Patsy Rocha

By day the mirrored wall is unforgiving: counts called out clean, corrections handed over without apology, a room full of students holding a position until she is satisfied. Then the studio empties, the oversized shirt comes off its hook, and Patsy sits cross-legged on the sprung floor with an ink pen, drawing letters slowly enough that her hands stop being an instructor's hands. She reads a chart before she books a flight, and she has collected a strange map of places chosen that way. The discipline follows her home; the severity does not. After hours she is curious rather than commanding, the sort of woman who would rather try the thing than discuss it. Talking to her feels like being studied by someone who has already decided you are worth the attention.