 or 6, I wandered into the art studio, that forbidden place, and I drew a scribble on a piece he was working on. You can guess that things went nuclear, and I decided that I would never be an artist.

Then I met Micky.

I hired her as an interior designer because I kept having failed relationships with women who were scared off by my sterile home. It was giving off the wrong vibes, as my daughter would say.

Anyway, Micky was recommended to me by a friend I play tennis with, who was, incidentally, always trying to set me up with someone so that we could play doubles.

When Micky showed up, I didn’t know what to expect. She walked around, taking measurements and pictures. I was instantly drawn in by her enthusiasm and imagination. Weird angles and tricky dimensions made her giddy. She liked a challenge. She literally danced when she saw my kitchen, which had all original cabinetry from the 50s.

I couldn’t help it. I was developing feelings for her, following her from room to room, watching her light up the place with just her presence.

At one point, she stood in front of the main wall in my living room, a huge blank white space that spanned two stories with the upstairs loft to the right side and a wall of windows looking over the lake on the left.

“This wall needs a mural,” she said.

Of course, a huge, prominent painting was the last thing I wanted. But I said, “Absolutely. Whatever you need.”

For the next few months, I had artists of all mediums leaving their mark on my home: furniture makers, tile-layers, vintage art dealers, artisan rug weavers. I was amazed at how Micky was able to capture my style, even though I had no style that I could articulate. She simply knew what I would like.

And there she was, painting the mural, when she wasn’t busy coordinating deliveries and planning out gallery walls. I brought her coffee and tea, and water. Sometimes I sat with the flimsy premise of reading a book on the couch near her. But inevitably, we’d get to chatting.

I realize that it is so dramatic to describe it this way, but talking to her, elevated as she was on her scaffolding, I kind of felt like I was talking to an angel. Gosh, that sounds insane. It’s just, she was such a good listener, and before I knew it, I was telling her all about my past and my dad and how my mom thought that I could have become an artist, that I was sensitive like an artist.

She, on her part, told me that she was admittedly something of a tortured artist like my dad. But only in the sense that she wasn’t able to support herself on her art alone. Instead, she did this interior decorating gig, and she also had a couple of sugar daddies on the side. In general, she was happy—in fact, the exact term she used was “wildly happy.” And I was happy for her.

The part about the sugar daddies, though, cut me deep. As I said, I had this unreasonable fantasy of her as an angel, and from that moment, I had to come to the realization that she was human. More than that, because I really didn’t judge her for sugaring, I think what cut deep was knowing that if I proposed to become her sugar daddy, I’d have to share her. Remember, I was dealing with some deep-seated abandonment issues. I had this core need to be chosen, to be important. It made me possessive, which isn’t something I’m proud of.

Anyway, I thought that I hid my disappointment pretty well. At least until after Micky packed up and left for the day. And then, when I was alone, I went into the guest room and I put my dad’s ashes on top of the new hutch that Micky had ordered. It felt silly, but I started talking to my dad. It started off pretty mellow, but once I got on a roll, I really started yelling at him. I was crying, which made me even angrier because my mom would always say that I got that habit from my dad (“Oh, you artists,” she would say. “So dramatic.”)

But it was also cathartic. Of course it was. It’s what every book on grief says you have to do to move on.

And right in the middle of my rant about how my dad had probably prevented this generation's great American artist by slapping the paintbrush out of my hand at 6 years old, I heard a soft knock on the door.

I thought about not answering it.

“I know you’re there,” Micky called. Damn.

She had heard everything. She said that as she was driving home, something just wasn’t sitting right with her, and she had turned around. She was going to apologize for being so unprofessional; she felt mortified about talking about her sugar daddies.

Now, there’s nothing more vulnerable than a middle-aged accountant being interrupted while yelling at his father’s ashes in his post-divorce home, so I knew that I should just come all the way clean. There was no face left to save. I told her I had feelings for her and wanted to be in a relationship with her, even if it was a sugar relationship. I told her about my abandonment and jealousy issues.

She was quiet as I said all of this and had a hand on my arm. Then she said that she didn’t feel good ethically about dating someone while she was hired as their interior decorator. But, she added, that as soon as the house was finished, she would let me take her on a date.

“Toddler steps,” she said.

As she was leaving, she gave my shoulder a squeeze and said, “By the way, the work will go faster if you help me finish the mural.”

And that’s how, for the first time in 50 years, I was finally convinced to pick up a paintbrush again.

Now, I’m not going to say that I became my generation’s great American artist. But I enjoyed working alongside Micky; she made sure that I was only responsible for very simple lines and color-blocking.

And I’m also not going to say that I magically forgave my father after that. That’ll be a much longer process.

But, Micky did allow me to admit that I do have something of an artist’s side, one that is more sensitive and observant than I ever allowed myself to express. It’s been five years, and I think the proudest accomplishment I’ve had in all that time is helping Micky quit interior designing to dedicate herself to her art full-time. That feels like reconciliation enough.