The Studio Visit
1.
When she opened her email, it was a surprise to see Arthur's name in her inbox. A bead of sweat was gathering on her upper lip as the sun beat through the window; it was an unseasonably warm morning for March in New York. She hurriedly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and flicked the switch of a small box fan in the window before she started to read:
"Hi Caroline,
I don't know whether this is the appropriate venue to tell you that I really enjoyed speaking with you the other night at your art gallery showing. I found your email address on your website and thought I'd reach out to you directly rather than go through the gallery. We're interested in commissioning a small sculpture from you. How should we proceed? (Assuming, of course, that you'd be open to such a thing.)
Cheers,
Arthur"
She smiled at the inquiry with some of its more awkward phrasing ("art gallery showing"?), as well as the prospect of a new sale. She went to reply, wriggling in her desk chair and chewing her bottom lip in concentration. She typed:
"Arthur- it is very nice to hear from you. Thank you for reaching out, and thank you again for your interest."
She paused, remembering how they met a few weeks prior at a loft party.
She'd spotted Arthur and his wife against the wall near the drink table, looking out of place in a crowd of twenty and thirty-something creatives. She guessed they were in their 40s. The man had wiry salt and pepper hair that had gone gray at his temples. The woman had dark blonde hair pulled back into a shiny ponytail and preternaturally dewy skin. They were both lithe and compact- the kind of people that look like they run marathons for breakfast. Both were dressed in dark jeans, black t-shirts, and silver wedding bands. They looked so very unremarkable yet well-kept that Caroline assumed they must be wealthy.
Caroline introduced herself to them as she approached the drink table to refill her mason jar with natural wine, and they started chatting. While Margot, the wife, spoke loudly and expressively, Arthur was more subdued; he blinked a lot while he spoke, and in a quiet low voice. She found herself constantly leaning toward him to hear what he said. As the conversation reached the inevitable "what do you do" portion, their vague explanations about advisory positions, sitting on various boards, and other philanthropic endeavors confirmed Caroline's suspicions about their comfortable position in the world. In return, she told them she was a sculptor and mentioned that she had some new work in an art show coming up the following week. They seemed interested, so Caroline invited them.
She'd forgotten all about it until she was at the opening reception. There they were, sidling up against another wall in another room in which they were conspicuously out of place. Arthur's arm was casually draped around his wife's sharp shoulders while he whispered something in her ear that made her break into a smile. And then his eyes found Caroline's. Something about the intensity of his gaze-- his eyes so dark they were almost black-- made her skin prickle. She felt suddenly very shy and had to look away.
Caroline made her way across the room, stopping every so often to say hello to friends and acquaintances she encountered on the way. Finally she got to Arthur and Margot and thanked them for coming. They were standing next to a piece of marble that had been carved to look like a puddle about to drip off its pedestal, and were delighted when Caroline informed them she had, in fact, made it. She couldn't talk with them for long, and had to keep circulating throughout the room. All the while she could still feel Arthur's eyes on her as she moved, and every time she glanced in their direction he was looking directly at her.
The longer this went on, the more she felt like she was performing the role of Interesting Artist at The Gallery Opening for their benefit. She found herself talking more animatedly, laughing more, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. The couple seemed to be lingering late at the opening, whispering and conspiring while they lightly touched each other. In fact, she was beginning to suspect that Arthur and Margot were planning to proposition her for a threesome. But then when they approached her at the end of the night, they thanked her for inviting them and promptly departed-- taking some of the wind out of her sail along with them.
That night when Caroline fell into her bed at 3 AM, having smoked a little weed at the after party, paranoia gripped her. She wondered if she had really sensed "that vibe" from them or if it had been the complete projection of an overactive imagination. Truthfully, she wasn't sure what her answer would have been had the proposition been made. She hadn't ever tried anything like a threesome; her string of exes and lovers were all quite conservative in bed, despite outward appearances as nonconformist artists and musicians. She'd once made a profile on a dating app for queer / kinky / poly people one night after too much wine, but found that she was repulsed by meat market approach to dating, and abandoned the project.
So she tossed and turned, seeing dark eyes in a fitful place between wakefulness and sleep. Finally she pulled out her vibrator and gave herself a small orgasm lying on her back, thinking about nothing in particular but feeling the warmth between her soft skin and the sheets, tension in her legs and abdomen, then curiously saw the color orange and imagined blue trails of electricity arcing across her body.
She blinked out of her reverie, not knowing how long she had been staring at the same two sentences on the screen when the door to the hallway of her studio opened, followed by the familiar clicking sound of a bicycle being walked in. "Hi Jonah," she called out, letting him know she was inside. He acknowledged her with a non-verbal grunt.
Caroline's commercial warehouse space was too big for her to afford on her own. Years earlier she built a long partition wall down the middle and rented out the other half. For the last year it was occupied by a painter named Jonah. He was a perfect studiomate on paper-- he was quiet, predictable, reliable, always paid rent on time. He was also reliably grumpy, pretty much all the time. Also, it unnerved her that he preferred to paint in total silence. Caroline liked to listen to music while she worked and wore headphones when he was around. That didn't stop her noise from infiltrating his fortress of quietude-- the partition wall was flimsy and didn't reach up to the ceiling-- and sometimes she could hear him sighing audibly on the other side in response to her.
She returned her attention to the email, typing, "I'm glad you contacted me directly, since I'm not represented by that gallery-" No, that was too much information. She deleted everything and began again,
"Hi Arthur! You found me. Would you & Margot like to come over to my studio sometime to discuss the commission? I'm actually located a few blocks from the party where we met! My schedule is pretty flexible in the next 2 weeks, and I'd be very happy to accommodate whatever works for you both. Looking forward to talking more!"
She signed the email with the letter C and hit send with a big exhale before she could overthink the cheerful tenor of the message. She'd barely had time to take a swig of seltzer from a sweating glass Pellegrino bottle on her desk before a reply came in:
"As it happens I'm in the neighborhood now for a meeting. Are you available at 11:30 AM today? No worries if it is too short notice. Margot is visiting parents in France with the kids until April. We can wait until she returns if you'd prefer.
A
Sent from my iPhone"
She usually tried to avoid having straight men visit by themselves altogether-- it prevented a lot of uncomfortable misunderstandings. She glanced at the clock, it was now 10:24. Swiveling on her chair, she surveyed the condition of the studio: it was more presentable than usual. In 2 weeks from now, on the other hand, she was set to begin a large new sculpture. Another errant bead of sweat threatened to run down her shirt between her breasts. Damn. Maybe she should finally spring for an AC this summer.
Damn.
She could always say no. But large hunks of marble for ambitious new works, or air conditioners for that matter, were not cheap, and she could really use the cash from a commission. The timing and circumstances all made sense, but she was still nervous. Underneath that feeling, she admitted to herself, was a lot of curiosity. She got up quickly to look in the mirror she hung by the door. The woman she saw in its reflection was certainly sweaty, but not excessively so. She was wearing her brown hair in two long braids, an oversized linen tank top, black bicycle shorts, and the tattered black Dansko clogs she always wore while she worked. She never wore a bra and her shorts were, perhaps, a little revealing but she thought the top was large enough that it was almost like a tunic. She watched her own face as she weighed her options; brown eyes squinting, a long nose that scrunched up in indecision. She sighed an exhale and her cheeks and lips puffed out. Well, she thought, what the fuck. Why not?
Bounding back to her computer, it occurred to her to look him up before she invited him over. She googled the full name indicated by his email address, which yielded a 15 year-old New York Times wedding announcement with a low resolution photo of the couple when they were younger than she was: "The bride and the bridegroom, both 28, met at Columbia University." She skimmed the rest, Daughter and Son of so-and-so, both from the Upper East Side. Satisfied that the facts checked out, and queasy from cyber stalking, she quickly wrote him back to confirm that she'd see him at 11:30, and gave him her address, the number of her unit, and phone number.
2.
There was a rhythm to studio visits that Caroline had perfected over the years. She kept all the supplies she needed on hand to entertain both discerning collectors (real drinking glasses, bottles of Pellegrino, ice) as well as fellow artists (cans of beer). She had built sturdy display shelves into the walls where she placed her sculptures. All the surfaces were cleared off, her trusty tools resigned to bins and buckets flanking her work table (hammers, chisels, drills, wrenches, pliers, clamps, rasps, files, sandpapers, zip ties, and steel cable, to name a few). She'd learned to not put things completely away in case she wanted to give her visitors a quick demonstration.
"Rich art collectors like when artists work with their hands to make things, Caroline," an older artist she once assisted had told her. "They have no relationship to physical work, everything is done for them- they can barely wipe their own asses. Being around real people who create real things with their hands makes them feel connected to the real world." At the time, she had been an idealistic 19 year-old in art school. Now after 10 years navigating the art world, she'd found more truth in his words than she cared to admit.
Everything was ready to go, but still she paced around looking for anything out of place in the hour before Arthur was set to arrive. She glanced at the coveralls hanging on a wall hook and considered putting them on, but it was already too hot. She considered putting on some lipstick she kept around just in case, but thought that might look a little desperate, so instead she walked over to the slop sink and brushed her teeth a little too harshly until her spit turned pink.
When the buzzer went off at 11:20, she jumped. It seemed he was early. She hit the button to open the door and began the mental countdown, 5 minutes, for the time it would take him to reach her door. After 7 minutes came the knock. Smoothing the wrinkles on her linen shirt, she walked to the entrance, glanced in the mirror again, and then opened the door. He was leaning on the door frame in a sharp gray suit, loosening his tie with a briefcase at his side. He was sweating more profusely than she was.
"Your elevator is out," he said with a wry smile.
"Oh no, I'm sorry! That must've just happened, it was fine earlier. This only happens when it's totally inconvenient," she rambled nervously, "Thanks for walking up the stairs."
"Thanks for having me over at such short notice," he said, as he picked up his briefcase.
"Do you want something cold to drink? I have seltzer." She offered, regaining some composure.
"Thank you. So is it just you in here?"
As if on cue, Jonah cleared his throat loudly.
