“Not into wine. Beer’s more my thing. I’m just trying to look the part.”
“Of what?”
“Knowledgeable art admirer.” He cleared his throat. “My business card says I’m a venture capitalist, but I’m not totally there. I’m working my way up. That requires looking confident.”
“Aren’t you?”
His lips lifted in a lopsided way, still not yet a smile, but sincere. “Not like you. You look bohemian through and through.”
I wondered if I’d gone too far with the outfit. Maybe the top was too bare for proper Bostonians, or the many-stacked bangles were silly, or the cowboy boots clashed with the rest. “That bad?”
“Thatgood, no, it’sgood. Do you live here in Boston?”
“For a week now and then.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“Trying to figure that out.”
“Where are you originally from?”
“Connecticut. You?”
“New Jersey. My dad’s a dairy farmer.”
I smiled at that. I wouldn’t have guessed it, though he could probably say the same about me. “My dad teaches math,” I said to even us out. “He’s buttoned up, very into formulas.”
“Which you are not.”
“Which I am not.” I grinned at a friend who approached. A fellow artist, he wore his standard black T-shirt and jeans. For the occasion, he had added a scarf that my mom would call dashing but that I called simply the price paid for the honor of eating high-end canapes.
“Hey, Mack,” he said and kissed both of my cheeks, then tossed a hand back at the room. “Is this cool or what?”
“Very cool,” I said. “Uh, Ollie, this is…”
“Edward,” said the tall man and extended his hand. They shook, which seemed to exhaust Ollie’s patience for nonartists, because as abruptly as he’d come, he turned and left.
I was about to explain that artists weren’t always socially skilled, when Edward said, “Mack?”
“Mackenzie. Edward? Ed? Woody?”
“Just Edward. Tell me about your work.”
I thought about how best to explain it to a layman. “I sculpt people, but in an interpretive way. I find a trait in my subject that I want to capture, and I sculpt the face to reflect it.”
“Then, you make head shots? Torsos?”
“Fragments of both. I’ve started doing family groups.”
“Singly or together?”
“Together. It’s the challenge of finding an overriding trait. Some families are cohesive, some are disjointed. Some are matriarchal, some are blended. I spendas much prep time getting to know the family as I do sculpting them. You must do the same thing with your work.” I paused. What I knew about venture capitalism could fit into one of my mother’s tiny pinch-of-spice cups. Cautious, I asked, “Don’t you?”
“Oh yeah, I do.” He cleared his throat. “But hey,” he said with what might have been a smile, though it was small and tentative, “I’m not big on whatever it is they’re serving here, and I’m starved. I passed an Indian place down the block. It looked interesting, and it wasn’t packed, which may mean the food stinks, but at least it’d be quiet enough to talk.” He dipped his head, seeming a little unsure but genuinely hopeful, and asked, “Want some dinner?”
Meals were incidental in my life. I had assumed that dinner tonight would consist of whatever I munched on here, but there was no reason to stay. I had come for my friend, and for the gallery owner, whom I had met several times and who I dreamed would show my work one day. I had already talked with both. There were lots of other people here I knew; we could talk about art all night. But I always talked about art. Venture capital was different. So was dairy farming. So, frankly, was a man who could talk easily and, despite his appearance, came across as honest and unpretentious.
***
