Speed dating bradley stoke
She begins dating a golden boy of that world, Sandro Valera, an artist and wealthy heir to an Italian motorcycle fortune.For an art project, ‘Reno’ rides a Moto Valera in the land speed trials on the Bonneville Salt Flats.I went there, crossed the top of Nevada, and came down just over the Utah border.I watched the water, which pushed peculiar drifts, frothy, white, and ragged.He tried to redirect her by introducing me, not as his girlfriend but as “a young artist, just out of school,” as if to say, you can’t have me, but here’s something you might consider picking up. The foreman who built the Spiral Jetty was quoted explaining how tricky it had been to construct it on such soft mud, and that he had almost lost some very expensive equipment.An offer she had to maneuver around in order to press on and get him to commit to the studio visit.“With an art degree from . He was risking men and front loaders and regretted taking the job, and then the artist shows up in the Utah summertime desert, it’s 118 degrees, and the guy is wearing black leather pants.The white drifts looked almost like snow but they moved like soap, quivering and weightless.Spiky desert plants along the shore were coated in an icy fur of white salt.
Helen Hellenberger, in her tight dress and leather flats, holding her big leather pocketbook as if it were a toolbox, had said she wanted so badly to come to Sandro’s studio. She’d put her hand on his arm and it seemed as if she wasn’t going to let go until he said yes. Helen Hellenberger wanted to steal him for her own gallery. Where did you say—” She was feigning a low-level politeness, just enough to satisfy him.“Nevada,” I said.“Well, now you can really learn about art.” She smiled at him as if depositing a secret between them. What a mentor for someone who’s just arrived from . I had learned about him and the Spiral Jetty from an obituary in the newspaper and not from my art department, which was provincial and conservative (the truth in Helen’s snub was that I did learn more from Sandro than I had in art school).The best ideas were often so simple, even obvious, except that no one had thought of them before. I passed the weigh station, breezed through third gear and into the midrange of fourth, hitting seventy miles an hour. As I approached the Greyhound, ready to pass, I saw that the windows were meshed and blacked. He gave me the middle finger.“Save your freedom for a rainy day,” someone had written on the bathroom wall at Rudy’s Bar in So Ho, where Sandro and Ronnie liked to drink. It was so new no one in the United States had one but me. The one I’d owned in college, a ’65, had been white. I started out riding in the woods behind our house, with Scott and Andy, who had Yamaha DTs, the first real dirt bikes.