The studio, his studio, that dirty gentleman’s studio, was bare. All the carefully collected furniture (he collected many things, all of them carefully) was pushed out of the way. The long main room was clear and the mats were on the hardwood floor and early morning light was shining in thick square beams from the old windows and showed the little particles of dust in the air.
Dorothy, as usual, was making art. Luckily, she sometimes let me watch.
She said nothing but led me to a little chair with a connected desk; the ones they have in college lecture halls. On it was a small old fashioned portable typewriter. Black and scratched and loaded with a fresh sheet of paper. A table next to the desk held a box with more paper.
She kissed me on the cheek and left me to my part, which was to record what was about to happen.