@@@@@ Maybe she saw something on my face,
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Maybe she saw something on my face, because Mary
laughed"Has it been that awful?"
"No," I said, and it hadn't been, really, although
her questions about my technique had made me feel
uncomfortableWhat it came down to was I looked
at things, then slopped on the paintThat was my
techniqueAnd influences? What could I say? The
lightIt always came down to the light, both in
the pictures I liked to look at and the ones I
liked to paintWhat it did to the surface of
things, and what it seemed to suggest about what
was inside, hunting a way outBut that didn't
sound scholarly; to my ears it sounded goofy
"Okay," she said, "last subject: how many more
paintings are there?"
We were sitting in Mary Ire's penthouse apartment
on Davis Islands, a tony Tampa enclave which
looked to me like the art deco capital of the
worldThe living room was a vast, nearly empty
space with a couch at one end and two slingback
chairs at the otherThere were no books, but then,
603
there was no TV, eitherOn the east wall, where
it would catch the early light, was a large David
HockneyMary and I were at opposite ends of the
couchShe had her shorthand pad in her lapThere
was an ashtray perched beside her on the arm of
the sofaBetween us was a big silver Wollensak
tape-recorderIt had to be fifty years old, but
the reels turned soundlesslyGerman engineering,
baby
Mary wore no make-up, but her lips were coated
with clear goo that made them shineHer hair was
tied up in a careless, coming-apart twist that
looked simultaneously elegant and slatternlyShe
smoked English Ovals and sipped what looked like
straight Scotch from a Waterford tumbler (she
offered me a drink and seemed disappointed when I
opted for bottled water)She wore tailored cotton
slacksHer face looked old, used, and sexyIts
best days might have been around the time Bonnie
and Clyde was playing in theaters, but her eyes
were still breathtaking, even with lines at the
corners, cracks in the eyelids, and no make-up to
enhance themThey were Sophia Loren ey