Tooth vs. Beauty

Eight months after I moved to New York, there were still errands to be done: I needed to send change of address notices, I needed to reprogram my phone, and I needed to find a dentist.

On the latter, at least, it’s not like I hadn’t tried. I picked out the guy I wanted but getting an appointment was like reservations at Nobu. Whenever I called the line was busy, and when I finally got through he was booked.

I can wait, I told the receptionist. Next week would be great, but when chickens ruled the world was okay too.

She quizzed me for references, clearly unhappy about dealing with a commoner. I knew that admitting I read in the Enquirer that he cleaned Matthew Broderick’s teeth wasn’t the best way to win her over, but when I paused to think she leapt into the lurch. “I sorry,” she yipped in a fake Spanish accent. “No esta uno dentisto aqui.” Click.

And so one weekend with dirty teeth I headed to Tribeca for their annual artists’ open house. These were the studios where folks like Warhol and Basquiat had worked, and now art lovers treated the hallowed halls like church. I zigzagged in and out of studios as I realized this place was like a church: Our Lady of the Hopelessly Untalented.

There were paintings of nude women who looked like they were smuggling potatoes, and abstract paintings that looked like my stomach contents after a Swedish buffet. Instead of the usual artist chitchat about figure and line and movement, everybody was talking medicine. Fixing noses, bypassing arteries, patching hernias. By the time I reached the second floor I’d started asking myself:

Is every “artist” in Tribeca really just a doctor with a hobby?

On the fourth floor I ran into another visitor wearing the same horrified expression as me. “What do you think of this stuff?” I whispered as the “artist” greeted her guests.

He grimaced like Ian McKellan discovering Louie Anderson was his blind date. “Wonderful studio,” he said. “Isn’t it a great space?”

I grinned. One thing I loved about New Yorkers was how deft they were with criticism. They didn’t just blurt out negative opinions, since word could get around. Instead they dodged the truth like prizefighters. A restaurant that served roadkill had flattering light. A store the size of a postage stamp had impeccable flow. And a gallery with horrible art -- well, it was certainly a great space.

“It’s incredible,” I agreed. “There’s certainly no shortage of . . . air.”

I poked my head into a particularly horrifying studio, where the clinking of crystal coaxed me in. I was chugging merlot when I spotted Dr. Michael Pennington, Dentist to the Stars, talking orthodontia with an admirer. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have recognized him but I subscribe to New York magazine and even caught the shirtless pix.

I ambled up to him the second he was free. “Did you paint these?” I asked, simulating enthusiasm. “They are just amazing.”

When he opened his mouth his teeth lit up like milk bottles in the fridge. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet an art lover.”

“I’ve been trying to get in to see you. One of my fillings is loose, and it’s been a year since -- “

He waved a hairy hand like Queen Elizabeth batting away gnats. “You’ll have to call my office. But I’m afraid there’s a waiting list.”

I was trying to decide whether to cry or beg when he cocked his head toward a nearby canvas. Significant glances ping-ponged between us, and eventually it clicked. “Some of your work has moved me profoundly,” I declared as my throat threatened to seize up. “In fact, I might have to buy one. Are you sure you can’t squeeze me in?”

He smiled and his crow’s feet crinkled. “That might make a difference. I couldn’t say no to a fan.”

I scanned the paintings again, pretending to bask in their beauty but actually looking for the cheapest. $1800 for a still life of either an apple or Ed Asner. Still, it was a small price to pay to bump gums with Christy Turlington. “I’ll take this one,” I said. “I can’t resist all the color and movement.” Though if that were true I’d be the world’s biggest Charo fan.

I wrote out a check and he gave me his business card. “That’s my private line,” he said. “Tell Darcy I said to squeeze you in.”

I thanked him profusely and grabbed the picture, tromping downstairs with mixed emotions. I was going to see New York’s Hottest Dentist. But I wasn’t supporting the arts: I was inflating the ego and the bank account of a billionaire hack.

On the ground floor I bumped into a woman wearing the same sheepish expression and carrying another Pennington under her arm. She peered at mine. “That painting is really something,” she declared. “You don’t often see all those colors together.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Yours is quite an achievement in . . . flatness.”

She sighed. “They stink, don’t they?”

“The stinkiest. Mine makes me feel sick to my stomach.”

She pushed open the heavy metal door and sunlight spilled in. “In that case,” she said, “better head back to the fifth floor. You’ll want to buy a Kaufman.”