one hand on my shoulder, the other gesturing toward the tableau. I’m so relieved to have her explaining the piece that I forget for a moment to wonder what she’s doing here.
“But what does the woman artist produce without artistic freedom?”
Phoebe pauses while we all consider this question and Gretchen’s work. I notice that the little shirts worn by the baby dolls are not just knitted in stocking stitch, but in alternating cables of nettles and barbed wire. If I’m not mistaken, Gretchen has even managed to work in a blackberry stitch within the cables. What attention to detail! Even if she’s gotten me fired, I’ll have to give Gretchen an A+.
“Bad clothes?” I hear Mark Silverstein mutter his answer to Phoebe’s question somewhere behind me. I try, out of the corner of my eye, to see Mark’s piece on “The Emperor’s New Clothes” but his unprepossessing assemblage of naked mannequins has been crowded into a corner like uninvited guests. No wonder he’s pissed off at Gretchen.
Phoebe ignores Mark’s comment and answers her own question. “She creates a prison for her offspring, crafting a garb of barbed wire for her daughters out of the old myths and collusion of silence.”
I’m tempted to correct Phoebe’s version of the fairy tale. The baby dolls in their barbed wire and nettle shirts aren’t Elisa’s daughters, they’re her brothers. But then I notice that several of the older trustees and most of the full-time professors are nodding eagerly. Only one man—a much older man in a beautiful charcoal gray suit—is not nodding along with the others. Instead he is staring at me as if challenging me to unmask Phoebe’s mistake. But there’s no way I’m going to turn back the tide of acceptance and approval that sweeps over the crowd. I can feel the tension in the room dissipating. Conversation resumes, the crowd breaks into groups of twos and threes, again happily swirling the wine in their tumblers and picking feathers out of their hair like friendly chimps picking out each other’s nits. I notice Aidan Barry chumming up to Natalie Baehr and smile and then think
Oh my God, should I tell Natalie he’s an ex-con?
and then, once again, I catch the old man in the gray suit staring at me.
I turn away from him and find Phoebe at my elbow.
“Thanks for that speech,” I tell her. “I’m lucky you turned up here.”
Phoebe doesn’t shrug or smile or even lift an eyebrow. She is one of the most gesture-free people I’ve ever met.
“I came with my uncle Harry; he’s on the board. I thought it would be a good venue to give away some copies of the journal. If you had told me you were involved in the show I would’ve planned a tie-in with this month’s issue.”
“You mean it’s out?”
“Yes, we got to press a little early. There’s a stack by the door.” I turn toward the entrance and suddenly notice that several of the people in the gallery are leafing through a pale lavender magazine. The thought that some of them might be already reading my piece makes me feel strangely queasy.
Misreading my wave of nausea as excitement—I suppose a person who doesn’t use facial expressions can be excused for misreading them—Phoebe says, “I’ve got some copies for you in my bag, but first I want you to meet my uncle. He’s an imperialistic fossil, but he’s rich as Croesus and a great patron of the arts, so you might as well know him.”
Phoebe takes me by the hand, her grip surprisingly firm, and pulls me over to the man in the gray suit who is facing away from us.
“Uncle Harry, I want you to meet Iris Greenfeder, one of the writers in this month’s issue of
Caffeine
.”
The man turns toward us, his blue eyes vague but not unkind. I can see him assembling his features into an expression of polite interest. For a moment I feel sorry for him. He’s older than I thought at first, my father’s age at least—or the age my father would be if he were still alive. I remember
“But what does the woman artist produce without artistic freedom?”
Phoebe pauses while we all consider this question and Gretchen’s work. I notice that the little shirts worn by the baby dolls are not just knitted in stocking stitch, but in alternating cables of nettles and barbed wire. If I’m not mistaken, Gretchen has even managed to work in a blackberry stitch within the cables. What attention to detail! Even if she’s gotten me fired, I’ll have to give Gretchen an A+.
“Bad clothes?” I hear Mark Silverstein mutter his answer to Phoebe’s question somewhere behind me. I try, out of the corner of my eye, to see Mark’s piece on “The Emperor’s New Clothes” but his unprepossessing assemblage of naked mannequins has been crowded into a corner like uninvited guests. No wonder he’s pissed off at Gretchen.
Phoebe ignores Mark’s comment and answers her own question. “She creates a prison for her offspring, crafting a garb of barbed wire for her daughters out of the old myths and collusion of silence.”
I’m tempted to correct Phoebe’s version of the fairy tale. The baby dolls in their barbed wire and nettle shirts aren’t Elisa’s daughters, they’re her brothers. But then I notice that several of the older trustees and most of the full-time professors are nodding eagerly. Only one man—a much older man in a beautiful charcoal gray suit—is not nodding along with the others. Instead he is staring at me as if challenging me to unmask Phoebe’s mistake. But there’s no way I’m going to turn back the tide of acceptance and approval that sweeps over the crowd. I can feel the tension in the room dissipating. Conversation resumes, the crowd breaks into groups of twos and threes, again happily swirling the wine in their tumblers and picking feathers out of their hair like friendly chimps picking out each other’s nits. I notice Aidan Barry chumming up to Natalie Baehr and smile and then think
Oh my God, should I tell Natalie he’s an ex-con?
and then, once again, I catch the old man in the gray suit staring at me.
I turn away from him and find Phoebe at my elbow.
“Thanks for that speech,” I tell her. “I’m lucky you turned up here.”
Phoebe doesn’t shrug or smile or even lift an eyebrow. She is one of the most gesture-free people I’ve ever met.
“I came with my uncle Harry; he’s on the board. I thought it would be a good venue to give away some copies of the journal. If you had told me you were involved in the show I would’ve planned a tie-in with this month’s issue.”
“You mean it’s out?”
“Yes, we got to press a little early. There’s a stack by the door.” I turn toward the entrance and suddenly notice that several of the people in the gallery are leafing through a pale lavender magazine. The thought that some of them might be already reading my piece makes me feel strangely queasy.
Misreading my wave of nausea as excitement—I suppose a person who doesn’t use facial expressions can be excused for misreading them—Phoebe says, “I’ve got some copies for you in my bag, but first I want you to meet my uncle. He’s an imperialistic fossil, but he’s rich as Croesus and a great patron of the arts, so you might as well know him.”
Phoebe takes me by the hand, her grip surprisingly firm, and pulls me over to the man in the gray suit who is facing away from us.
“Uncle Harry, I want you to meet Iris Greenfeder, one of the writers in this month’s issue of
Caffeine
.”
The man turns toward us, his blue eyes vague but not unkind. I can see him assembling his features into an expression of polite interest. For a moment I feel sorry for him. He’s older than I thought at first, my father’s age at least—or the age my father would be if he were still alive. I remember
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