It had all seemed so easy at the time. But her hope had faded fast. She’d plateaued early and hadn’t been able to move up since. No increase in commissions, possibly no class to teach next term, and no fashion magazine cover.
A shuffling sound brought Clara back to earth, back to where she stood in front of an easel at the Grand Central School of Art, her painting finished. She turned around to see the entire class clustered behind her, Levon at the fore, his arms crossed. She had no idea how long they’d all been standing there.
But she knew from the way his eyes traveled over her painting, from the right shoulder to the detail of the left foot and back up, that she’d more than held her own.
The assignment in Levon’s class freed Clara from her recent gloom. She couldn’t explain it, other than she’d regained a touch of confidence that her time in New York had steadily eroded. Her brashness had gotten her through doors, but beneath it all had been a desperation to succeed at all costs, and pushing that hard had caused her to stall, just like her father’s decrepit Model T used to do. He’d kick the tires and curse while she waited inside, cocooned in the tufted leather seat.
Levon’s assignment had forced her to dig deep back into her creative well and do something unusuaclass="underline" Draw for the sake of beauty. It wasn’t about accurately capturing the curve of a leather T-strap but the curve from waist to hip, the simple beauty of the human form. In any event, the few hours in Levon’s class had offered her a reprieve from her impending financial doom.
In front of his students, Levon had pointed out how she’d captured the model’s character, not just his construction. “Do you see the romance, the spirit, the fine truth?” They’d all nodded, as Clara stood by, squashing any outward sign of satisfaction. At the end of class, she’d hovered, hoping to thank Levon for his graciousness, but he’d been corralled by a student in the far corner, and she’d left without a word. Oliver had dashed the moment the students had been told to put down their brushes. Thank God, for she didn’t think she’d be able to look him in the eyes without blushing.
Over the weekend, the news of the bet had spread throughout the school, and she’d arrived at her illustration class heady with expectation. Yet Levon lumbered in late, shaking the hands of the students he knew, like a polished politician. She watched with irritation as her tiny class fell under his spell.
Levon seemed to think that he could charm his way to a win. “I’m sorry to be late; my apologies to our venerated professor.”
Gertrude giggled.
“You may take any drawing table you like,” offered Clara.
“So many to choose from.”
He wandered about, taking his time, as if selecting the best seat in a restaurant. The man took up too much room. Not because of his height or build but because he simply demanded more attention than anyone else, which was saying a lot in a school for artists. Clara ignored his overacting and continued describing the day’s assignment.
“I’d like you to take a close look at Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party.” She placed a print of it on an easel and slid it forward. The work was one of her favorites, the way Renoir had captured the flirtation of youth, hands almost touching, languorous looks, a man with bare arms straddling a chair. The heat of a summer’s day seemed to rise from the painting’s surface. “You’re to rework this to the modern day and place a bottle of Coca-Cola in one of the subject’s hands.”
A murmur went around the room. Gertrude spoke up. “Do we have to re-create the entire composition?”
“No, you can narrow down your focus to whichever character or group appeals most to you.”
Levon stood. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious. If you want to focus on only one character, I understand.”
He gasped a couple of times, like a fish on a hook. If he had gills, they’d be fanning themselves madly. This was far easier than she imagined.
“This is blasphemy. You’re defiling a master. You can’t ask your students to do this; it’s not dignified.”
“It sells soda.”
“No, it doesn’t. This is a class, not the real world.”
“For illustrators, there is no delineation. They may be asked to do something like this, so they might as well get used to it.” She paused. “You’re lucky I didn’t choose Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.”
At the mention of his beloved Picasso, Levon almost levitated off the floor.
“If you’d chosen that, I would have walked right out that door.”
“And you would have lost the bet. Now, class, please get to work.”
For some time, there was no sound other than pencils scribbling away, followed by the soft whoosh of brush on paper. Wilbur, true to form, grumbled every so often, but the girls stayed focused on the task at hand.
“Watercolor is like a performance,” she said, speaking to no one in particular. “The wash is constantly changing, drying with every passing minute, and you must be able to move quickly, make a large field fast if you want the color to be consistent. The preparation—the right brush, the right amount of wash, the correct mix of colors—is key, but you must work with speed and confidence.”
Levon lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling. She ignored him and watched over Gertrude’s shoulder as she painted the orange flower on the woman’s hat. “Flowers are certainly your forte, Gertrude.”
The girl smiled. “They’re my favorite.”
Levon stubbed out his cigarette and leaned over the drawing board, pencil in hand.
He drew a few quick strokes before leaping up and leaving the room.
Was he throwing the bet? She sidled over and looked at his paper, where he’d deftly captured the figure of the man straddling the chair. But he hadn’t opened up one jar of paint yet.
She checked her watch. He had plenty of time.
What if he regretted the wager, of using her as his model? It had certainly been an impulsive declaration. What if, upon further thought, he’d come to the conclusion it would be a waste of time? Clara wasn’t a typical model. “A pair of large feet and hands attached to a string bean,” her mother used to say.
Levon returned ten minutes later, took his seat, and picked up a brush.
What did it matter what his motives were? She hardly knew him at all, and this bet was a means to an end.
Much of Clara’s time was spent with Wilbur, helping him attain the flesh-colored tone of the faces. Finally, the bell sounded for the end of class.
Levon squirmed in his chair, stood, and put on his coat. Clara walked over to his table, standing as tall as she possibly could, her spine long and stiff, and looked down at the paper. The other students, curious, gathered around her.
He’d made so many mistakes she didn’t know where to begin. His impatience with the amount of time it took for one color to dry before working on the adjacent hue meant that they’d bled into one another, forming what seemed to be a hazy sunset, not a human being. The bottle of Coca-Cola looked like a bouquet of roses that had wilted in the heat. No advertiser would accept this. Her own students had done much better jobs.
And he hadn’t thrown the bet. He was red-faced, fuming, and silent.
“Interesting.” She couldn’t help herself. “An unusual approach.”
He twirled about, grabbing the paper and ripping it in half. “Watercolor is a child’s medium.”