windows. “She’s going to try to make a bloody mess of things,” he says. “That’s what she does. It makes her feel alive.”
“But she’s dying, Kubovy,” Clara blurts out. She is surprised by her own vehemence. Is she trying to convince Kubovy? Or herself? Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite the statistics on the Internet, part of her still believes that her mother is going to walk out of her bedroom, her long hair flowing down her back, her lungs pink as a baby’s. And then Clara can leave for another fourteen years. Her past can stay right here in this apartment, locked up inside the gates, guarded by the doorman. Safe behind these thick soundproofed walls.
Kubovy gives Clara a long hard look, and again she tries and fails to hold his gaze.
“Don’t judge me,” she says quietly, her eyes on a bare patch in the murky blue of the oriental. Forcing herself to stand her ground. She is strong—she knows she is strong. She’s done what she had to do to survive, hasn’t she? What does Kubovy know about that?
“My dear Clara,” Kubovy says, caressing her name. “Far be it from me. I was simply wondering…” He trails off, shaking his head as if to stop himself. “I know Robin is around, but you—Ruth is so delicate now, and after all these years—”
“What are you trying to say, Kubovy?” Goddammit, she’s getting pulled in.
“Are you planning to see this through?” he asks.
She stares at him.
“Of course,” she says. She is surprised by the force of her own vehemence. And then, as if to convince herself, “She’s my mother.”
Chapter Three
I MPOSSIBLE to isolate a memory: to carve it out and separate it from what has come before or after, from what has been told and retold. Stories turn what we remember into a series of polished little gems. In Clara’s case, impossible to isolate her own memory from what has been written about, taught in art classes, discussed as case law, hung in museums. Her past doesn’t belong to her. She has long since stopped trying. Why make the effort when there is nothing new to be found?
But now, off the shelf it tumbles. Suddenly, glaringly accessible. All of it, her history, gleams—perfectly lit, silvery—in the darkened and cobwebbed corners of her mind. Each image is a looking glass into which she can disappear—like her favorite childhood heroine, Alice—until she finds herself on the other side.
She is four years old—the year before kindergarten—and she is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Kubovy Weiss Gallery. She has never been down to this neighborhood before, a long taxi ride from their apartment on the Upper West Side. It might as well be a different city. It’s quieter than uptown, and the light is much brighter over the low rooftops. Even the smells are different: turpentine, Windex, the sour scent of spilled white wine.
Her Barbies are strewn around her, their platinum hair all tangled up; she had tried to shampoo them the night before. She has been allowed to bring three Barbies, along with their assorted paraphernalia (tiny combs and brushes, a few changes of clothing) because her mother has told her it’s going to be a long afternoon, and Clara needs to be patient.
The main rooms in the gallery are huge, cavernous—it is a converted warehouse in SoHo—with gigantic dark wood beams running across the high ceiling, from which small pinpoint track lighting hangs, creating oval-shaped pools of illumination on the spotless white walls. The front of the gallery is made entirely of glass, and from where Clara sits she can see people walking past on West Broadway. She’s just learned to count, so she counts the number of ladies. The number of men. There don’t seem to be any children. It’s a school day. But Clara isn’t in school, not yet. Robin is in first grade, but since Clara’s only four, her mother wanted to keep her home. They have so much work to do.
“I think we should pare it
“But she’s dying, Kubovy,” Clara blurts out. She is surprised by her own vehemence. Is she trying to convince Kubovy? Or herself? Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite the statistics on the Internet, part of her still believes that her mother is going to walk out of her bedroom, her long hair flowing down her back, her lungs pink as a baby’s. And then Clara can leave for another fourteen years. Her past can stay right here in this apartment, locked up inside the gates, guarded by the doorman. Safe behind these thick soundproofed walls.
Kubovy gives Clara a long hard look, and again she tries and fails to hold his gaze.
“Don’t judge me,” she says quietly, her eyes on a bare patch in the murky blue of the oriental. Forcing herself to stand her ground. She is strong—she knows she is strong. She’s done what she had to do to survive, hasn’t she? What does Kubovy know about that?
“My dear Clara,” Kubovy says, caressing her name. “Far be it from me. I was simply wondering…” He trails off, shaking his head as if to stop himself. “I know Robin is around, but you—Ruth is so delicate now, and after all these years—”
“What are you trying to say, Kubovy?” Goddammit, she’s getting pulled in.
“Are you planning to see this through?” he asks.
She stares at him.
“Of course,” she says. She is surprised by the force of her own vehemence. And then, as if to convince herself, “She’s my mother.”
Chapter Three
I MPOSSIBLE to isolate a memory: to carve it out and separate it from what has come before or after, from what has been told and retold. Stories turn what we remember into a series of polished little gems. In Clara’s case, impossible to isolate her own memory from what has been written about, taught in art classes, discussed as case law, hung in museums. Her past doesn’t belong to her. She has long since stopped trying. Why make the effort when there is nothing new to be found?
But now, off the shelf it tumbles. Suddenly, glaringly accessible. All of it, her history, gleams—perfectly lit, silvery—in the darkened and cobwebbed corners of her mind. Each image is a looking glass into which she can disappear—like her favorite childhood heroine, Alice—until she finds herself on the other side.
She is four years old—the year before kindergarten—and she is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Kubovy Weiss Gallery. She has never been down to this neighborhood before, a long taxi ride from their apartment on the Upper West Side. It might as well be a different city. It’s quieter than uptown, and the light is much brighter over the low rooftops. Even the smells are different: turpentine, Windex, the sour scent of spilled white wine.
Her Barbies are strewn around her, their platinum hair all tangled up; she had tried to shampoo them the night before. She has been allowed to bring three Barbies, along with their assorted paraphernalia (tiny combs and brushes, a few changes of clothing) because her mother has told her it’s going to be a long afternoon, and Clara needs to be patient.
The main rooms in the gallery are huge, cavernous—it is a converted warehouse in SoHo—with gigantic dark wood beams running across the high ceiling, from which small pinpoint track lighting hangs, creating oval-shaped pools of illumination on the spotless white walls. The front of the gallery is made entirely of glass, and from where Clara sits she can see people walking past on West Broadway. She’s just learned to count, so she counts the number of ladies. The number of men. There don’t seem to be any children. It’s a school day. But Clara isn’t in school, not yet. Robin is in first grade, but since Clara’s only four, her mother wanted to keep her home. They have so much work to do.
“I think we should pare it
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