There was a sniff from a man I recognized as Jack Branksome, a novelist who was famous for two things. One, his debut novel, which theNew York Timeshad called a tour de force. Two, his refusal to let Hollywood actress and power producerBlair Kellermoon use his tour de force in her book club. The latter had earned him a reputation as a snobbish elitist.
“Well, Teddy sure acts like a celebrity if you believe what you read,” said Maiv, who was wearing a Minnesota Twins T-shirt. I was a baseball fan myself, so this endeared her to me. “He’s kind of a grump, I gather.”
“Can confirm,” I said.
They started asking me questions about him since I was the only one there who had seen him. And I hadseenhim. Heh. Was Concrete Temple really broken up for good? Had Teddy said anything about the hotel room incident? What was he like?
I did my best to answer as I poured myself a coffee from the breakfast buffet. I didn’t know if Concrete Temple was broken up for good, but they must be broken up for at least the summer, right, if he was here? He had not said anything about the hotel room incident. “As for what he’s like, hmm. He is very…”
Rude. Humorless.
Gorgeous. In possession of hair that would make teenage ballerinas weep.
What could I say that was truthful but wouldn’t sound like I was running him down? Or objectifying him? Not that I cared, really, but it was probably a good idea to behave with decorum in front of my colleagues. “Teddy Knight is very…”
“Here!” Maiv whispered.
I turned, knowing what I’d find because I had that same squirmy feeling I’d gotten earlier when Teddy had been staring at me.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Teddy drawled as he approached. He was wearing a ratty gray T-shirt, a pair of cutoffs, and the combat boots that had passed muster with Lena last night. His hair was in a fresh bun.
“Good morning! It looks like we’re all here!”
Saved by Marion.
She strode in and clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention. If I were prone to intimidation, I would say Marion was a bit intimidating. To begin with, she was ultrarich. She’d have to be, to be funding Wild Arts. She was also smart and stylish and had that air about her that people do when they feel confident about their place in the world. Of course, it’s probably easier to feel confident about your place in the world when you’re ultrarich. Some of us had to work to acquire that attitude, had to constantly nurture it.
“Has everyone had enough to eat?” She gestured at the buffet. “The kitchen isn’t up to full speed until tomorrow. The binders in your room list the hours of meal service. You’re welcome to eat here or to get your food to go—though I note that campers must eat here. For now, let’s grab what we want and decamp to the flagpole.”
Outside, there were rows of rough-hewn wooden benches around the flagpole. Marion explained there was a morning ceremony to kick off each day. “It’ll be led by the counselors. Your attendance is optional, but I’d love it if you could make it a few times each session. As you know, your role here is to mentor. Beyond your initial one-on-one meetings with campers, your office hours, and your help with and attendance at the closing performances, I leave it up to you as to what that mentorship will look like. The counselors will run activities—of both the arty and non-arty variety—and rehearsals as we get closer to the end of the session, but you are more than welcome to join in at any time.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. Now that we’re all here, let’s do introductions. Tell us who you are and a bit about your artistic goals for your tenure here.”
Danny I’d already met. He talked about the distraction of regular life and his desire to get a bunch of pieces made this summer, including some with natural, experimental glazes he was working on. I didn’t know anything about pottery, but he seemed interesting.
Maiv said she wanted to “play with the tension between urban and natural.” “We treat it as a binary,” she said, “but as I learned when I did a recent show on the encroachment of nature in abandoned urban spaces, nature takes over pretty fast. I want to explore what that means. I’ve been doing this in the city, but I thought it would be interesting to come here and approach it from this angle. What is nature like when people suddenly occupy it?” That sounded cool and ratified my initial impression of Maiv as a person worth getting to know.
Next was Jack Branksome. As far as I could tell, as he talked about his novel in progress, which “plays with themes of celibacy as metaphor for the post-postmodern,” his reputation as an elitist snob might be at least a teeny bit justified. He said he worked best in silence and had trouble concentrating at his condo in Minneapolis, so he hoped the quiet here would enable him to get a draft done. Good luck to you, Jack Branksome. May Blair Kellermoon have mercy on your soul.
Then there was Caleb Lyons, a theater actor from Minneapolis who was working on a one-man show. “I’ve somehow got myself typecast as a serious tragic hero—I’ve done Hamlet and Romeo, and I’m aging into Lear and Vanya. Which is fine. No, it’sgreat. I adore my job, and I consider myself lucky to have it. But I got into theater originally because I loved musicals—I was that musical theater kid. So I started thinking about writing a one-man show that would combine my love of classical theater with music. Most of what you see in that space is parody—thecomplete works of Shakespeare in sixty minutes, that kind of thing. Which is also great—there’s room for all of that. But I’ve been working on a piece that is basically a memoir told through the roles I’ve played, but with music. It’s hard to explain. As for why I came here specifically, honestly, I got ahead of myself and applied for and got a spot at the Brooklyn Fringe Festival in October, so now I’m in panic mode.” He performed a grin that became an exaggerated, self-deprecating grimace.
Ha. I liked this guy. I liked what he said, and I liked his refreshing candor.
“But it’s all good,” he went on. “It’s almost done—I’m just fiddling with it at this point. And I have some connections to an off-Broadway theater that may pick it up if they like what they see at the festival. So I just have to, you know… finish fiddling.”
It was my turn. “My name is Gretchen Miller. I’m a pinch hitter. You probably know that Imani Tran was supposed to be here. You might not know the name unless you know modern dance, but she’s a big deal. I am not a big deal. I’m a dance teacher. I think I might be the living embodiment of the saying about ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’”
There was a polite murmur of disagreement. “It’s OK. I’m not saying that to run myself down. I’m a great teacher, if I do say so myself. And businesswoman, too.” I really was. I was proud of the way I, someone from a modest background and with no entrepreneurial experience to speak of, had built my studio from nothing into a place that celebrated dance in a way that—I hoped—turned its back on some of the garbage that often came along with dance culture. “I have my own studio, and I’m getting ready to expand it.
“Because I wasn’t planning on coming, and because, to behonest, my focus on dance has always been nested inside my identity as an entrepreneur, I can’t say I have a coherent artistic goal for my time here. And I’m only here for the first session. I’ll probably turn my attention to some choreographing for the upcoming season at my studio, but to be totally frank, I’m here more to achieve some personal goals.”
Wait. I should not have said that last part, given that I was not prepared to follow it up with a monologue about dating apps and my impending and voluntary crone-ification. So I went in with some humor for the save. “Yes, very important personal goals, which I should not have mentioned, because now I’m probably supposed to tell you what they are, but I am not going to do that.” I grinned, and so did some of my audience. “Let’s just leave it that I am in need of a reset, so I’m appreciating the change of scenery.”
“Thanks, Gretchen,” Marion said. “We’re so glad to have you here. We support artistic goals and personal goals alike. A reset, whatever form it takes, sounds like a worthy aim. And last but not least, Teddy?”
Teddy was still looking at me, as if he hadn’t registered that I’d stopped speaking. Marion had to call on him again, and he finally shook himself loose. “I’m wanting to write enough songs for an album.”
That was all he said, which cracked me up. These people were dying for more from Mr. Rock and Roll. I knew Teddy better than they did—I’d seen him naked, after all; did I mention that?—so I knew they were going to be disappointed.
