The Prophecy of White Tailed Deer

He stood over six and half feet tall and his face was regal and aquiline. He had a soothing yet commanding voice and his people revered him as their ultimate leader. His name, Tamanend meant ‘affable’ in the Lenape language and that he was. Good-natured, a natural peacekeeper, a diplomat and yet a force to be reckoned with. His authority and leadership could unite all the tribes from Delaware to the Ohio valley to Massachusetts and a legion that large could, indeed force any invader or enemy into submission or retreat. They trekked up the old hunting trail that the Manhattoes had used for centuries. Once on the mainland it would be a four-day journey up to Mahican territory. The Lenape were the fathers of the Mahicans, the ‘wolf people’ as they were called. Fort Orange had been built in their territory and the leader of the small Dutch colony, Van Rensselaer wanted no hostilities with the Indians. He was a diamond merchant and fur trader and was willing to work amicably with the native peoples in order to establish his own small patch of grass. And yet the Mahicans wanted their sacred lands back located near the fort. Their tribe was small and getting smaller by the year due to exposure to Europeans and disease and tribal warfare with the Mohawks. It was Tamanend’s desire to find a peaceful resolution between the Mahicans and the white men. Certainly they could all co-exist with mutual respect. And that Alliance could bring peace with the warring tribes.

By the time they reached the magnificent palisades the sun was etching orange and red across the sky. They made camp in the woods near one of the cliff tops. The women set about gathering deadwood and kindling for fire. The adopted girl with snow-white hair moved to begin collecting with the other women. They named her Unega, Algonquin for ‘white-tailed deer’. An old grandmother took her arm and led her to Tamanend. He motioned for her to stay and sit. Quietly they watched the last bits of day fade away to a brilliant dark azure sky. A crescent moon smiled and slowly rose on the horizon. He sat crossed legged just like her father, Rimpoche.

Rimpoche would sit for hours in meditation in a trance-like state reaching for something that he had been taught in his native religion. It was strange to her yet somehow familiar. It was quieting of the mind. Her father called it monkey mind. He had to describe what a monkey was since she had never seen one before. Thoughts would jump frenetically from branch to branch with no real purpose or structure and when one let the monkey jump for a while without restraint eventually it would tire and be submissive and actual meditation could take place.

“When the mind was quiet enough it is said one can hear with one’s heart and listen carefully to what the soul needs.” he told her. “When you tame the monkey you can begin to see where you are in samsara”. And so as a small child she imitated her father not really knowing what she was doing but the effect of stillness brought on wisdom to her young mind. And though she did not know what she was reaching for her instinct led her through the maze of imagination.

As the fires began to light up the forest the young men would take their seats on the ground near their chief. The tribal elder blessed and handed a bit of burning sage mixed with lavender and sweet grass for Tamanend to cleanse his spirit. The smoke obscured his lanky frame and then he motioned for Unega to stand.

“She is our first daughter. She will keep the medicine for our people and the mothers and grandmothers will teach her all they know. The deer is gentleness. And so she will do the work of the Great Spirit in this way.” Then he took the burning sage and swirled the thick white smoke about her. The tribal elder made a prayer to their god and upon finishing was followed with woops and laughter in celebration. The young braves jumped up and there were all sorts of merrymaking. Unega locked eyes with her chief and new father. There was an intensity that she had not known before. She could see his belief in her. Through him she could see her own greatness in service to her new adoptive family. She wanted to make him proud. After a moment Unega went to the packhorses and untethered her most prized possession. She unfurled it and wrapped it about her. It had been her mother’s and now it was the only thing she had from her Lakota beginnings. The great buffalo robe was majestic and as Unega walked back into the camp the braves and the daughters and old men and women stopped in awe. Everything grew quiet and still as she made her way toward the great bonfire. The drumming had ceased and a few murmurs snaked through the crowd. She looked like a wild hairy beast with a tuft of white near the eyes.

“Great Father.” She said and Tamanend smiled and nodded. “I would like to dance a sacred dance of my people for you.” In one hand she produced a small brass Tibetan hand chime. It was the one thing she possessed of her father. She began a ‘Prophet Dance’ that eventually would come to be known throughout the Dakotas as the Ghost Dance. It was this dance that would unnerve the white men and soldiers who would expand and populate the land pushing the Indians further West and even North off their sacred birthright. It was this dance that would take the life of the Great Hunkpapa Sioux Chief, Sitting Bull. At that very moment she clapped the Tibetan chime and the sound was something the Lenape had never heard before. The drummers began to drum and the sound of the chime wove itself through the rhythm and into the deep recesses of her observers. Tamanend watched in rapt curiosity. He could see that something life changing was taking place this very moment. He knew deep in his heart that fate had brought this girl with her strange ways, odd language and unique philosophies to his people. He would harness her goodness and her arcane knowing and, perhaps ensure the tribe’s existence for generations to come.

“All time is now.” She said and her white hair seemed on fire from the roaring blaze. At that moment a shot rang out and the startled revelers stopped and took cover. But Tamanend did not budge or even acknowledge the sound. “My great great great grandson has been killed! At this moment!” She shrieked and sobbed. Tamanend rose and slowly moved to Unega. The others tried to find the source of the sound. No one in the tribe possessed the white man’s weapon. Braves fanned out into the woods some with torches and some with only the slivered moon to guide them. They found nothing in the immediate area. As the chief approached he could see the future playing out in her eyes. He could see that she had performed a kind of bilocation but with the added element of time. She jumped up from her place on the ground and lunged toward her new leader. Grabbing his hands in desperation she pleaded, “Say Thank you Ansa!”

Richard stood at the window on the second floor gazing out over the snow-covered terrain. Bands of dark clouds gathered again and the snowstorm continued unabated. It was now March 14^th and the snow had been falling for some thirty hours. It seemed much longer. It felt like days of unending, punishing turbulence. And yet the house remained calm, an oasis in the midst of nature’s chaos. He tried to angle himself into the corner of the window to get a glimpse of the east wing of the house. But the wind blew furiously and obliterated whatever came into view. He decided he should check to make sure the rest of the manor was sound and perhaps scavenge for necessities. He made his way down the stairs and into the parlor. Victoria was engrossed in her copy of The Last of the Mohicans. He threw another piece of wood onto the fire and stoked it until it popped and hissed. Then he moved to his wife.

“I’m going to check on the east wing. Do you need anything before I go?” He asked. She shook her head no, smiled and kissed him.

“Don’t be long.” She whispered. He smiled and she watched him as he disappeared into the hallway. He grabbed his coat and pushed the pocket doors open. As he entered the closed off grand ballroom he could see his breath. It seemed to freeze in mid-air. The wind pushed against the house and the structure creaked and the sashes whistled. The magnificent crystal chandelier imported from Prussia swung slightly overhead. He moved into the long corridor and on his right were sitting rooms and a music room and an office. On the left was another large parlor for fairer weather that opened up onto an Italianate veranda. He wandered into the parlor slowly taking in the most incredible sight he had ever seen. The snowdrifts had covered the entire side of the house. It was like looking through an ancient glacier. It was quiet and mysterious. There were hundreds of shades of blue and aquamarine. He moved to the windows that strained to hold back the weight. Pressed against the glass were tiny symmetrical designs in ice. He gazed at the flakes for several moments wondering how nature was capable of producing such an intricate work of art and how fleeting and impermanent it was. No two were alike and there were millions and billions falling from the heavens. It was beauty at its finest and quite possibly one of the most profound miracles he had ever witnessed. He was aware that he was experiencing a moment of penetrating grace. He stayed there rooted to that spot taking in as many different shapes and designs as he could before the cold drove him away. He moved back into the corridor inspired. He poked his head into each room on the other side of the hallway and the same phenomenon happened in room after room. He thought perhaps he might need to make his way outside to truly survey how high the drifts were blowing. The one covering the east wing would have to be at least twenty-five feet. He decided to wait until there might be a lull in the storm to go outside. At the moment he was filled with a kind of esoteric excitement and he wanted very much to amuse and delight Victoria as well as himself. He made his way to his studio and immediately commenced making a costume for himself. He had taken a pillow filled with turkey down from the great parlor and ripped it open for its feathers. Affixing them through small slits cut into a band of raw canvas he made a headband. He had collected several ‘flight feathers’ on various walks about the property. They were as big as eagle feathers yet spotted brown and black. Next he found the cat’s collar. Poor Edgar, as in Edgar Degas, had met his death from a coyote in September and so the collar rested on a windowsill as a kind of memoriam. He knew Edgar would want the collar to be of use and so Richard took a few of the silver bells and carefully tacked them onto other pieces of canvas that he would tie about his legs. The curtains in his studio were plain and the color of sage. He took a panel down and used a leather cord as a belt. This would be his loincloth. Next he moved to the small fireplace that had been left dormant since the summer. There were a few ashes and some pieces of charred wood left. He took the charcoal and began to black out the top half of his face. He rummaged through his studio for anything that might enhance his appearance. He had some burnt sienna pigment that came in powder form. Mixing it with oil produced the rich red brown paint for his art. He assumed the powder would be harmless and so he removed his shirt and rubbed the pigment all over his chest and arms. It turned his already olive skin dark and rich and vibrant as if he had basked in the sun for years at a time. He placed his clothing in a canvas bag and quickly crept down to the small parlor.

Victoria had come to the place in the story where the character of Uncas the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ encounters one on one battle with Magua the Mohawk warrior. Engrossed in the words and images of primeval America she looked up and screamed at the sight of Richard dressed as a warrior. He moved in quickly and snatched up the bison hide and as he turned he began to dance. And she was mesmerized by the way he moved and the dark mystery that enshrouded him. She seemed endlessly surprised by him and his desire to move closer to her through his own creative expression. As he danced and moved rhythmically the drums she had heard earlier in the silence seemed to beat in unison with his body. He was exquisite, each muscle and tendon catching the firelight. He was sensual and athletic and beautiful. Harmony, balance and equality fit together to create a symmetrical portrayal of sight, sound and movement and she could feel herself intoxicated by his performance. The bells jingled to the beat and she felt herself moving with him even though she remained recumbent on the couch. She was merging and she was not sure where she ended and he began. He swirled and stamped his bare feet and his arms moved like reeds swaying in a shallow marsh. His eyes pierced through the dark face paint and were lit by a fire unknowable. And before she knew it she had pushed herself up and was drawn ever closer to him. He spun like a whirling dervish and he seemed uplifted and his eyes glazed over as though he was watching something on the interior---something within. His voice changed and he sung the guttural utterings familiar to most tribes. In his fervor he laid the bison robe on the floor and his body began to perspire from his strenuous frolic. Then suddenly he stopped and looked at her and his gaze was as intense as a wild animal. He lingered there for a moment and she was afraid of him. He did not look like Richard. It was as if he had shape shifted and someone else or something wild and unbidden had taken his place.

“Richard?” She whispered and something clicked and out of nowhere the faint sound of a Tibetan hand cymbal chimed and it brought Richard into himself and his face bloomed with a boyish grin and she moved to him forgetting about her delicate condition. He was out of breath as she put her arms about him.

“I told you I would dance.” He laughed. Then she kissed him and he held her in his arms ruining her bodice with the burnt sienna pigment.

“This can’t be good for you.” She said and she immediately went to her privy, dipped a washcloth in the water and began to recover his white skin. She slowly wiped away the rich brown body paint and the ritual progressed into a kind of aphrodisiac. She carefully removed the feathers from his head and the bells from his legs. She tenderly wiped away the paint from his belly and it was evident that he was aroused. She disengaged the cord that held his loincloth and it fell away revealing him entirely. The night before he was self-conscious in his nakedness but tonight there was no hint of it. He was magnificent and earthy and full. He seemed in his element and he moved with the precision of an animal. He picked her up and laid her down on the bison hide. With acute dexterity he had removed her skirt and bodice until she was as naked as he. Her ivory skin gleamed in the firelight. She was almost as white as the snow that encompassed them. Once again the faint sound of the Tibetan chime resounded through the room. As he gazed at her he placed her hand where he wanted it, just underneath where it is the most sensitive. And for a moment it took his breath away but he kept his eyes on her and found evenness to his respiration. She cupped him and a bit of fluid escaped.

“Place me where it feels comfortable.” He instructed. And she pulled him close and placed him there at her entrance.

“Only an inch. No more.” He whispered and he began a slight rhythm that drove her into an ecstatic oblivion. She writhed and wanted him deeper but he would not venture further. He stayed at that most sensitive of areas that he had learned from experience with other women. Now he could teach her what he knew and strengthen the bond that was already a firm foundation.

“When you want to release, don’t. Breathe. Breathe with me.” He instructed and she kept her eyes on him. And when she felt as though she might give into the pleasure she found her breath and a rhythm that kept them synchronized and moving in tandem. When one wave receded another began and the waves grew fuller and longer and with each crest he instructed her to breathe and ride and when she did she invariably held herself back as did he and the intensity grew and her love for him exceeded anything she had ever known. They moved like this for over two hours and the Tibetan chime faded in and out again and again.

“The time is near.” He whispered. “Let yourself go.” And he moved back and forth just inside of her until she could not hold back any longer and her body shook and trembled and she lost her breath. Her voice gave way to unquestionable pleasure and she moaned and sighed until the warm feeling of floating overtook her and she could barely keep her eyes open. He lay beside her on the buffalo robe until she fell asleep. Then he covered her with several blankets and moved beneath them and found his place beside her.

The Unbearable Acceleration of Being

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.