I'm glad I was drinking only water -- it came out my nose. At first, I thought she was almost naked. All I saw was a little flippy skirt and a back bare from the hips up.
Then someone called "Katie." The girl turned, and I saw that she actually wore a halter dress. Seen from the front, the bright blue-green halter really did cover her, in an attention-getting kind of way, but her hair had hidden the strap around her neck. Once I recovered, I took another look at this gorgeous woman leaning to cheek-kiss her friend. Other than that dress, she wore sandals with a little heel and laces around the ankles, and some bangles the same color as the dress. Light brown hair with barely-there highlights just came to her shoulders, leaving her ears exposed. Her profile showed a deep, athletic hip and slim bust. I like that kind of figure, but never found a complimentary way to describe it. Broad-shouldered and broad-hipped but lean, there wasn't a pound where it shouldn't be. On a guy, you might say "built like a Jeep." I decided just to keep my mouth shut, partly to keep myself from gaping at that strong, smooth, and well-exposed shape.
Anyway, it wasn't getting my job done, watching Katie's skirt flip up under her thigh, cupping her butt as she walked. The usual arts reporter had just gone into labor, so the editor assigned me to cover the gallery opening for Teresa Downs's show of paintings. I tried to beg off, pleading ignorance about art, but he waved my argument away. "Just listen to what everyone else is saying, write that down, and get a statement from the artist. Oh, and ask permission before you take any pictures. Some artists get pissy about that."
The gallery had filled with people covering the whole range of looks. Some wore jeans, often with conspicuous paint splatters, or else wild and colorful getups -- clearly, Teresa's friends from the art circle. A few in neat black-on-black looked like critics or gallery types (not that I'd know one). Others seemed to have wandered in out of curiosity. Then there was me, my slightly scruffy jacket and tie making me over-dressed and under-dressed at the same time. Teresa was in there somewhere, and I had an assignment.
The girl in green bounced around the room like a kid on a sugar buzz. Her sparkling laugh seemed to come from everywhere, at one moment or another. Based on the number of times I heard someone call "Katie," she seemed to know almost everyone in the room. I decided to ask her where to find Teresa, since she'd know if anyone would. That excuse would let me introduce myself for my own reasons, as well.
Katie was effervescing in a well-lit spot near the door, where a large sign announced the opening. I worked my way over toward her, and a moment opened up. In my most professional manner, I extended my hand and introduced myself. "Hi, Katie?" She turned at the sound of her name and flashed a bright smile. "I'm Jake Carson from the Post-Record. I'd like to interview Teresa for my paper. Could you point her out?"
Katie gave me a blank, open-jawed look, took a step back, then nearly killed herself with that bright, bubbly laugh. That's not what I expected. Then I looked up at the sign behind her: "K. Teresa Downs: The City Reconsidered." A head-shot on the sign showed the artist's face -- it was the girl in green. That wasn't Katie, that was K.T.
I felt myself blush hotly, but I still needed my story. It took a bit to make myself laugh along with her, but it was pretty easy once I got started. I tried again. "OK, that was dumb. Sorry about that. You're Ms Downs, right? K. T. Downs?" I enunciated the letters separately.
Still laughing too hard to talk, she held a napkin to her mouth and nodded. She set her glass and napkin on a nearby table, apparently the place where unwanted drinks went to die. "Yes, I'm Teresa." The name seemed a little stiff the way she spoke it. "KT works, though. Jake, you said? What can I do for the Post-Record?"
"I hoped you could say something about your art, give our readers some understanding of the statement you make in your work."
She took my arm in hers and guided me across the room. "You mean, an 'artist's statement.' Gawd I hate those pretentious little blurbs, but I guess it's part of the game."
Her easy physicality, the way she held that arm had me somewhat off-guard, so I wasn't sure how to respond. "Well, maybe you could just tell me a little about this show. I mean, I like your work." I hoped that came across as sincere, because I really did. "I usually cover politics for my paper, though. Writing about art is new for me."
"'Writing about art is like dancing about architecture.' I forget who said that -- no matter, let's go look at some pictures." I never quite got used to the warm hands on my arm, tugging me from one picture to the next. Katie (I couldn't call her anything else) had an overtly physical manner that I found unsettling. She was that way with everyone who came up to her, though, cheek-kisses, hugs hello, holding someone's hand when she talked to them. I had trouble believing that these huge, complex, thoughtful paintings came from this chatty girl with the little flippy skirt.
She practically wrote my story for me, for which I was silently grateful. She seemed good-natured about it when I used my cell phone as voice recorder and asked her to repeat something. "It's OK. Better that than being misquoted."
Finally, I got my little camera out. Her smile stiffened when she saw it -- I remembered my editor's words about 'pissy.' I asked if I could take some pictures to go with the story.
"Not the paintings, please. The light in here is terrible. The gallery has taken some very good photos of the paintings. They're intended as publicity photos. I'd be happy to give them to you."
"That sounds great!" I answered, "You know, you're making this easy for me."
"You're making publicity for me. Making it easy is the least I can do."
"So, how do you want to get the pictures to me? I need them by tomorrow afternoon."
She pulled a card out of -- well, I'm not sure where it could have been, on that dress, and imagining where got too distracting. She pointed to a line of small print near the bottom of the card. "That's my studio address. Do you know where that is?"
I nodded. It was an old industrial part of the city that had bottomed out, but was starting to recover.
"Can you come tomorrow? Stop by, and bring a thumb drive."
"Thanks! What time?"
"I'll be there from about ten on. No, make that twelve -- I have a feeling I won't be up early tomorrow."
I laughed. It was getting late and the gallery had officially closed, but the opening reception was morphing into a serious party. No wonder the usual arts reporter was so enthusiastic about her job. I almost stayed, until I looked around and realized that I was the oldest one left, probably by a good few years.
"I'll see you tomorrow then, about noon." I shook her hand in a business-like way, and was surprised by a firm response -- not the limp girly grip I almost expected from a hand as small as hers. ---- The next day, I found the address easily enough. I just couldn't find the door, though. Former factories and warehouses lined the street -- not a very inviting sight, but the kind of place where rents would be low enough for starving artists to afford. After looking around aimlessly for a while, I pulled out Katie's card again and called the number on it.
"Jake, hi!" She answered after a few rings. "You're where? Fine. I have to open the door for you, I'll be down in a moment."
I didn't wait long before an unassuming, unmarked door opened and Katie stuck her head out. I joined her inside, then followed her up the stairs. She wore paint-spattered work clothes: sneakers, cut-off shorts, and an over-sized white shirt that buttoned on the 'man's side', shirt-tails tied in front. The sleeves had been torn off the shirt, leaving gaping arm holes. I tried not to stare at the side of a plain, white bra that showed through the hole, and tried not to stare at the lovely wide hips leading me up the stairs.
Funky old buildings like that have a spirit about them that I really like. Bare brick walls, concrete stairs, worn plank floors -- not 'House Beautiful' stuff, but a real personality. We turned out into the hall on the third floor. About halfway down the hall, we came to a door where a small sign displayed her name. She unlocked it and welcomed me in.
I'm not sure what I expected a studio to look like, but that wasn't it. About a third was taken up with a framework of two by fours and plywood, storage racks for a staggering number of unframed paintings. A couch, carpet, and bookshelves defined a little "living room" in another third, with a small fridge, microwave, and CD player as amenities. The rest of the room, the largest part, was clearly the work area. Photos, notes, and sketches covered the wall in this area, including one black and white photo that really caught my eye.
