Once, I was a prisoner
Lost inside myself
With the world surrounding me
—“I Am Free”
Once upon a time, I lived in a very big house named Storybook Manor1. And in it were bigdiamonds and big closets full of the most spectacular gowns and bejeweled slippers2. Butalso within its walls was an inescapable emptiness, bigger than everything else inside, thatalmost swallowed me whole. This was no place for Cinderella.
If there were a fairy tale that could come close to describing my life, it would be “TheThree Little Pigs.” My childhood was a series of fragile, unstable3 houses, one after theother, where inevitably4 the Big Bad Wolf, my troubled brother, would huff and puff5 andblow it all down. I never felt safe. I never was safe. His rage was unpredictable; I neverknew when it would come, or who or what it would devour6. What I did know was that Iwas truly on my own, out there in the wild woods of the world. I knew that if I was evergoing to find a safe place, I would have to make it myself.
I remember the very first time I ever felt I was in something like a safe place. I wasliving on my own in New York City, in a one-room studio apartment on the tenth floorwith a spectacular view. The building was called Chelsea Court. I loved the name of thatbuilding: it had such a regal ring to it. I could see the Empire State Building from myapartment window. My little apartment—the first that was all mine.
I had just gotten my very first artist advance. It was five thousand dollars, which is anumber I’ll never forget. Five thousand dollars was more money than I’d ever seen atonce, let alone had to call my own and spend as I wished. As soon as I got that advance, Igot my own apartment. I could finally pay my own rent! No more living in nooks andcrannies, no more sleeping on floors or sharing cramped7 bathrooms with four or five othergirls.
The first thing I did was buy my own new little couch with four stable legs. SometimesI would just stroke the fabric8 on the arm of my new little couch as if it were a baby. It wasthat major for me. I upgraded from a mattress9 on the floor to my own bed. I had a littlekitchen. I had the two cats, Thompkins and Ninja. I had a little peace. I was having amoment, and I felt like I could toss my raspberry beret in the air and do a twirl in the streetwith my laundry bag—because I had survived. I survived the danger. I survived thehunger. I survived the uncertainty10 and instability, and now here I was, every day comingcloser and closer to my destiny. I was independent in New York City, in my ownapartment filled with my own furniture, working on my own album, filled with all of myown songs. I could have my own friends over. It was my first taste of autonomy, and itwas divine. But it would not last long.
In the beginning, Tommy protected me. Even though I was breathing a bit easier, withsome early breaks and a clear path to success, the traumas12 and insecurities of mychildhood—and pressure from my brother and other people trying to take advantage of me—were still right at my back, haunting my every move. I never stopped looking over myshoulder. Tommy shielded me from all the people who thought I owed them something orwho wanted to use me. That meant Tommy also protected me from my own family.
I was nineteen years old and had already lived a lifetime of chaos13, surviving only bymy own scrappy determination. Then this powerful man suddenly came along, parting theseas to make room for my dream. He truly believed in me.
With all due respect, Tommy Mottola was just the bitter pill I needed to swallow at apivotal period in my life. And there is a lot of respect due to him. He was a visionarymusic executive who fearlessly and ferociously14 dragged his visions into reality. Hebelieved in me, ruthlessly.
“You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met,” he would say to me. “You can be asbig as Michael Jackson.”
I heard music in the way he said that name: Michael. Jackson. Here was a man whohad played a large role in advancing the careers of some of the biggest names in theindustry, and he saw me sharing the same rare air as the most influential15 artist andentertainer in modern history. Respect.
And it wasn’t a sales pitch or a cheap come-on. It was real. We didn’t play when itcame to the work. My career as an artist was the most important thing to me—it was theonly thing. It validated16 my very existence, and Tommy understood the power of mycommitment. I was serious and ambitious. He knew my vocals17 were unique and strong,but he was most impressed with how I created songs: the structure of my melodies, themusic. I became his new star just as he was beginning a huge position at a new label, so hehad the influence to clear the runway for my ascension into the sky. He was willing tomove heaven and earth to make me successful. I recognized and respected that power.
Despite having been around some of the biggest names in the music industry, Tommy toldme I was the most talented person he had ever met. He was for real, and I really believedhim.
Soon after we met, Tommy started making romantic overtures18. At first, they were a bitawkward and adolescent, like sending me expensive Gund teddy bears. Yet his persistentgestures and constant attention also gave me a sense of safety. Tommy had a brazenconfidence I had never seen up close. He impressed me, and I saw him as a trulyempowered person, which I found very attractive. Underneath19 the shine, however, I hadsome inkling that there was a darker energy that came with him—a price to pay for hisprotection. But at nineteen, I was willing to pay it. For me, Tommy was a potentcombination of father figure, Svengali, business partner, confidant, and companion. Therewas never really a strong sexual or physical attraction there, but at the time, I neededsafety and stability — a sense of home — more than I needed a boyfriend. Tommyunderstood that, and he provided. I gave him my work and my trust. I gave him myconviction and the combination to my moral code.
The relationship was intense and all-encompassing—after all, we already workedtogether, which was how we spent most of our time. When we weren’t working, we weredining at high-end steakhouses or infamous20 Italian restaurants or attending industry eventstogether. I was spending less and less time at my Chelsea apartment and began spendingmost nights with him.
Soon, I felt pressure from Tommy to give up my place, and against my better instincts,I gave in. Little did I know, that relinquishment21 would mark the beginning of a slow andsteady march into captivity22. Little did I know, giving in to Tommy’s demands wouldgradually swallow my privacy and begin to erase23 my identity.
On weekends, we drove up to Tommy’s farmhouse24 in Hillsdale, New York, which Ieventually “affectionately” came to call “Hillsjail.” On the night I got my first publishingadvance, for a million dollars (a million dollars buys a lot of H&H bagels!) Tommy droveus up the Taconic Parkway and pulled up before a gorgeous piece of land. He stopped thecar and told me to get out. I looked at the sprawling25 expanse, shivering in the autumnbreeze—it really was stunning26.
“Let’s build a house here!” Tommy proclaimed. I knew what this translated to: this iswhere we are building our house. I had no idea the scope of what I was getting myselfinto.
Now, this was no Hillsjail. It was impressive and majestic27: fifty acres of fertile greenland adjacent to a nature preserve in Bedford, New York. It was sandwiched betweenproperties belonging to Ralph Lauren and a very prominent billionaire, an area guaranteedto be secure. But, as I would soon discover, the concept of security was about to turn onme.
I hadn’t ever wanted to leave the city, but that’s what we were doing. Outside of therecording studio, I wondered, when would I ever be back in my beloved Manhattan?
Certainly, building a new house would be a monumental undertaking29, but it did have astrong appeal to me, creatively and emotionally.
After a childhood of being uprooted30 and plopped into all kinds of precarious31 livingarrangements, I finally had the chance to build my own, from the foundation. I got excited.
I got into it.
I insisted on being fully32 involved in all aspects of the design, and I also insisted onpaying half of all the costs. I wanted it to be my house. I had fresh memories of witnessingmy mother go through the humiliation33 of a boyfriend shouting, “Get out of my house!” Itold myself that no man would ever do that to me. Ever.
Much of what I learned from my mother and older sister was what I wasn’t going to dowhen I grew up. I had very little guidance in what to do as a woman, though I’d beenforced into adult situations when I was still quite young. Tommy was twenty-one yearsolder than me; he could have been my father. He was also the head of my label. There wasno wise woman around me to point out that the power dynamic in our relationship wasnowhere near fifty-fifty, so maybe I should think twice about going in fifty-fifty with himon an expensive piece of property. To top it all off, we were not yet married.
But I was young, and I was all the way in with Tommy. I was proud of making myown money (though I had no real concept of money). I’d recently received an enormousroyalty check from sales of my debut34 album, so I thought I was set for life. Building adream house with Tommy did not seem like a risk. I was selling millions of records bythen. But I didn’t know that our dream mansion35 would come with an unfathomable thirty-million-dollar price tag. And as it turned out, my time in that house with Tommy wouldend up costing me so much more than money.
I did love the process of building that grand manor in Bedford. It opened up a newarea of passion in me. I was finally able to give life to my childhood obsession36 with oldHollywood movies. Ironically, I was especially influenced by How to Marry a Millionaire,starring Betty Grable, Lauren Bacall, and Marilyn Monroe (of course). The images ofpalatial arched windows and glamorous37, glossy38 floors were seared into my little- girlimagination. I made sure every room in our house was pristine39 and spacious40, filled with airand sparkling with light. We worked closely with the designers and architects; we wentover every detail together. I taught myself a lot about the styles of moldings and tiles. Ibecame an expert in sconces—sconces, dahling! I also learned a lot about materials andwould often visit various rock quarries41. Though by no stretch do I like a rustic42 look, I dohave a preference for tumbled marble on my kitchen floors. I was very particular andconfident about what I liked.
Na?ve as I was at the time, I decided43 I was going to build a great house. I had comefrom far too little to complain, “Oh, poor me; I have to build a mansion!” I was into it.
After all, I sincerely thought I would be with Tommy forever and that the home we wouldmake together would be just as timeless, everlasting44, and spectacular as the music we werecreating—behind which, of course, I was also the creative force.
And spectacular it was. We even had a ballroom45. I was in my early twenties, with myown ballroom! I built a grand closet inspired by Coco Chanel’s closet in her 31 rueCambon flat in Paris, full of opulent mirrors and a spiral staircase that led to its own shoesection. I had acquired so many shoes through all my photo and video shoots that I had tobuild entire walls of shelving for them. It was staggering to think that just a few shortyears before, I had been walking in my mother’s too-small, beat-up shoes, snow pouringin through cracks in the soles. I kept those dismal46 ankle boots for a while, with theintention to bronze them like baby booties, so I would never forget where I came from (asif that were even an option). In such a short time, I had gone from raggedy hand-me-downs to my own manor, complete with walls custom- built for an entire footwearcollection. My faith and my fans blessed me with unimaginable riches. I was immenselygrateful. But, despite that huge accomplishment47, I had yet to learn that in reality, I’d justprovided the design inspiration, and put up half the money, to build my own prison.
The magnificent compound I built in Bedford was just over ten miles from the village ofOssining, another quaint48, wooded Westchester town, home to the most famous maximum-security prison in New York State, and possibly in the country: Sing Sing. A complex ofgrim stone and brick on 130 acres, landscaped with grand elm trees, Sing Sing sitsformidably on the eastern bank of the Hudson River. The roller coaster–like arches of theTappan Zee Bridge can be seen from the watchtower. In autumn, the views arebreathtaking; the trees burn fiery49 orange, gold, and red.
Sing Sing confines about two thousand human beings. The popular terms for beinglocked up—being “upstate” or “up the River” or in “the Big House”—were coined at SingSing.
No matter how prime the real estate, how grandiose50 the structure, if it’s designed tomonitor movement and contain the human spirit, it will serve only to diminish anddemoralize those held inside. None of the irony51 of my proximity52 to the infamous prison,nor that of its peculiar53 name, was lost on me: jokingly, I referred to the Bedford estate asSing Sing. It was fully staffed with armed guards, security cameras were installed in mostrooms, and Tommy was in control.
While I was building Sing Sing, I thought it would be a healthy idea to have my motherand my nephews, Mike and Shawn, live closer to me. I loved the process of designing andcreating a gorgeous home. While I had little freedom at Sing Sing, Tommy did support mebuying a house nearby for my mother. It became a big thing for us to talk about, and heeventually understood how important it was to me to try and create something stable formy family. I later found out he secretly had security follow me around whenever I went tolook at houses or run errands, but I was grateful for the small window of ignorance.
That child in me, deep down, still dreamed of a family that wasn’t fractured. I hadbegun to make my career dreams come true, and I thought maybe I could make us afamily home—a home base, where everyone was always welcome—and I’d make mymother the head of it. I got excited about the idea of buying a home my mother wouldlove, and I could finally afford to do it in style. Finding the perfect house for her was mynew project. Just like I wanted every bit of my house to reflect me, I was determined54 toput that attention to detail into the house for my mother. I wanted her to love where shewas going to live.
We recruited friends of Tommy’s in real estate to help me find a place nearby. Theyshowed me several lovely homes, but I was holding out for the right thing, for her. Mytaste leaned more Old Hollywood, and hers was more “Old Woodstock.”
After an extensive search within a twenty-minute radius55 of our estate, we finally rolledup on a deeply wooded property with a house set far back from the road. It wasn’tmeticulously manicured, which was typical of that section of upper Westchester; rather,the landscaping was intentionally56 organic. The six green acres were filled with splendidold oak trees. And the house blended into the nature around it beautifully. The interior wasboth spacious and cozy57, with warm wood tones and soothing58 light streaming throughgracious windows. Once inside, you couldn’t hear or see the outside world.
I had found the only hippie-opera-singer-dream-cabin-in-the-woods in Westchester! Itwas perfection, and I knew exactly what to do to bring it to life. I took it on like I was aninterior designer on one of those makeover shows. I picked out and paid for every piece ofbrand-new furniture, all the knickknacks and accouterments. I chose every detail, fromlight fixtures59 to paint colors, all in “Pat’s palette.” I hung wooden flower boxes outside andfilled them with romantic wildflowers. I got photo prints made of her Irish familymembers and Irish crests60, had them mounted and framed, and hung them ascending61 thewall along the staircase. And I managed to keep it secret from her.
The biggest challenge was getting her piano in without her knowing. I knew it wasimportant that it was her old blond-wood Yamaha upright that would be in the livingroom, not a shiny new model. Her piano held memories in its keys; it was a symbolbecause it was a significant, stable object she provided during my turbulent childhood. Imade up some story that I was going to get it tuned62 or something before it went intostorage; I even had her sign fake moving documents so it could be taken away withoutsuspicion. Her old piano would be the pièce de résistance in her cabin in the Westchesterwoods.
One of the details that sold me on the property was a wooden sign that had the words“Cabin in the Woods” carved into it. The sellers didn’t want to part with it, but I foughttooth and nail because I just knew my mother would love it. I got so much joy frommaking plans, keeping the secret, and working to make everything just so. Growing up, Ihad always wanted a family house where I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring my friends.
Creating a place where my mother could live comfortably and the whole family couldgather was so special—healing, even. It was like preparing a spectacular Christmas for mymother and family.
I was giddy with excitement when it was time to present the house I had created to mymother. I was proud of the work that I had done. To me, this house was also testimony63 tomy ability to hold on to childhood desires, proof that the trauma11 and danger I had facedhadn’t destroyed my hope. My mother thought she was coming up to Sing Sing for one ofour semiregular dinners. When I picked her up, I told her I had to swing by Tommy’sfriend Carole’s house, which was nearby. When the wrought-iron gates I had installedswung open like welcoming arms from the stone pillars and we entered the property, I feltmy mother go still, then heard her take a deep breath. Trees will do that: make you stopand breathe. She moved out of the car as if the fresh air was making her slow down.
She looked up at the house in all its beauty. I watched her take in the grace of theflower boxes. And as Carole opened the front door, the aroma64 of rich coffee and hotcinnamon buns drifted past us. (I had orchestrated it to be brewing65 and baking when wearrived, as I wanted those details to set the mood.) My mother stood in the doorway66 andsoftly said, “Oh, Carole, your house is beautiful.” Playing right along, Carole offered toshow her around, and I followed behind. When we got to the staircase my mother pausedat the photos, but I could tell it didn’t quite register. So I broke her trance. “Mom, look atwho’s in the pictures.” She was struck with utter confusion as she noticed her family onCarole’s wall. Faintly, she replied, “I?… don’t understand.”
“This is all for you. This is where you live now,” I said. She was speechless. And Iwas the proudest I’d ever been.
Mike, who I completely treasure, was still quite little then. He went tearing through thehouse and out to the backyard, running along the plush grass, squealing67 with delight. Hewas full of such pure joy (and is still such a source of joy to me). He was free. A little boyplaying in the afternoon breeze with no filth68, just free. We had come full circle fromswinging over trash heaps or being thrown out like garbage—or so I thought.
Along with the ballroom and couture shoe closets of Sing Sing, I built a fantastic state-of-the-art recording28 studio. Adjacent to the studio was a huge Roman-style swimming pool ofwhite marble inside of a grand parlor69. In these two places I found solace70 and solitude71.
They were a temporary reprieve72 and a chance to feel weightless—in the recording studioand in the water. But the studio, the pool, and I were all still confined, enclosed within thebounds of Sing Sing’s fortress73.
Under ordinary circumstances, the chance to have my own studio—custom-made tomy exact specifications74 and at my disposal at any time—would have been liberating75. Inthe early days of my career, I was at the mercy of other people to get studio time, gratefulto be in grim little spaces, singing songs I didn’t like, bartering76, doing whatever it took toget my songs recorded. And now, I had my own fully equipped, gorgeous recordingstudio. I imagined I could have my own sessions when I wanted to and call in the artists Iwanted to work with, like Prince did. Sing Sing wasn’t Paisley Park, but it was fabulous,and it was mine. Well, half mine. There was a studio with sophisticated recordingequipment, but there was also very sophisticated security equipment outfitted77 throughoutthe house—listening devices, motion-detecting cameras—recording my every move.
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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traumas
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| n.心灵创伤( trauma的名词复数 )；损伤；痛苦经历；挫折 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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validated
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| v.证实( validate的过去式和过去分词 )；确证；使生效；使有法律效力 | |
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vocals
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| （乐曲中的）歌唱部份，声乐部份( vocal的名词复数 ) | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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relinquishment
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| n.放弃；撤回；停止 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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farmhouse
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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undertaking
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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humiliation
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debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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glossy
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pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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59
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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62
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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71
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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72
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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73
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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74
specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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76
bartering
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的现在分词 ) | |
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outfitted
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| v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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