your inspiration for it.”
Eve had hoped Klieg would pick up the ball and run with it, but he remained silent. She grimaced. What would her father do if this were a deposition? He certainly wouldn’t quit. He would apply kind but firm pressure till he got what he wanted, using just the right detail to tease out someone’s story. She cleared her throat. “More specifically, my mother used to get British
Vogue
and I read in there once that this dress was based on a pyramid built by Imhotep for King Zoser? But, well, that doesn’t seem tobe right. Imhotep built pyramids with steps, and yours is smooth-sided. I was thinking yours reminded me more of Cheops’s in Giza.” She hoped she was remembering correctly her notes from junior year’s Art of the Ancient World.
“This is a fair point,” he said, his words clipped and precise. “It was Cheops’s pyramid I sought to evoke. I wanted the modern woman to know that ancient splendor.”
“I see,” she said, struggling to take down the last of his response with fingers that had grown clumsy in the weeks since she’d stopped working. “And what about this one with the holes—the one everybody calls ‘The Swiss Cheese Dress’?”
“I detest that appellation,” he said.
“I understand. Actually, sir—actually, it doesn’t look like Swiss cheese to me.”
“Well, what then?”
“Maybe I’m making presumptions,” said Eve. “But to me it seems like you were thinking of Henry Moore.”
“I—well. Yes.” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “I met Henry in London. I thought his pieces were so sensual that they would feel divine on the body. So I created this dress. What?” There was some noise on Klieg’s end. “Oh for heaven’s sake. That’s very expensive! Excuse me, Miss Weldon, the photographer from
ArtForum
nearly knocked over a Lalique.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“Out.
Out
.” There was some heated discussion and a sound like a door being closed quite firmly before Klieg spoke to Eve again. “I tell you, most of these philistines don’t know me from Max Ernst.”
The interview began to flow. Though Klieg remained reserved, he showed flashes of humor and humility. He told her his most “alive” period had been as a young man in Paris in the sixties, when he ran with a diverse crowd of artists, poets, and philosophers, drinking pastis and eating ham sandwiches at the Deux Magots.
“Sounds like a dream life,” said Eve.
“It was, eventually. But when I first arrived there, I was, what do you call it? A ‘fish out of water.’ I did not have many friends and had to work as a dustman before creating my first collection. Things were difficult for a long time before I found my way.”
Nearly two hours after they’d begun speaking, Eve came to the end of her questions.
“Goodness,” Klieg said. “The booker said we would speak for no more than forty-five minutes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is all right. This was less painful than usual.”
“It was an honor for me,” said Eve, feeling suddenly compelled to reveal something about herself. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you this, but you’re my first interview. Ever. I’m a fish out of water, too.”
“This I would not have guessed,” conceded the designer.
After they hung up, Eve rubbed her ear and scrolled through her notes on the computer. Every one of her questions had produced an interesting answer, but she’d have to cull a handful of the best to fit the four minutes allotted. Luckily, her paralegal experience again came in handy. She’d long since mastered the art of boiling down complicated documents and producing pithy summaries. And she was excellent at explaining the ins and outs of difficult cases to laypeople, so much so that her father had put her in charge of the entire firm’s client correspondence. In less than an hour, she’d shaped what she hoped was a comprehensive yet streamlined interview.
Then she turned to the
Eve had hoped Klieg would pick up the ball and run with it, but he remained silent. She grimaced. What would her father do if this were a deposition? He certainly wouldn’t quit. He would apply kind but firm pressure till he got what he wanted, using just the right detail to tease out someone’s story. She cleared her throat. “More specifically, my mother used to get British
Vogue
and I read in there once that this dress was based on a pyramid built by Imhotep for King Zoser? But, well, that doesn’t seem tobe right. Imhotep built pyramids with steps, and yours is smooth-sided. I was thinking yours reminded me more of Cheops’s in Giza.” She hoped she was remembering correctly her notes from junior year’s Art of the Ancient World.
“This is a fair point,” he said, his words clipped and precise. “It was Cheops’s pyramid I sought to evoke. I wanted the modern woman to know that ancient splendor.”
“I see,” she said, struggling to take down the last of his response with fingers that had grown clumsy in the weeks since she’d stopped working. “And what about this one with the holes—the one everybody calls ‘The Swiss Cheese Dress’?”
“I detest that appellation,” he said.
“I understand. Actually, sir—actually, it doesn’t look like Swiss cheese to me.”
“Well, what then?”
“Maybe I’m making presumptions,” said Eve. “But to me it seems like you were thinking of Henry Moore.”
“I—well. Yes.” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “I met Henry in London. I thought his pieces were so sensual that they would feel divine on the body. So I created this dress. What?” There was some noise on Klieg’s end. “Oh for heaven’s sake. That’s very expensive! Excuse me, Miss Weldon, the photographer from
ArtForum
nearly knocked over a Lalique.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“Out.
Out
.” There was some heated discussion and a sound like a door being closed quite firmly before Klieg spoke to Eve again. “I tell you, most of these philistines don’t know me from Max Ernst.”
The interview began to flow. Though Klieg remained reserved, he showed flashes of humor and humility. He told her his most “alive” period had been as a young man in Paris in the sixties, when he ran with a diverse crowd of artists, poets, and philosophers, drinking pastis and eating ham sandwiches at the Deux Magots.
“Sounds like a dream life,” said Eve.
“It was, eventually. But when I first arrived there, I was, what do you call it? A ‘fish out of water.’ I did not have many friends and had to work as a dustman before creating my first collection. Things were difficult for a long time before I found my way.”
Nearly two hours after they’d begun speaking, Eve came to the end of her questions.
“Goodness,” Klieg said. “The booker said we would speak for no more than forty-five minutes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is all right. This was less painful than usual.”
“It was an honor for me,” said Eve, feeling suddenly compelled to reveal something about herself. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you this, but you’re my first interview. Ever. I’m a fish out of water, too.”
“This I would not have guessed,” conceded the designer.
After they hung up, Eve rubbed her ear and scrolled through her notes on the computer. Every one of her questions had produced an interesting answer, but she’d have to cull a handful of the best to fit the four minutes allotted. Luckily, her paralegal experience again came in handy. She’d long since mastered the art of boiling down complicated documents and producing pithy summaries. And she was excellent at explaining the ins and outs of difficult cases to laypeople, so much so that her father had put her in charge of the entire firm’s client correspondence. In less than an hour, she’d shaped what she hoped was a comprehensive yet streamlined interview.
Then she turned to the
Similar Books
