Miles and Jo: Love Story in Blue

By Jo Gelbard

People just stop being interestingknow what I mean? They go so far and then they stop. Theres no more. Somehow I'm never with a woman more than seven years. Some dont go longer than a few minutes. When the music stops, Im done and need to move on.Miles Davis

It was 1968. Jo Gelbard was an eighteen-year-old art student in New York City when she gave up her aspirations to be a painter and married the man she thought was the love of her life. True to her traditional upbringing, she devoted herself to her husband and son and lived what looked like the perfect lifeeven as she began slowly disappearing as a person.

Then, on a January morning in 1984, a chance encounter with a fellow tenant in her Upper East Side high-rise took Jo completely by surprise. It was Miles Davis, arguably the greatest and most influential jazz musician in the world. Married to award-winning actress Cicely Tyson, he was a Platinum-selling trumpeter, bandleader, and film composer. For both Jo and Miles, the connection was immediate, unmistakable, and thrilling.

Over time, their casual friendship escalated into a disruptive yet liberating affair that would build Jos self-esteem, give her dormant artistic ambitions a shot of adrenaline, and catch her absolutely off guard. But Miles, charming, inviting, and sensual, had a dark sidecruel, reckless, jealous, and frighteningly intense. And at thirty-two years oldmarried for fourteen years with a seven-year-old sonJo found herself torn between this fiercely passionate man and her frustratingly indifferent husband, living a double life, and tormented by her inability to choose between the two.

Now, for the first time, Jo shares not only her own journey of self-discovery, but provides a rare, inside portrait of Miles Davis himself, and the private demons that fueled his genius. Ultimately, MILES AND JO: LOVE STORY IN BLUE is the story of two artists, striving for individuality, alone and together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477289563

Jo Gelbard

Jo Gelbard is a painter whose collaborative work with Miles Davis has been exhibited worldwide, including in the Whitney Museum Biennale, at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, and at Musee de la Musique, France. Alongside their collaborative installations, her solo work has been shown in Paris, Rotterdam, and London. She is a mother and grandmother, and lives in New York City.

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MILES AND JO

Love Story in Blue

SKU-000614421_TEXT.pdf

JO GELBARD

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by Jo Gelbard. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Cover photo: Lisa Sklar

Cover design: Rita Frangie

Editing: Lisa Sklar

Published by AuthorHouse 11/27/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8957-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8955-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8956-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921313

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

FOR MY GRANDSONS, ROMAN AND LUCA

I dreamt we were made of an invisible grid of colors

And when we met

A magnificent spectacle of rainbows appeared

For a brief moment in time

"If they asked me, I could write a book

About the way you walk and whisper and look.

I could write the preface on how we met

So the world would never forget.

And the simple secret of the plot

Is just to tell them that I love you a lot."

I Could Write a Book

Song by Richard Rogers

Lyrics by Lorenz Hart

CHAPTER 1

It was a cold January morning. The year was 1984. I was bending over to stretch by the elevator when the door suddenly opened. A man on crutches was glaring at me. It was Miles Davis. His presence was so intense and unexpected that I lost my balance. I’d heard that he and his wife, Cicely Tyson, lived in my building, but we had never met. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, I cautiously entered the elevator.

I wish I had your hair, he said in a low raspy voice, still not smiling and looking at me from the side. I laughed to myself. Just my luck: I was meeting the most famous jazz musician in the world—and here I was looking my worst, wearing no makeup and running clothes.

Don’t waste your wish, I said, turning to face him. Both of us were intently observing each other. What if God is listening right now and all you get is my hair—what a waste, I said with a nervous giggle. You could have wished for so much more.

He leaned closer and whispered, You better run fast, pretty lady. When I come back, I’m gonna catch you.

I immediately felt nervous, and was aware of a knot in my stomach. I had no reply.

We just looked at each other as the door opened. His gaze was intense. I noticed a rim of blue around the iris of his eyes before he put on dark sunglasses. His skin was flawlessly smooth, almost velvety, and very black. His nose was small and straight, with high cheekbones. I remember thinking how beautiful he was. It seemed as if his face were carved out of marble. I tried to assess how old he was, but it was impossible. Remembering that he was already famous when I was a still a kid, I calculated that he was considerably older than me. He had a thin muscular build, was around five feet eight inches tall, and was struggling with crutches. And he wore just a lightweight leather jacket that was too thin for cold January weather.

When we reached the lobby, I let Miles walk out first, knowing he’d need to maneuver on the crutches. Watching him drive away in a limo, I thought how lucky it was that my husband had left early for work that day and wasn’t with me when I met him—and questioned myself as to why. I was thirty-two years old, already married for fourteen years with a seven-year-old son, and all I could think about was this older black musician on crutches.

I stood frozen in front of our building, confused. My body had an immediate reaction of both excitement and tension, which was totally out of my realm of experience. Never before had any man produced such a response in me. I thought about what had just happened and laughed when I felt my heart race because I realized that I hadn’t yet started to run. His intensity made him intimidating, and though I sensed that meeting him signaled an important departure in my life, it took quite a while until I understood why.

My first impulse was to run away and disappear to some abstract corner where I could force myself to stop thinking about him and not confront my excitement. But then my mind drifted back to 1976 when my sister Beth met a young man who was juggling in the street in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just across the street from where I was standing. They fell in love, and one Saturday afternoon he pulled up in front of our Park Avenue building in an old beat-up van. She rushed into my room to say goodbye.

I’m running away to join the circus. I love you, and I’ll call when we get wherever we’re going. And with that, she dashed out of the door and into his van.

Although saddened by her departure, I admired her free spirit and wondered what running away meant. Could you somehow leave your problems behind, or like Peter Pan’s shadow, would they inevitably need to be sewn back on?

I didn’t feel the cold that day as I entered the park. I passed familiar spots where children acted out their dream-like fantasies in play, and I ran as fast as I could.

One week later at around ten in the morning, my intercom rang. Thinking it was the superintendent, I picked up the phone. Instead, it was a haunting, raspy voice I heard.

Linda, I hear you’re an artist, can I come down and see your work?

I was shocked. Miles explained that he’d been away but New York had been on his mind so he came back sooner than he’d planned. He asked if he could visit, so I invited him down. My husband was already at work; my son was at school. I was unsure whether our meeting would remain a secret or become an amusing topic of conversation over dinner with friends. I wondered where the name Linda came from, if it was me who brought him back to New York sooner than expected, and why he used the intercom instead of the telephone. He lived a few floors above me on the fourteenth floor. I didn’t really know what I expected to happen, so I forced myself to relax. Ten minutes later, he appeared at my door on crutches. I felt a momentary flash of fear, but then I rationalized that nothing could happen with a man on crutches.

My apartment was very modern and a bit cold, with a black marble floor and curved white walls—the style at that time. Having collected a substantial amount of art, my husband and I had created a minimalist art gallery feeling to our home with one little sculpture in bronze sitting on top of the bar. Upon entering my apartment, Miles took it all in.

I used to have a townhouse on the West Side. I made all the walls round like this. I hate corners. They stop you. Things keep moving when there are circles.

I know. Curves are like a woman’s body, soft and non-threatening. A corner is more masculine, more aggressive. There’s no easy exit, it’s like a trap.

He looked at all the artwork on the walls. Ella Fitzgerald was playing over the sound system. As he walked through the living room, I noticed him assessing everything in his line of sight. I felt self-conscious about my taste in jazz and about myself in general. He approached the window and glanced out across Central Park.

When I first got to New York, I walked around the park for weeks, looking for the horse stables. I grew up on a farm.

Where?

East St. Louis.

It was Claremont Academy.

What?

The stable you were looking for was called Claremont. It was on 89th Street, off Amsterdam Avenue, I think.

He looked at me quizzically.

My parents wanted us to learn to ride, me and my three sisters. So they gave us lessons, and every week we’d go the stable and set out on the bridal paths in those hard hats and jodhpurs. For years we did that. I don’t know if it still exists, it might have closed.

I grew up riding too. My father was a dentist, a very successful one.

Riding was part of a Park Avenue girl’s education.

And also part of a dentist’s son’s education.

Funny what people have in common, I said. Did you ever find the stable?

Yeah, and I rode a few horses around the park. He laughed. Shoulda seen the look on everyone’s face. In those days, seeing a skinny black guy riding a horse around Central Park wasn’t common.

I can’t imagine you ever being common, I said, surprised by my own boldness. You still ride—I mean before the crutches?

I keep some horses in California. Got a house there so I ride when I can. I love them—I got a stallion named Gemini and another one, Blue. He paused for a moment. You know, you and I look at the same view every day. We see the same things. Now he was staring at me instead of looking out of the window.

Then he noticed the bronze sculpture on top of the bar.

That looks like you.

I was stunned. No one’s ever noticed that before.

I want it.

I felt my face turn red, not sure if a sexual innuendo was intended. I was impressed that he’d commented on that particular piece, a cubist reclining female nude that I’d sculpted from clay and modeled from references of my own body.

I stared at him and said nothing. I knew how famous he was, but I knew nothing about his music or life. It seemed as if an extraterrestrial creature had gotten into my apartment. He was very quiet and spoke in a whisper, so you had to get close and be very still to hear him. Later, I’d realize his delivery was much like his music. With an intense hesitation between notes, he drew you in with a hypnotic spell. I felt frightened and drawn to him at the same time, and I was reminded of a scene from a vampire movie, when the woman was unsure whether she would be bitten or kissed, and didn’t care: the moment when passion and fear became interchangeable.

Stillness seemed a part of Miles, and how he moved and his gentle raspy voice lulled me into a trance. I imagined him X-raying my past, present, and future. I felt inadequate and undressed in front of him and imagined that if I failed the test, he’d either devour me or zap me into a puff of smoke. Some people look at you and assess what you have. They judge how they can get what they want from you. His eyes scanned you. I was unsure if it was my body that he was assessing or the sculpture because he still had dark glasses on. Unsure of what to say, I risked saying the wrong thing.

You’ve got good eyes.

What color are they? he asked.

Blue. Is this a test?

He took off his shades and smiled for the first time. He was chewing gum and played with it in his mouth while wetting his lips sensually with his tongue. I forced myself to stop focusing on his lips and shook off the sexuality building in my body, so we could talk once again without the flirtation or innuendo. He told me he was recovering from hip replacement surgery and had recently come out of retirement to record again. I decided to interject some personal information and nervously clarified that I’d been happily married since the age of eighteen, with a son who was seven years old. He kept calling me Linda, so I corrected him and said my name was Jo.

But the elevator man keeps calling you Linda.

I think that means pretty in Spanish, I said, embarrassed.

That makes sense. He’s right about that.

I blushed.

He mentioned that it was a doorman who told him I was an artist. Surprised and flattered that he had inquired about me, I said, I’ve been a painter all my life, but now I’m trying my hand at sculpture. That’s one of mine. I can’t believe you noticed it. No one has ever seen that it’s me. I’m never happy with my work, not even that piece. It seems as if I’m always five pieces away from being satisfied. I mean, I like it when I’m doing it, but as soon as it’s finished it feels… well… not quite good enough. I feel like I’ll be where I need to be somewhere in the near future, but I can never quite get there. You know?

Yeah… it’s a missing note… the perfect note. I’m always lookin for it. Can’t seem to find it, but always lookin.

He stared at me as if what he was looking for was located between my eyes. I couldn’t think of a reply so I didn’t answer him. He must have sensed my awkwardness.

Ok, pretty lady, can you teach me to paint? I have lots of time now before I can start working again.

I didn’t think he was serious but I was flattered, so I said of course, not knowing how or where it would happen. My heart was beating out of my chest. He intimidated me, perhaps because of his intensity, perhaps because he was famous. I felt it as if I had been invisible and suddenly like Alice in Wonderland I had taken a magic pill that made me appear. I didn’t know much about his music. I was a jazz listener but not exclusively a fan of his. He commented on the music playing, and told me that I shouldn’t be listening to such outdated music. Then he mentioned that he needed to return to Malibu because the warm weather was better for his recuperation and that he liked to use the Olympic-sized pools in Teledyne University. He left soon after without saying much more.

All the apartments in our building had a terrace facing Central Park. After meeting him, I would stand outside and look down to the entrance, hoping to see his car pulling into the driveway. My mind got crowded with thoughts of Miles. The minutes added up until I was so preoccupied with him that I wondered what had filled my mind before we met. It wasn’t until my hands would grow numb in the freezing air that I would give up searching for him on the terrace and came back inside, unsure of what I was looking for.

Just when I thought he’d lost interest in me, he started calling on the building intercom. It was the spring of 1984. His decision to call between apartments still surprised me, but I didn’t say anything about it. Our conversations were minimal, as if he were just checking in, but then one afternoon he invited me to come up and visit him. I was very curious and, having seen too many movies, I imagined I’d get a view of a glamorous Hollywood environment. He