When we reunited at one of our residencies in Vermont, Hedy complimented my clothes, told me my style was becoming more sophisticated. It was a big deal, coming from her, with her fur coat and cat-eye sunglasses, the girl who used to roller-skate to work through the East Village, my own real-life Jackie O.
Then she said the only thing off was my footwear, my hippie Jesus sandals, a tragic remnant from my Nag Champa-scented undergrad days– “What are those, Naots?”
If it had come from anyone else, the comment would have stung for weeks. From Hedy, it was purely constructive: I savored it like one of her sweet-tart workshop critiques, the ones that whispered, I know you can do better.
She was right, they were Naots.
