way down, Ruth. Keep it simple.” Kubovy is leaning against the front desk, smoking a brown hand-rolled cigarette. The surface of the desk is clear, except for a round glass vase containing a dozen pale peach roses, sent earlier that day by Clara’s father.
“How simple, Kubovy?” Ruth’s soft voice seems louder in this space, with nothing to muffle it. The heels of her cowboy boots click against the hardwood floors as she paces back and forth, looking at the various ovals of light. Her hair is pulled back with a large tortoiseshell clip, her face bare.
“I know we said we were going to hang the landscapes—but I’m having my doubts.”
“But we only have eight Clara pictures,” says Ruth. She folds her arms and stands in the middle of the room.
Clara is playing with two of her Barbies, trying to get one to comb the other one’s hair. She pulls the comb through gently, holding up one small hunk of knotted hair at a time, the way her mother does with her—but it isn’t working. Barbie’s hair is more and more of a rat’s nest. Serves Clara right, she’s only half paying attention to the job at hand. She’s listening to her own name, repeated over and over again, bouncing off the walls of the Kubovy Weiss Gallery. Clara pictures. Clara. Each time she hears her name, she looks up. But they are not talking to her.
“Eight. Exactly,” says Kubovy. “Large format. One hung on each wall. Think of it, Ruth. It will be stark. Fabulous. A tremendous statement.”
“But the landscapes,” Ruth says. “I’m quite attached to the landscapes.”
Kubovy takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales through his nose and mouth. The white smoke swirls around his face. With his salt-and-pepper hair, long and curly around the collar of his shirt, he looks like a feline creature from one of Clara’s picture books.
“If you put the landscapes on the same wall as the Clara pictures, they’ll look like shit,” says Kubovy. “Excuse my language.”
Clara looks up. She’s pretty sure he just said a bad word. And Ruth, who has been in a kind of dreamy contemplative mood, as blank as the blank walls, snaps to attention.
“What did you say?”
Kubovy shrugs. “It’s my job to tell you the truth. The landscapes are derivative. Immature. I see nothing new or fresh in them.”
“But you took me on after you saw those slides—”
“That’s true,” says Kubovy. “I suppose I saw some glimmer of talent. But nothing compared to the Clara photographs, Ruth. Surely you know that.”
Kubovy walks over to a rolling cart, on which a series of large crates are stacked, each labeled with black Magic Marker on the light, splintery wood: Clara with the Lizard. Clara, Napping. Clara in the Fountain. He pries open the slats of wood on the Clara in the Fountain crate and carefully removes the photograph, bits of tissue paper floating to the floor. The photograph is five feet square—bigger than Clara’s whole body—and framed in simple black lacquer. Kubovy struggles to carry it over to the wall.
“Rico, Brian!” he calls into the back room, and two young men materialize. One of them is wearing a bandanna on his head, just like the bandanna Clara has brought for her Western Barbie outfit.
“Let’s give this a try,” says Kubovy.
Rico and Brian hold the photograph up to the wall. Clara gathers her three Barbies together on her lap and watches. She hasn’t seen these pictures before—not in their final form. She’s only seen the Polaroids Ruth has taken, sketches, ideas, the barest outline of the real thing.
Now, she sees herself. So gigantic! So much bigger than she actually is! She remembers the night—it was very late—Ruth woke her out of a deep sleep and bundled her into the elevator. Where are we going, Mommy? Clara had asked her. Just to the courtyard, sweetheart. Everything’s set up. It won’t take long, I promise. As the elevator made its slow descent, Clara looked at her mother in the dim
“How simple, Kubovy?” Ruth’s soft voice seems louder in this space, with nothing to muffle it. The heels of her cowboy boots click against the hardwood floors as she paces back and forth, looking at the various ovals of light. Her hair is pulled back with a large tortoiseshell clip, her face bare.
“I know we said we were going to hang the landscapes—but I’m having my doubts.”
“But we only have eight Clara pictures,” says Ruth. She folds her arms and stands in the middle of the room.
Clara is playing with two of her Barbies, trying to get one to comb the other one’s hair. She pulls the comb through gently, holding up one small hunk of knotted hair at a time, the way her mother does with her—but it isn’t working. Barbie’s hair is more and more of a rat’s nest. Serves Clara right, she’s only half paying attention to the job at hand. She’s listening to her own name, repeated over and over again, bouncing off the walls of the Kubovy Weiss Gallery. Clara pictures. Clara. Each time she hears her name, she looks up. But they are not talking to her.
“Eight. Exactly,” says Kubovy. “Large format. One hung on each wall. Think of it, Ruth. It will be stark. Fabulous. A tremendous statement.”
“But the landscapes,” Ruth says. “I’m quite attached to the landscapes.”
Kubovy takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales through his nose and mouth. The white smoke swirls around his face. With his salt-and-pepper hair, long and curly around the collar of his shirt, he looks like a feline creature from one of Clara’s picture books.
“If you put the landscapes on the same wall as the Clara pictures, they’ll look like shit,” says Kubovy. “Excuse my language.”
Clara looks up. She’s pretty sure he just said a bad word. And Ruth, who has been in a kind of dreamy contemplative mood, as blank as the blank walls, snaps to attention.
“What did you say?”
Kubovy shrugs. “It’s my job to tell you the truth. The landscapes are derivative. Immature. I see nothing new or fresh in them.”
“But you took me on after you saw those slides—”
“That’s true,” says Kubovy. “I suppose I saw some glimmer of talent. But nothing compared to the Clara photographs, Ruth. Surely you know that.”
Kubovy walks over to a rolling cart, on which a series of large crates are stacked, each labeled with black Magic Marker on the light, splintery wood: Clara with the Lizard. Clara, Napping. Clara in the Fountain. He pries open the slats of wood on the Clara in the Fountain crate and carefully removes the photograph, bits of tissue paper floating to the floor. The photograph is five feet square—bigger than Clara’s whole body—and framed in simple black lacquer. Kubovy struggles to carry it over to the wall.
“Rico, Brian!” he calls into the back room, and two young men materialize. One of them is wearing a bandanna on his head, just like the bandanna Clara has brought for her Western Barbie outfit.
“Let’s give this a try,” says Kubovy.
Rico and Brian hold the photograph up to the wall. Clara gathers her three Barbies together on her lap and watches. She hasn’t seen these pictures before—not in their final form. She’s only seen the Polaroids Ruth has taken, sketches, ideas, the barest outline of the real thing.
Now, she sees herself. So gigantic! So much bigger than she actually is! She remembers the night—it was very late—Ruth woke her out of a deep sleep and bundled her into the elevator. Where are we going, Mommy? Clara had asked her. Just to the courtyard, sweetheart. Everything’s set up. It won’t take long, I promise. As the elevator made its slow descent, Clara looked at her mother in the dim
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