Before She Knew Him(25)
When she opened her sketchbook she saw the picture she’d drawn the night before. A large cat in bed, and the young girl on the windowsill. She’d forgotten all about it, and it startled her, especially the eyes on the boy who perched on the limb of the tree. She loved the drawing, as much as she’d loved anything she’d drawn for years, and suddenly, with an almost physical pull, she wanted to go to her studio and begin the process of creating a print. She bolted upstairs and put on her clogs, plus a light sweater that, because of several small holes, had recently been demoted to a work sweater. Downstairs, she got her sketch pad and her keys and went outside. She felt guilty, knowing that she should be spending any work time fulfilling her contract for the chapter book, but told herself that once she was in her studio she’d find time to work on the Lore Warriors as well. She walked to the end of Sycamore, turning right onto Crane Avenue, then down the hill to the Black Brick Studios, where she’d rented her space. It was in an old textile mill, built next to the Scituate River, four stories in brick that contained just over sixty studio spaces. Hen’s was in the basement, one of the less desirable studios because it didn’t have a view. But it did have a utility sink, which she needed, and it was large enough to hold both of her printing presses, moved at great cost from her previous studio space in Somerville.
She entered the studios through the back entrance, a poster on the door reminding her that Open Studios was coming up soon. Being present during open studio weekends was one of the aspects of being an artist that she dreaded. The artists’ studio she’d belonged to in Somerville had required all the artists to be present during the annual event. The first five years she’d been there she made the mistake of treating the event like a gallery opening; she’d put on her good jeans and stand around talking awkwardly with the people walking through. But the last five years she’d treated the weekend as a working weekend, keeping herself busy pressing out prints while people came through. No one ever seemed to mind, and it made it easier for people to feel like they could browse her work without commenting on it. And if people did talk with her it was often about the technical aspects of what she did: how to engrave a plate, what chemicals she used, how long it took her. Hen was always happy to talk about her process; what she didn’t like talking about was where her ideas came from.
All the lights in the basement were off, which meant she was alone down there. Hen entered her studio and went directly to her drafting table, where she re-sketched the cat drawing onto a piece of paper the same size as the plate, then began to prepare the copper, sanding down the sides, degreasing it, then applying wax. While she did this she played an Ani DiFranco CD on her ancient player. At home she listened to music through a streaming service, but she’d always had a CD player in her studio spaces, and all of her CDs—she hadn’t bought a new one in at least five years—were from an earlier time in her life, many from before Lloyd. That clunky five-disc player (it also had a cassette player) was like her own personal time machine. She might be growing older, and she did children’s illustrations now instead of her own art, but the music had stayed the same. She got so immersed in her work that she didn’t notice when the Ani DiFranco CD changed to Neutral Milk Hotel—she’d already gotten her diamond-point scribe and was beginning the process of etching into the wax. She’d just begun when she heard a distant door slamming, and all the lights except for her table lamp went off.
She yelled, “Hey,” then walked to her door. The lights all flickered back on at once, and a man’s voice yelled out, “Sorry. I thought no one was down here.”
“No problem,” she said, as the man, younger than his voice had suggested, came around the corner into her hallway. She recognized him from the only members’ meeting she’d been to, but didn’t remember his name.
“Hi, it’s Hen,” she said.
“Right, I remember. I’m Derek.” He was unusually short, with a heavy brow, and she wondered, as she’d wondered during the meeting, if he was just short or if he had some condition related to minor dwarfism. “Getting ready for Open Studios?” he asked.
“No. Just working. On the morning of Open Studios I’ll come in here at the crack of dawn and put up a bunch of prints.” Hen tried to remember what kind of artist Derek was. His clothes were clean and that made her think that he was a photographer.
“And a bowl of candy?”
“I put out a giant tub of the pretzels with the peanut butter in them. One year I put out a bottle of tequila with salt and lime wedges to see if anyone would do a shot.”
“Did they?”
“Of course they did. Free booze. My studio turned into a party. I’ll never do it again.”
Derek rocked from one foot to the other. Hen thought he was going to leave, but he said, “Do you have some free time? Can I see some of your work?”
“Sure,” Hen said, and he followed her into the studio, where she opened a box that contained some of the prints she’d planned to show during Open Studios. They were mostly original illustrations done years earlier, but a few were favorites of hers from her book illustrations.
“Wow, these are great,” Derek said.
“Thanks.”
“And dark.”
“Yes, I have what my mother used to call a vivid imagination.”
After looking through all the prints, Derek eyed the larger of her two printing presses. “How much do the presses weigh?” he asked.