Even so, I was taken aback: the room was tinier than I could have imagined—just one small room, with a half bathroom to the right; no kitchen; and a single window. There was a double bed raised high off the floor to the immediate left, just after the door. Stacks of things—books, magazines, boxes—towered. Opposite the bed was a small chair surrounded by more stacks—I can’t even quite say what all these things were—creating a kind of island with just a narrow moat around it. The walls were lined floor to (almost) ceiling with more—boxes, books, clothes, and paintings—colorful canvases of landscapes and portraits. The wall opposite the door was mirrored, but the mirror was only visible at the very top, for it was covered up three fourths of the way.
By my description alone, one might think this tiny space was the home of a hoarder. But that would mean I am giving the wrong impression. Even though this small room was extraordinarily packed, there was no whiff of madness, of decrepitude. Things were colorful and soft (fabrics, clothes, hats). It smelled nice, clean. Everything was within reach; I supposed she needed nothing more. This was simply the home of a small person who had lived here for sixty-six years, and had sixty-six years’ worth of things.
“I’m glad you could come,” she said in a sweet, gracious way.
I was still dazzled, as if adjusting to bright sunlight after coming out of a tunnel. I thanked Ilona for having me and, with her permission, put my camera, bag, and jacket on her bed.
Ilona was dressed more casually than I’d seen her before when taking her picture in the park. She wore a brown caftan with some sequins at the neck, a blue visor in her bright orange hair, and she was barefoot. She had her extraordinary eyelashes on, inch-long eyelashes she makes out of her own orange hair.
She quickly got down to business. I was here for a reason, not just a social visit: She told me she was going to make a drawing of me. “You took my picture, now I’m going to make a picture of you. Let’s have you sit here”—she gestured toward a chair in the island right next to the bed—“the light will be better.”
I smiled to myself; there was literally no other place I could have sat, except for on top of the bed.
I asked if I could help, but she insisted, No. I watched as this very small woman moved things from the chair so I could sit there, in the process creating a new stack. Her movements were slow and tremulous—Ilona has a sort of Parkinsonian tremor—but deliberate. “Here, try that.”
I sat. Ilona frowned. “Too high. I’m very short, you know.”
I chuckled and nodded.
I stood. She took more things off the chair—more books and magazines that had been stacked atop it. “Okay,” Ilona said, “I think that should be good.”
I sat down. She appraised me, narrowing her eyes. “Okay, we’re almost ready,” she said in her sweet, cheerful voice.
Ilona sat opposite me, our knees nearly touching. She had positioned a stool to the right and in front of her. I rested my left foot on the bottom rung. Ilona studied the crowded shelf to her left and, after some deliberation, chose three pencils and placed them atop the stool. From some other compartment, she selected a single, small sheet of thick paper, about four by six inches. She took up a small spiral-bound pad and placed the piece of paper on top.
“Okay, now get comfortable, just relax.” I sat back a little bit.
“No, really relax. Shoulders down.”
“Like this?”
“Yes, that will be fine. But you have to take off your glasses. Now, don’t look out the window. You must look at me. I am drawing your eye.”
“You’re drawing my eye?”
“Yes, dear!” She said nothing more. My eye? Just one? I somehow imagined this meant something other than it did.
Ilona picked up a pencil, then studied my face for a long while. I stared into her eyes. Because of her tremor, her body moved slightly, her silver hoop earrings gently swaying. And then she looked down at the paper and began making some marks. She looked back up, staring seriously.
“You don’t need to wear glasses to see well?” I asked.
“No, sometimes for reading at night I use some, but otherwise no. I had cataracts removed seven years ago, and since then, no.”
“How long have you been drawing?” I asked.
Ilona looked up, put down her pencil, and gave me a patient smile then said quite firmly, “I can’t talk while I work. We can talk later. You talk; I want to hear about you. At this moment, you are the most important person in the world.”
I was a little startled and very moved by her words. Truth is, I had been feeling vaguely badly, badly about myself, for several days—a common condition for me. So, to find myself in a small chamber with a very small, very old artist just inches away from me, who was devoting a half hour, maybe more, of her limited time entirely to me—well, I was touched. You are the most important person in the world, I thought.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome,” she answered cheerfully. “Now, tell me about yourself.”