Chelsea got off at the fourth stop in Brooklyn just as the directions had indicated. She made her way up the winding steps and through the subterranean tunnels of the Atlantic Avenue stop exiting at a sign that read Brooklyn Academy of Music. She rarely ventured out beyond Manhattan but she had just landed a job with ArtNews and was eager to prove her journalistic skills by interviewing an up and coming artist that had been included in this year’s Whitney Biennial Exhibition. She made the turn onto a quaint tree-lined street that reminded her of The Cosby Show. Standing before the brownstone and reconfirming the address she had the unmistakable feeling that she had been there before. She rang the bell and waited a few moments before the heavy wooden door opened and a petite dark haired woman answered.
“Hi I’m Chelsea.” She said extending her hand cheerfully.
“Ashley.” The woman said as took her hand and returned a genuine handshake. “Come on in.” Chelsea followed her into the parlor floor apartment that had exceedingly high ceilings and beautiful plaster molding original to the house. On the walls hung the artist’s paintings, impressive and large.
“Wow.” Chelsea said. “This place is amazing.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” Ashley replied. “ I have coffee or I can make you some tea.”
“Tea would be great, thank you.” Chelsea said and her eyes lit on every bit of furniture and piece of art the house offered. Not only were the walls decorated with Ashley’s work but with other Southern artists such as Reverend Finster, Thornton Dial, Mose Tolliver and R. A. Miller, ‘Outsider Artists’ that art dealers and gallery owners ‘discovered’ and marketed to the Wall Street crowd hungry for original work and a quick investment. Chelsea had seen Ashley’s paintings before hanging in a gallery in SoHo a few months prior. The paintings were evocative and haunting and there was something about them that penetrated Chelsea’s psyche. It was not so much the subject matter but the use of the paint, the juxtaposition of color and the glowing effect of light through layers of oil that intrigued her. Ashley was no Outsider or Naïve Artist she was definitely trained and the proof was in her work.
“Milk or Lemon?” Ashley asked as Chelsea sat down at the large kitchen table.
“Milk.” Chelsea answered. And she studied the artist as she moved about domestically and set the table for tea.
“I didn’t drink hot tea ‘til I moved up here.” Ashley said in her soft accent. Chelsea pulled out her pen and pad.
“Oh? Where are you from?”
“Hayesville, North Carolina.” Ashley smiled. “And where are you from?”
Chelsea was thrown for a moment. She was not expecting reciprocal questions.
“Uh---Chicago.” She said.
“My mother was born in Chicago. Matter of fact I was born in Chicago, but we moved away when I was really young.” Ashley said in her southern drawl.
“Really?” Chelsea asked.
“UmmHmm. I always forget because I only have a handful of memories from there.” Ashley added. “A lot of snow. That’s what I remember most.” There seemed to be an awkward pause and Chelsea lost track of time as she was trying quite hard to sift through the intense deja vu she was experiencing.
“I think we’ve met before.” Chelsea said imagining that they had been introduced at an art function or museum event.
“Mmmm…I don’t think so.” Ashley replied smiling. “But I could be wrong.”
“At the opening?” Chelsea asked.
“I was in Italy.” Ashley replied.
“Maybe I’m getting you confused with someone else.” She said and she tried to figure out whom Ashley might resemble. To no avail. “So where did you go to school?” Chelsea asked. She wanted to be thorough and professional. She was twenty-seven and this was her chance to show the editors that she could handle a cover story interview.
“I went to SCAD and then to Cooper Union.” Ashley said.
“And who would you say are your influences?” Chelsea asked.
Ashley smiled and her hazel eyes drifted about the room dreamily. “I have always been partial to the impressionists and I know that sounds so passé.” She demurred. “I love Whistler, Degas, Manet, Courbet, John Singer Sargent and Van Gogh, of course---who couldn’t love Van Gogh.”
“Of course---.” Chelsea added.
“I think Velasquez is divine and Goya superb. David and Ingres are brilliant.” Ashley continued. “Some of the more modern painters would be Dali, Egon Schiele, Edward Hopper, Lucien Freud, Anselm Kiefer, Francis Bacon, Jim Dine, David Salle, Eric Fischl and John Alexander…and I could say that Wyeth is endearing.” She smiled and they locked eyes for a moment.
“I love Wyeth.” Chelsea exclaimed. “Love, not like. Love his work.”
“Well then, I guess we have something in common.” Ashley replied and there seemed to be a lull as each woman conjured images of Helga and the magnificent Wyeth landscapes.
“So tell me a little about some of these paintings.” Chelsea asked and she found herself sliding into a slight southern drawl.
“Sure. Come on in here, honey.” Ashley said and they got up with their teacups and walked about the living room.
“The colors are so rich.” Chelsea said. “This one. What made you paint this?”
On the wall was a five-foot by four foot painting of a rough sea, a tempest. It was dark and foreboding and small bits of wood were rendered into the waves alluding to a shipwreck or a drowning.
“I grew up in the mountains so I don’t have much experience with the ocean or bodies of water but I keep havin’ this dream where I’m an itty-bitty thing, a child and I’m on a boat—not a ship, ya see, a small fishing boat. And my whole family is on this boat and these clouds come up out of nowhere and the waves rush over us and I’m so afraid of drowning. But it’s not from this time---it’s from the eighteen hundreds I would guess. ‘cause when I look down my clothes looked Victorian.” She said and she stared at the painting for a moment still trying to figure out why she had been compelled to paint such a scene.
“Reminds me a little of Delacroix’s Raft of the Medusa.” Chelsea added.
“Well thank you so much. That is so sweet of you.” Ashley replied. “I wandered up to the Frick one day several years ago and I started going through their collection. I have a friend who’s a curator there and she let me into the vaults while she was conducting a kind of inventory.” She started. At that moment Chelsea noticed a book on the table. It was a biography of John Wilkes Booth.
“I saw the Michelangelo’s drawings there. They were amazing.” Chelsea said slightly distracted.
“Did you?! I found them absolutely stunning.” Ashley added. “You can learn a lot just from lookin’ at an old master’s doodle, can’t you?” She winked and went on. Chelsea stifled a giggle and jotted down a note or two.
“Anyway, I came across this English painter who lived here in New York about the turn of the century and was a prominent portraitist. He did a series of dark sea paintings. There are old photos of the paintings, but the paintings themselves are nowhere to be found. And then suddenly about 1905 he stopped painting.”
“Why?” Chelsea said.
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to find out.” Ashley replied.
“Who was he? I mean, maybe I can search the archives at my office to see if there’s any information.” Chelsea offered.
“Richard Rhys.” Ashley said. “That’d be great. I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.”
“No trouble at all.” Chelsea replied. “I see you’re interested in John Wilkes Booth.” Chelsea added.
“I’m from the South. Every one of us---I don’t care who they are will always be pre-occupied with the Civil War. It’s in our genes.” Ashley said laughing. “I do not in any way condone what he did, by the by.”
“---Of course not.” Chelsea interjected.
“But he is fascinating. I just finished a biography on Lincoln last month.” Ashley said.
“Reading for pleasure?” Chelsea inquired.
“Sort of.” Ashley said and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reveal an unformed idea. She studied Chelsea for a moment.
“I don’t want you to write anything about this because it’s just in its infant stages…but.” Ashley began and then something caught her eye. Something unseen as if a spirit had just sauntered through the room and Ashley was trying to figure out how to utilize her good Southern manners and introduce the guests.
“But?” Chelsea said trying to keep the artist on track.
“I want to do a series of paintings that are monochromatic. Sort of like the old sepia pictures from the turn of the century.” Ashley started and as she spoke the idea took form as the words left her lips. “Large canvases that have that quality like the old glass plates and tintypes. Parts of the canvas exquisitely refined and then other parts more abstract and filled with strokes to mimic the edges of the lens.”
“That sounds like a wonderful goal.” Chelsea said and she wasn’t sure if the idea would take flight. Other artists had attempted something similar and the paintings fell short of the goal becoming more like illustrations of times gone by than fine art.
“John Wilkes Booth is your muse, so to speak?” Chelsea asked nonchalant.
“No. I mean, if I could get my hands on a real glass plate of him I guess that would be true.” Ashley said enigmatically. “I have a few old ambrotypes.” And she wandered over to an old trunk resting in the corner of the living room. She opened it and pulled out several beautiful antique quilts and linens. Sandwiched in between were two glass plates. She handed one up to Chelsea. In it five men, tall, dark and native looking surrounded a petite woman with high cheekbones, dark skin and white hair. The image was haunting.
“Who’s this?” Chelsea asked.
“The woman is my great-great grandmother.” Ashley said. “Those are her sons.” Then Ashley pointed to a tall man in the middle. “That’s my great-grandfather. His father rode with the North Carolina Cavalry during the ‘Wawar of Nawthin’ aggression’”. Ashley said for effect. “They were part of the Cherokee Brigade.” Then Ashley handed the ambrotype of the woman to Chelsea.
“She died the day before she was to turn one hundred.” Ashley added. “Ninety-nine. They say it is the number of completion. Makes sense.”
“These are really interesting.” Chelsea said. Then suddenly Ashley took the ambrotypes and placed them back in the trunk.
“I don’t know what came over me. You’re not interested in history and old home pictures---“ Ashley laughed a bit self-conscious.
“----Oh, but I’m glad you shared them with me.” Chelsea said.
“Well, anyway, that’s where the idea came from. I’ve been wanting to do this series for years, but I haven’t had the inclination until now.” Ashley admitted.
“Why is that?” Chelsea asked.
“I’m not sure.” She replied but she knew exactly why. She was unsure how to explain it.
“Ninety-nine. The number of completion.” Chelsea echoed. “Well this would be the year to do it. What do you think the millennium will bring?”
“Do you mean regarding art?” Ashley asked. Chelsea brought herself back to the moment. She had forgotten she was interviewing this woman.
“Well, not necessarily. Unless you have some thoughts about it.” She said.
“Off the record…” Ashley began. Chelsea nodded and set her pad down.
“I think time is speeding up.” Ashley whispered as if conspirators were in the room.
“Maybe…it is our perception of time that feels…accelerated.” Chelsea said.
“Why do you think that is?” Ashley asked and her eyes were filled with intensity.
“I, I don’t really know.” Chelsea replied. “Maybe it’s that there is a lot more out there vying for our attention.”
“Mmmm. I’ll buy that.” Ashley said. There was an awkward pause and Chelsea thought perhaps the interview was over. She didn’t want it to be over yet. She walked about the room taking in every memento and tchatchka.
“Is this where you paint?” She asked suddenly. “Of course not, I’m sure you have a studio. I’d love to come by and see what you have in progress. If that’d be okay?”
“My studio is in Red Hook.” Ashley said.
“That’s dangerous.” Chelsea said turning around overcome with a sense of concern.
Ashley smiled and nodded.
“Aren’t you afraid? I mean, there are projects over there. It’s like a shooting gallery.” Chelsea continued.
“I can’t afford anyplace else.” Ashley shrugged. “I carry protection.”
“Like what?” Chelsea said, her concern growing. Ashley revealed a can of pepper spray and a stilleto with a six-inch blade. “Those are illegal.” Chelsea said.
“Perfectly legal where I come from.” Ashley said with defiance. “I know how to use it.”
Chelsea studied her for a moment. “Still want to come by?” Ashley asked.
“I’m not sure…” Chelsea said.
“Safety in numbers.” Ashley replied. “Suit yourself. The building is safe once I’m inside.”
“Well I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.” Chelsea said as she gathered up her things.
“My pleasure.” Ashley replied.
“It should be out in the issue after next.” Chelsea added stumbling on her words.
“That’ll be great. Just in time for the Biennial.” Ashley smiled.
“I’ll be on my way and let you get back to your work---it was really nice meeting you.” Chelsea said nervously.
“Likewise.” Ashley replied.
Chelsea’s head swam as she made her way back to the subway station. She thought, perhaps, she needed food. It was unlike her to be overcome with sudden anxiety. She did not feel Ashley was the cause. She liked her. As a matter-of-fact she liked her a lot. She was fresh and interesting and unlike anyone else she had come across in her brief time in New York City. She wasn’t sure if she got enough information from the actual interview to write up a decent story. Over half of their conversation, though fascinating was not something readers would be interested in. She made her way to the number two platform and waited for the redline. The trains ran relatively fast during the week and she could be home in half an hour. She pulled out her pad and jotted down ‘search Richard Rhys, painter, in the archives.’ As she put her pen away in her purse she decided to go directly to the magazine’s offices. She’d pick up lunch on the way.
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