The rain ended, and a powerful silence descended over the studio, broken by a faint scratching sound.
For a second, she thought maybe a mouse had skittered across the floor. But no. It was Levon’s key in the lock.
He entered with his back to them, closing a large umbrella and giving it a final shake in the hallway.
He turned around, staring at Clara, then Mr. Hornsby, and back again at Clara. She wished she could fall into a hole, disappear.
Mr. Hornsby held out his hand, practically skipping across the room. “Mr. Zakarian. What a pleasure.” Levon didn’t respond. Mr. Hornsby looked over at Clara. “Is something wrong?”
She implored Levon with her eyes, keeping her voice measured, pleasant. “Mr. Hornsby is here to see your work. I arranged for him to come by.”
Mr. Hornsby’s expression turned from confusion to suspicion. “Mr. Zakarian didn’t know I’d be coming, did he?”
She shrugged, waiting them both out. It was too late now. Let the games begin. Levon barged across the room, and to Mr. Hornsby’s credit, he ignored him. The man clearly had experience with temperamental artists.
“How did you achieve the luminescence in the background of this one?” Mr. Hornsby pointed to a still life.
Levon stopped in his tracks. She recognized the desperate look in his eyes. Wanting acclaim. Wanting success. If Mr. Hornsby played him carefully, this just might work.
They began discussing viscosity and tints. Levon’s words began measured, precise, but soon they tumbled out, just like in his painting classes. The two men shared the same vocabulary, which helped break down Levon’s defenses.
The still lifes vibrated with energy, the self-portraits murmured with pain and loss. She finally understood why Levon was reluctant to put his work up for inspection. His art was a direct reflection of his very being, which meant an analysis by someone like Mr. Hornsby was in fact an examination of Levon’s soul. Clara’s illustrations were a completely different animal, outside of herself, a separate product. A business, as Levon had put it.
They approached the mother-and-son portrait. “It’s not finished.” Levon’s words grew clipped again, all goodwill fading away.
Mr. Hornsby ran his index finger over his bottom lip, staring hard. “No. To finish it would destroy it. It’s the rawness, the empty spaces, that make us grieve for this woman and this boy. It should never be completed.”
That pinprick of approval, of understanding, shredded Levon’s carefully constructed facade. He stormed away, grabbing a pitcher from the table and hurling it across the room. “I’m done with this. Get out. I didn’t invite you here, and you should never have come.”
“Levon, he understands. Let him stay. Don’t do this.” Clara shook with disappointment and fury.
“Out. Now.”
She grabbed her bag and hat and retreated, Mr. Hornsby skittering behind her.
To her surprise, Mr. Hornsby accepted her apologies out on the street, patting her hand. “Don’t fret, Miss Darden. I’ve been kicked out of many an artist’s studio in my time. At least I didn’t get hit by a palette covered in wet paint.”
But she couldn’t let it go. Clara stewed during her illustration class the next day, angry at the unwarranted drama of it all. She’d done Levon a favor, even if he didn’t recognize it.
She clapped her hands together. “All right, class. The break is over; please take your places.”
Thanks to a favor from a Vogue editor, the students had been treated to a true fashion model today, a sylphlike girl who’d appeared in the pages of the magazine in the latest editorial layout. The model puffed on her cigarette holder before resuming her position on a green chaise lounge that the students had dragged to the front of the room.
Two more hours of class. Knowing she’d go mad if she didn’t do something with the extra energy coursing through her body, Clara sat down at a drawing table near the back of the room, where she could survey her students’ efforts while keeping her own work private.
The model wore a cerulean blue Georgette crepe dress with a dropped waist and neckline, wide sleeves, and a matching ring of rosettes that encased her hips. A turban covered most of her black hair. Her features were tiny and pointed, allowing the clothes to take center stage. Clara took up a pencil and sketched an outline, filling in details, taking her typical approach: elongating the neck, sloping the shoulders, and deemphasizing the head. The final rendering was all curves and froth. Out of habit, she signed her name on the bottom right corner, along with the year.
She stepped back and tried to view it as if it were one of her students’ efforts. Pedestrian. Rote. An object to be looked at once in a magazine and then tossed in the trash. A calling card for a business proposition.
Turning over the paper, she tried again, this time from a purely artistic standpoint. How would Levon see it? Instead of sketching with fluttering, light lines, she pushed down hard, not caring if it didn’t align with the editorial perspective. The model became an afterthought the longer she concentrated, her focus staying on the paper and the drawing. She wanted to paint like Levon, from the inside. The model was exquisite, which only made Clara’s irritation grow. Why did she have to be pretty? What did it mean, that this woman was considered a beauty?
The woman in the Van Gogh painting wasn’t pretty, and that was why the artist chose her. Because she had lived a life and it showed on her face, in her posture. A smooth face was a bore. Drawing a set of perfectly bowed lips was fun the first time, but what if this time she made the mouth garishly wide? What then? And what if the fingers were thick stubs instead of long tapers?
The drawing was a mess, but a good one. She unscrewed some paint jars, chose a flat brush, and swept a light water wash across the background. No. The water diluted the brushstrokes. Working dry, she mixed the blue for the dress and laid it down fast, knowing it was a race against time before it set. The deadline worked in her favor, preventing her from second-guessing her decisions.
So this is what Levon felt as he worked. Once she banished the running commentary of an editor’s critique from her mind—“The model needs to be thinner,” “Enlarge the masthead”—her imagination was free to play. She took what she saw in front of her and attacked the paper with little forethought. The rush stayed with her until class came to a close. She thanked the model, checked in with her students, and made sure the room was cleaned up before tucking the painting on top of the storage cabinet.
Oliver was waiting for her by the clock on the concourse floor. They were due to catch the train to Newport, to spend a weekend at his parents’ country house.
“Oliver, I’ve had the strangest experience.”
Her words came out in a tumble, how she’d approached the painting in a new way, a more instinctive one. “It was almost mystical, the sense that this creation was erupting from inside me. Not outside. Does that make any sense?”
He laughed. “Good for you, I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
He counted on his fingers. “The magazine work, your teaching, the Studebaker job. Are you about to shoot off in another direction? Maybe you’d rather stay in the city and skip our Newport trip? Again?”
She would. But she’d never admit it.
“You’re diluting your energies, Clara. Be careful.”
He had a point. A physical and mental heaviness weighed on her after those two hours of concentration, unlike anything she’d experienced before.
As she gave him a reassuring smile, Levon came into view.
She braced herself for another round of derision. Or maybe he’d just ignore her and walk right by them.
Instead, he took Oliver’s hand and shook it heartily. “How are you? And Miss Darden?”
“We’re both well. Off to Newport. And you?”
“Meeting with my dealer in the restaurant.”
Clara threw Levon a look. His dealer? What was he talking about?