Florence Baker, the cheery manager at the Danzig Heights Community Center, had promised Joan she’d check if anyone on her staff remembered the names of teachers who’d taught kids’ art classes back in the day.
Mrs Baker kept her promise and came up with a name: Kathy Zevin.
‘Kathy doesn’t teach anymore,’ she told me, ‘but I hear she still makes art. She had a studio in a converted industrial building on West 66th. It’s set up as a city-subsidized artists’ collective, apartments upstairs and studios beneath. I’m sure she’s still there. Terrific place. Can’t imagine anyone lucky enough to get one of those units voluntarily moving out.’
I called Ms Zevin. When she heard I wanted to interview her about Courtney and Penny, she kindly invited me over for a visit. I found the building, a sprawling block-long two-story edifice with glass brick windows facing the street. There was an archway in the middle that led to a courtyard. Here there were huge plate-glass windows, some draped shut, others open to the sunlight.
Through the open ones I saw men and women in first-floor studios painting, sculpting, making ceramics. In one I saw a man and woman rehearsing ballet steps, in another a space set up as a photo studio. I never knew such a place existed in Calista. City-subsidized – was that possible? If so, how could I wangle myself a studio there?
A wall register showed the names of the occupants listed alphabetically along with their respective métiers. I saw listings for people who identified themselves as Painter, Potter, Sculptor, Dancer, Photographer, Composer, Singer, Cellist. The last name on this list was Katherine Zevin, Painter.
I rang her on the intercom.
‘Come on up,’ she said. ‘Unit fourteen.’ The buzzer sounded, I opened the door and entered.
I was greeted by a rail-thin woman with kindly features. She wore a shapeless garment, the kind my mom used to call a ‘house dress.’ Her face was deeply lined, her head bobbed slightly and, I noticed, her hands shook.
‘Don’t mind the tremors. I’ve got Parkinson’s with a touch of Lewy’s Bodies … or maybe it’s the other way around. The bad part is that my painting hand shakes unless I hold my brushes tight. I’ve had to adjust my style, learn to use the shaking as a plus. Then there’s the fun part – the hallucinations. Sometimes I’ll see a cat dash across the room, or an iguana crouching in the corner. I like seeing visions. They spice up my life. So, young man, let’s have tea and talk.’
She had clear memories of Courtney and Penny.
‘Two of the most talented kids I ever taught,’ she said. ‘Summers I used to teach at Red Raven, a summer arts camp west of Cleveland. That’s where the girls met. They were cabin mates and soon became great pals. Pen had been taking classes with me over at the Danzig Center. Come autumn, Court wanted to do the same. I remember she had a hard time convincing her mom. She was going to that snobby school, Ashley-Burnett, and her mom thought the art instruction there was good enough. Anyway, her mom finally gave in. The girls did wonderful work, dark work. I believe both of them saw the world the same way. They had one of those special friendships too, sealed by devotion to art-making. You know, like Picasso and Matisse.’ She chuckled. ‘Hardly on that level, of course. They were kids. But it was like they fed off each other, reacted to each other’s work. I had them do critiques, and that was fun. First they’d hem and haw, then they’d get into it. “I don’t get where you’re going with this one, Court.” “Hey, Pen, you’re going to have to reverse the whole thing to make it work.”’
We were sitting in the living space of her loft. The ceiling was twelve feet high. The walls were covered with her art work, unframed canvasses of various sizes, filled with stylized imagery. In one I saw pieces of chairs piled into what looked like a canoe. In another the naked muscular back of a man, cut off at the neck and waist, filled the foreground against a red sky.
I asked her what she meant by ‘dark work.’ She thought about it.
‘They were similar in some ways, different in others. Court was great at rendering a likeness. She could do it from memory. Even at that age, she could have made it as a street portraitist. But her vision was dark. Even in life-drawing class, she’d twist the models’ features or put some malice into their eyes. She didn’t have much use for color, so I’d say her primary talent was draftsmanship – or “draftspersonship” as some call it these days. Pen – her approach was more conceptual. Court would start with a figure or a face, go in close and build out from there. Pen would start with an idea, sketch it out in broad strokes, then fill it in. Her ideas were as dark as Court’s vision. She liked the idea of making paintings that would oppress the viewer. “I hate pretty!” – she’d repeat that like a mantra. “If it’s pretty, it’s telling a lie,” she’d say. The interesting thing was that even taking opposite approaches she and Court would end up with fairly similar works.’ She paused. ‘I was so worried for them when they ran off together. I’m not religious but I prayed they’d stay safe.’
I asked her if she had any inkling they were planning to run.
‘I used to ask myself that,’ she said. ‘There was something conspiratorial going on with them – a lot of nudging and whispering. You know what teens are like. But those girls weren’t whispering about boys or clothes, they were whispering about art. It was as if they were living in their own private bubble.’
She paused. ‘They left behind a couple of sketchbooks. After they went missing, this detective came around to the center asking to see their work. He said there might be clues in it about where they’d gone. I handed over the sketchbooks and never saw them again. I never believed for a second they’d been kidnapped. I figured they’d made a run for it, which was hard for most people to understand. Especially with Court, who led such a privileged life. Neither one was happy at home. I knew they had family issues, but had no idea what they were. I had a hunch they’d taken off for New York or San Francisco, some place where they could live out their dream of being artists. I was pretty surprised when it turned out they were in a cult house over on Locust.’
Her eyes teared up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I can’t help myself. Those kids meant a lot to me. They were so passionate, so intensely into art-making, the way only young people can be. You teach for years, young people come and go. Most have some talent – some more, others less. Then along come two girls with talents that are huge. You want to help them, guide them, show them ways to develop, forge their own styles. Then they run off. Except for one brief visit from Pen, I never saw them again. For years I thought I’d hear about them, that they’d emerge, exhibit, show work that would astound the world. Never happened. Some kids show talent that burns white hot, then burns out when they become adults. Makes me sad this probably happened with them.’
‘You say Penny came by to see you?’
‘Just one time. She was living in San Francisco, attending SFAI, home for a few days to visit her folks. One day, out of the blue, she stopped in to see me. I asked her if she was still making art. “I stopped painting for a while,” she said. “Lately I’ve been fooling around with abstract sculpture.” Fooling around – words I never imagined would pass her lips. But what struck me most were her insistent questions about Court. Did I know what happened to her? Where she might be found? Her family, she said, refused to tell her anything. They admonished her: “You two are not supposed to see each other again.” Pen said they blamed her for pushing Court to run away. They told her she’d damaged Court enough, and warned her not to try to find her.
‘I was astonished by this. She said after the police broke into the house and dragged her and Court out, they split the girls up. She, Pen, had been taken to a so-called deprogramming farm out of state, which was ironic, she said, because though the house on Locust wasn’t anything like a cult, the deprogramming place literally was. She told me it was brutal. Luckily, she said, she didn’t have to stay there long. Her dad came for her and took her home. “I have friends now,” she told me, “but none as close as Court. I’ll always remember working here side by side with her, and then later at the house.”’
Ms Zevin’s eyes lit up when I told her about the murals they’d painted in that house. When I asked if she’d like to see some photos of them on my phone, she nodded vigorously and sat up straight.
‘Wonderful, wonderful … yes, these are terrific,’ she said as I flicked through Jase’s images. ‘Their work for sure. Thrilling to see it. Just wonderful, wonderful …’
Again I saw tears forming in her eyes. I could see she was getting tired. But when I stood to leave, she insisted I stay a while longer and tell her about myself. I told her that I’d studied fine art photography at CAI, and now was eking out a living doing wedding photography in the black community.
‘We all had to take jobs like that. I have artist friends, terrific painters, who had to do house painting to get by. I was fortunate to find teaching positions. At least your day job’s in your field. I’d love to see your work, Tally. Please come visit me again and bring along your portfolio.’
There was a meeting that night at Hannah’s loft, the four of us – Hannah, Jase, Joan and me. We started out pooling everything we’d discovered. Joan had hit the jackpot with Nate Silver. And Jase had found out a lot about the Ragdoll Artist.
He showed us the photo he’d snapped of the erotic ragdoll. We all found this doll perplexing.
‘Why would she make an X-rated doll to please some German erotica collector?’ I asked.
Hannah announced that she and Jase were going back to Lucerne to wait for the go-between to turn up.
‘Our hope is the guy’ll lead us to the Ragdoll Artist. Then we’ll know for sure,’ she said.
Jason said he didn’t buy Nate Silver’s claim that the Cobbs, being uptight WASPS, were incapable of doing weird stuff.
‘You don’t run away for no reason,’ he said. ‘To me, the murals tell a story of something traumatic. Like the grown-ups are performing some kind of satanic rite, witnessed surreptitiously by the little girl in the corner with her dog.’
He said it was clear now that we had to find Penny Dawson.
‘I’m sure I can find her,’ Joan said.
Jase also thought it was important to interview Elizabeth Schechtner. ‘She could be the key to the whole thing.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Why don’t the two of us fly out to Albuquerque? Cindy could set her up for us.’
‘Then we play good cop/bad cop?’ Hannah asked.
‘Maybe something like that. Listen, guys,’ Jason said, ‘I feel we’re closing in. We’re starting to understand these kids. But there’s still a lot we don’t know. How did a couple of disturbed teenagers create something so powerful? And, big question, what’s the story behind the murals? Do they depict something real or is the whole thing some weird fantasy they had? If it’s a fantasy, then there’s no story. Me, I’m betting there is a story.’