Sometimes, he had to give a lesson in the studio, and she’d return to find her painting of him turned to the wall, the covers of their bed pulled up tight, even though they never bothered to make it otherwise. Or she’d come home to him with his shirt off, violently scrubbing the studio floor, the easels and chairs and tables pushed to one side, as if he was trying to erase all signs that another woman even walked upon the parquet. A small price to pay, she told herself.
She continued painting, Levon strolling behind her every so often with encouragement or a suggestion, miming with his hand the correct brushstroke to use. Some days it was as if she were channeling him, channeling their energy together. She painted whenever she could, making up for his own lost time in a way, never knowing how long their luck would last. How long they’d be able to hold out here without the landlord raising the rent and sending them packing. Her work was more dreamlike than anything she’d done before, save The Siren. She was determined to push herself as far from illustration, from realism, as she could go.
On Christmas Eve, they invited several friends over. The celebration would be lackluster compared to years past, the china mismatched and the linens frayed, but at least it was something. A sense of humility permeated the discussions these days, as the economic devastation had leveled the field. Salacious topics—artist affairs, gallery scandals—were replaced with more elevated discussions on politics and art. Levon no longer spoke over everyone else with his commandments and pronouncements. Nor did anyone else, for that matter.
Romany Marie had offered two roasted ducks for their Christmas Eve celebration. Levon balanced them in his arms while Clara fiddled with the lock to the studio.
“Hurry up, woman.”
“I am. It’s not working. No, it’s unlocked.” She pushed open the door. “You’ve got to remember to lock it; what if someone came up here and stole everything?”
“Like what?”
“Your fancy art books. To burn in a fire to keep warm. You’d be upset.”
“Now, now, children.”
Felix stood on the far side of the room. He shrugged. “It was unlocked.”
“You’re an hour early.” Clara walked over to give him a kiss.
“You both seem well.”
“As well as we can be.” Levon set down the ducks before pouring them all a drink from the bottle of wine he’d received from one of his Park Avenue students. “Any good news on the horizon?”
Felix wandered about the room, his eyes darting from canvas to canvas. Clara had planned on hiding the paintings away before anyone arrived. “The government is considering financing a program where artists get paid to work. To paint murals for new buildings, build sculpture for public spaces, that kind of thing.”
“How much would they pay?” she asked, trying to divert his attention.
“Who knows? It’s a long way off. Artists are low on the list of people to be propped up these days.”
She put the drink in Felix’s hand. “Here, come sit by the fire.”
He dropped heavily into the chair and raised his glass. “I have good news for you, Levon.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m glad I came early, before you cleared the room. They’re glorious. I can find a buyer for these. Even in this market, this is phenomenal. The Museum of Modern Art will want to see them. You’ve made great strides.”
Clara froze.
Levon took a sip of his wine and responded coolly. “Do you think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“What do you like about them? Why do you like them?”
“How do I sum it up? They’re glorious, free, and yet they show so much pain. It hurts to look at them, but I couldn’t stop. I can’t stop.” He leaned forward. “Your arm must be much improved. Thank God for that.”
“They’re not mine. They’re Clara’s.”
“No.” Felix blinked. He looked at Clara, then back to Levon. “Yes?”
“They’re all hers. I can’t paint yet. Soon, but not yet.” He held up his bad arm, letting it tremble.
Felix sat back in his chair, contemplating the news. “That’s a shame.”
“What’s a shame?” Clara wiped off her hands on a dishrag and joined them, leaning against the mantel above the fire. “You say they’re good. They can be sold.”
“Not until the Depression’s over. Your timing is off. Heck, even if you were a man, the fact that you’re known for drawing clothes and cars makes it an unlikely leap.”
Levon stood. “It’s the art that matters, not the person who made it.” Clara held out her hand to calm him down, but he shook her off. “We’ve been talking for months now about the purity of art. How this Depression has rid us of our commercial obsessions. Her work is as pure as it gets.”
“I agree, it’s not fair. But in this climate, no gallery would take a chance on a woman illustrator these days.” Felix turned a skeptical eye on Clara. “Even if she were as good as Picasso.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
December 1930
The party dragged on well into the next morning. No one had anywhere else to go or anything else to do. Christmas was sure to be dismal compared to holidays past, so what was the point of rushing home? Levon drank more than usual and jumped up several times to perform Armenian dances. To the cheers of their guests, he lumbered about the room caterwauling at the top of his lungs, crashing into the table and sending glassware flying.
Clara didn’t bother to hide her petulance from her place in the corner, where she sat on a pillow on the floor. Every so often, Levon looked at her with his big brown eyes, lips in a pout, trying to rouse her spirits. But she refused to engage. Not that anyone else noticed. Their guests were drinking heavily, the more successful artists in chairs, with various girlfriends and former students sprawled about on the floor around them. Again, the men in thrones simply because they were men. They had access to the best galleries and patrons, and because of that, they became better known, and because of that, they were rewarded with success.
It wasn’t fair.
And not exactly true. Other women had done well. Georgia O’Keeffe, of course, and Mary Cassatt. Even Clara had experienced a blazing, if temporary, success.
One of the artists had brought his small dog along, a stocky terrier who curled up on Clara’s lap. She ran a hand down his spine. The dog looked up at her with soft eyes, then he was out again, snoring softly.
He wore a thin leather collar, flaked with age. No tag. She wondered what he was called. When the crowd began to dissipate, she lifted him off her lap and placed him in the warm chair where Levon had been.
That odd dog in Maine, Clyde, came to mind.
Clyde.
The name she’d used for The Siren, after Oliver’s peevish criticism.
Buzzing with excitement, Clara herded out the last of the stragglers, holding Felix back with another pour of wine. His face was flushed—even better, to break through his defenses. Convince him.
“We can show the work. My work.” She stood, her feet slightly apart, in the middle of the studio. Levon cleared up a broken glass beside the sink, and Felix slumped at the table, hat in one hand and wine in the other.
“How is that, my dear?” Felix exchanged a tired glance with Levon.
“You say that it’s by an unknown painter, one you’ve just discovered. Named Clyde. I sign all the paintings with that. You explain that the painter wishes to stay unknown.”
“Unknown? Why on earth?” Levon laughed at her. Of course, he couldn’t imagine staying anonymous. His big presence was part of his art. But hers was not.
“Why not? You said they’re good. Everyone will assume they’re by a man. They can be judged on what they are, not who I am. Or am not.”
Felix shook his head. “It’s not a parlor trick, exhibiting paintings.”
“Maybe it should be.”
Levon dropped the shards of glass into the trash. They tinkled like wind chimes. “Why not? What do you have to lose, Felix?”