September, 1996
"Yes, Mom, I’ll be back from San Francisco by the end of the week. I just have to do a little research for the magazine. I have to finish packing now, my plane leaves this evening. Okay...okay...yes...say hello to Dad for me...I’ve got another call, Mom, I have to go. Bye."
The phone beeped again, and I switched over. "Hello?"
"Hello, may I speak to Ms. Dagny Thorsonne, please?"
I sighed. I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice, which meant that this was probably a solicitor. "Speaking."
"Hello, Dagny? This is Karen Cuthbert. I don’t know if you remember me, but we knew each other in high school."
I admit I was a bit taken aback. I hadn’t spoken to Karen since graduation. I’d known her slightly, way back when, but I wouldn’t say we were friends. Acquaintances, maybe. We studied at the same library after school.
"Yes, Karen...how are you?"
"Oh, Dagny, I’m doing wonderfully, thanks. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not calling just to chat. Actually, you may not know this, but I’m working at the Ende Gallery of Modern Art in San Francisco. And if you don’t mind me bragging a bit, I’m the assistant administrator."
She paused, presumably to hear my congratulations. But, chatterbox as she was, she didn’t bother to wait very long.
"Anyway, we’re opening officially this week, one p.m. on Wednesday. And when I heard that you were going to be doing research for a piece for your magazine in the area, I had to find you and invite you to the opening. I haven’t seen you since graduation! But we’re going to be featuring some fine artists, a few newcomers plus some old hats in the business, and I thought you might like to come."
I was glad she couldn’t see me shaking my head. Apparently the years hadn’t slowed down Karen’s everlastingly wagging tongue. This was partially a business trip, but also had an element of vacation about it--I took five days of vacation time to add to the two days the magazine was sending me out. I hadn’t really had a break since graduating college (a full year and a half early, no less), and I deserved one. But an art gallery opening, with its flamboyant artists and pretentious clients was not exactly my idea of a good time.
"Thanks, Karen. I appreciate it. But I don’t know what my schedule will be like for Wednesday. I can’t really say--"
"Oh, Dagny, you have to come! There will be all VIP’s invited to the opening! The exhibits are sooo unusual, and I know how much you like unusual things! And I’d love to catch up with you. Please say yes? Please?"
I sighed. Karen would go on till doomsday. But, aside from her talkative habits, she was a decent person in high school, if I remembered correctly. This invitation was probably stemming out of that time she and I worked on an art history project together.
Plus, it would add up to free publicity for her gallery if I chose to do an article. I never said Karen was stupid.
It might be interesting. Why the hell not.
"Okay, Karen, I’ll try to arrange my schedule."
I could almost hear her jump up and down for joy. "Oh, Dagny, that’s wonderful! Give me the name and address of your hotel so I can have the invitation waiting there for you. This is so exciting!"
I provided Karen with the necessary information. Apparently she’d read that tiny little blurb in a corner of the last page of the magazine that read: "Next month: Dagny Thorsonne writes on the opening of the new Native American wing of the San Francisco Museum." God knows how Karen found out I was going to be in San Francisco THAT particular week. Finally, she let me go, promising me we’d talk more when she saw me on Wednesday. Goody.
After packing I headed over to the airport. The plane was delayed, of course, but the flight wasn’t too bad. When I arrived at San Francisco, it was still daylight out. It had been early evening when I left New York, and darkening quickly. It was a rather dramatic change.
After finding the hotel, picking up Karen’s invitation, settling in my room and ordering room service (I really was not in the mood to check out the hotel restaurant), I unpacked a little. This was a nice hotel, and had plenty of room for my week’s worth of supplies. I investigated the bathroom and found the usual complimentary items, which I figured I’d take home, drop them in a barf bag I’d stolen from the airplane, and give them to my younger brother. He’d get a kick out of them. I always bring my own shampoo and soap anyway.
The two days were spent with my mini voice-recorder in the SF Museum. I took plenty of verbal notes, talked to the curator and tour guides, and started to mentally construct the article. The Native American wing was nice, as was the rest of the Museum, and I learned a lot about different tribes across the US and Canada. I visited the gift shop and picked up a pseudo-authentic Native American dream catcher to hang in the window of my hotel room. I’d forgotten mine at home.
Then came Wednesday and the gallery opening. I dressed nicely, and brought my recorder and a camera, just in case. It might make an interesting short.
At precisely one o’clock I was at the Ende Gallery. I entered, and saw someone who must have been Karen greeting various individuals, including somebody who looked like someone I met once while interviewing for the New York Times. Then she spotted me, and my brain started to turn to mush in anticipation of dealing with her.
"DAGNY! Oh my God, Dagny Thorsonne!" She rushed up to greet me. I don’t like being touched, period, and this was way too much. "How are you? I’m so glad you could make it!" She chattered on for a while, I was polite and updated her on a few major (positive) events in my life, and she went on about the gallery. I started to head towards the main room. The doors were still closed, of course.
"Oh, Dagny, this is such an exciting place to work in! All these artists are sooo wonderful, so talented!" Somebody whispered in Karen’s ear, and she nodded. "Dagny, I’m afraid I have to slip away for a while, it’s time to announce the opening. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?"
Apparently, living in California had gotten to Karen’s brain. "Sure."
So a short speech was made by the administrator, and then Karen did her piece, thanking all the artists and sponsors who made this gallery possible. (Yes, I admit it, I had my recorder turned on. I figured I’d save me trouble looking for another story.) Then the doors were thrown open, and we all filed in.
Groups began to conglomerate around the different displays. I walked around a bit, noting the exhibits, and the artists featured. I would have to talk to a few artists, and maybe get a quote from the administrator. I’d leave Karen out of it. No need for her name to be in print. She’d be slightly annoyed, I knew, but I really didn’t care.
I noticed an unusual number of women flocking around one of the featured displays. There seemed to be a lot of whispering and appraising, knowing looks being telegraphed among the ladies--and a few men, actually. I wormed my way through the crowd, and managed to get close enough to see what was going on.
It was the picture that caught my eye. It was an odd subject, even for a modern art piece. It featured a few people, dressed up in clothes that looked like rejects from a renaissance festival, near a wide and apparently deep precipice. I couldn’t decide whether I liked it or not, but made a note on my recorder. The next piece was even more striking--a large canvas covered with fiery oranges, yellows, and reds, arranged into what looked like a very abstract shape of a bird. I figured it must have been a rendition of the mythical phoenix, the bird that was reborn out of its own ashes. I fingered the small pendant at the base of my throat--once, at the New Age shop I frequent, I had come across a pretty silver necklace with a bird’s figure engraved into the surface of the pendant. Nancy, one of the shop’s owners, said that it was a phoenix, and explained the different legends behind that famous creature. I liked the idea behind the bird as well as finding the necklace attractive; so I bought it.
But I found the picture extraordinarily interesting. It was beautiful, in a wild way. And it seemed that our friend the artist seemed to have a liking for mythical creatures, because there was also a rendition of a snowy unicorn on a field of green, a beautiful jewel hung around its neck.
Apparently this artist has read more than one fantasy book in his time. The paintings were excellent, but seemed a little out of place. But then, who was I to judge what fine art was. Hell, I hadn’t even wanted to come to this thing.
The artist was standing next to his work. He had very very red hair. I couldn’t see his features very well, but from the whispers I was hearing from women closer to the front he was apparently very handsome. He was talking to a few people. Then he turned and I saw him full face.
It wasn’t that I thought he was attractive. I still couldn’t see him very well. But something about him...his air, what I could make out of his face--something struck me. He seemed so damn familiar....I started to work my way closer, perhaps to get a better look at him, on the pretense of a short interview. And then--
"DAGNY!" Karen’s voice cut through me like a scimitar. She took my arm and started to lead me away. "It’s so crowded over here, let’s walk around a bit. What do you think of the exhibits?"
I swore inwardly.
The rest of the day at the gallery was not especially notable. Karen, taking me under her wing, introduced me to a couple of the artists and VIP’s. I got a few quotes, talked to the administrator briefly--I think she figured I was writing an article. But I never got back over to the red-headed guy’s exhibit. I think he himself left early. I carefully prodded Karen about it, and she couldn’t remember his name, but mentioned briefly that he had another important engagement that day and had needed to leave early. She didn’t sound too pleased. I figured that was because right now, this gallery was the moon and the stars to her, and didn’t realize that this was an everyday occurance for some artists.
I finally broke away from her, and, turning down her invitation to dinner on the grounds of jet lag, I headed back to the hotel. I thought about that red-headed man. I wished I had learned his name at least, so I could perhaps find him and set up an interview. He seemed so familiar to me, and I didn’t know why. There was something about him...
I finished out the week in San Francisco, enjoying the sights and the shopping. I had found a little nearby park with a pond, and sat there, thinking and writing my articles. But finally the time came to go home. As I borded the plane to New York, my thoughts flew back to my experiences this past week, and, when I was safely buckled into my seat for take-off, I promptly fell asleep...perchance, to dream.