The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  At the end of a long corridor, Sirena pushed open a wide door and they entered an elegant ballroom with walls papered in crimson suede. Burnished mahogany columns supported the high, vaulted ceiling and dozens of gilded amber globes hung down from crystal chandeliers. “How glorious,” whispered Sarah to Sirena. “I feel like I’m in a church.”

  The ballroom seemed an odd venue for an art gallery, Sarah thought. The Nouy Gallery in Paris was far less pretentious, although it had shown the earlier work of some of her favorite fauvists, André Derain and Maurice de Vlaminck, and it was a major coup to get a one-woman show there. Standing now in the center of this gallery, she yearned to get back to Paris and finish the last piece for her own show.

  The doors to the exhibit would soon open onto the waiting crowd, so she took the opportunity to study the paintings without being crushed. She wasn’t alone for long. From over her shoulder she heard a husky voice with a German accent. “What do you think?”

  She was studying a pastoral landscape with a cattle ranch in the foreground. “I’m not a very good judge of California landscapes but these are some of the best I’ve seen.” Without looking at her interloper, she added, “Well-executed representational work.”

  The interloper followed her to the next canvas, a dramatic seascape of Point Lobos. Tension. Disharmony of nature. Frightening but compelling. She was imagining herself falling over the edge of the precipice into the agitated waves and being smashed against the impenetrable rocks when she heard a voice from behind and turned around to find Sirena saying, “So, you two found each other.”

  “Not yet,” said the interloper. Sarah met the jovial eyes of someone who appeared to be an elderly statesman dressed in a formal black suit and a rather stiff white collar that propped up his long neck. His bushy dark brows met above a distinguished nose. His barrel moustache was dark like his brows, but his thinning hair and grayish beard made him look older.

  “Then I’ll introduce you. Sarah Cunningham, may I present William Ritschel.”

  Sarah blushed as she shook his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .”

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Cunningham. I have the advantage. Sirena told me you had arrived recently from Paris and I recognized your sister’s plumage.” He lowered his voice. “Please let me express my sincere condolences. Ada was a shining star amongst us. It’s a tragedy to the art world to lose her.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “I knew her by sight and of course by reputation but we never spent much time together. My studio is in Carmel Highlands and occasionally I’d take walks on River Beach where she painted, but I never disturbed her. She was a very disciplined artist and, like myself, not one for idle conversation when she was working.” He laughed. “I actually knew her little dog better than the woman herself. He would run up and give me a stick to throw in the ocean for him to fetch.”

  The doors opened and the aficionados began walking in noisily, stopping in front of the pictures to discuss them and look at their prices. A familiar gallery scene, thought Sarah.

  A young man waved frantically from across the room, trying to get Ritschel’s attention. “Excuse me,” said Ritschel, “it looks like I’m being summoned. I hope art dealers in Paris are less blatant than mine and I hope they know something about art other than how to sell it.”

  “No,” said Sarah, “I’m afraid most dealers are the same everywhere.”

  “Humph,” said Ritschel, stroking his beard. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, Miss Cunningham.” He tipped his hat and walked away.

  Sirena took Sarah’s arm and led her over to another Ritschel painting, Incoming Tide. Sarah studied the stormy, deep blue hues of the surf, powerfully expressed with swirling green and blue brushstrokes that seemed to rise up and hold their positions like warriors while their comrades ahead attacked the granite rocks.

  Ritschel’s impassioned brushstrokes captured the conflict she tried to express in her own work. If she had the time, she could spend days studying his work.

  Sirena had moved to another of his marine paintings. She turned to Sarah. “I wish I could paint like this!”

  It was a much calmer piece, illuminated with mellow pigments that expressed a mood of joy and peace. The same feeling Sarah got looking at les estampes japonaises, and the artwork Sirena had shown her the other day.

  She’d just said to Sirena, “But you do paint like that,” when a waiter came up to them with an irresistible tray of champagne-filled flutes. She smiled to herself wondering if anyone in Monterey respected the Prohibition laws? Apparently not at the Del Monte.

  They both took a glass and Sirena lifted hers to Sarah’s and quoted what Ritschel had written on the wall above his paintings. “Live, breathe, eat, and paint!”

  “Yes,” said Sarah, clinking Sirena’s glass, “what better life could we ask for?”

  They crossed to the opposite side of the room with their champagne glasses in hand and stood in front of an Armin Hansen painting, Nino. One fisherman, as bold as the red shirt he wore, stood alone in a skiff, confronting the turbulent sea that filled the background.

  “His complementary palette reminds me of one of my favorite artists, André Derain,” said Sarah. “But the comparison ends there. Derain focused on beautiful but somewhat stark and barren landscapes, mostly without human figures. I can see that Hansen is more interested in the powerful narratives of the plights of fishermen. His subjects have such a strong sense of self. It seems like they’re fighting against the fundamental darkness in all of us. And yet his brush strokes are in such vibrant colors.”

  “Really, Sarah, you should be a curator. I don’t see it that way at all,” said Sirena. “I just love his intense yet simple palette of blues and reds.”

  They moved on to the next painting. Two fishermen on a ridge overlooking the bay in the early morning light, ominous gray clouds in the distance like a towering wave. A young man was carrying two thick wooden oars over his shoulder. He was accompanied by a lanky older man with shoulders hunched over from years of hard work on the sea.

  When she moved closer to the painting, she froze. It was the same orange fisherman’s jacket that was on the man running away from Ada’s cottage.

  “Have you ever seen this man in Carmel, Sirena?” she asked, pointing to the older fisherman. “Or someone dressed like him?”

  “No,” said Sirena, with a notable edge in her voice. “Why would I know any Portuguese fishermen? There are dozens of them dressed like that down at the wharf.”

  Sarah was amazed by how easily Sirena denied her own Portuguese heritage. A necessary subterfuge that she’s learned to do so well, but at what cost?

  “You know, Hansen’s a fisherman himself,” said Sirena, effortlessly switching topics. “He goes out with the Sicilian sardine fishermen. That’s what makes his marine paintings so realistic. There he is now,” she added, pointing toward a hefty-set man gesturing dramatically with his hands as he spoke to a group of admirers. His sunbaked face was clean shaven except for an unruly moustache above a wide mouth, tilted upward in a perennial smile that dwarfed the small pipe he held in the corner of his lips. Like the robust fishermen he painted, he was a man who lived outdoors. His open tweed jacket, pullover sweater, and Scottish-tweed cap confirmed that fact. His clothes and looks were in sharp contrast to the fashionable suits with stiff shirt collars standing around him and looking at him as if he was Poseidon, the god of the sea.

  Sarah felt as if a refreshing blast of salty air were coming from his direction in an otherwise stuffy room.

  “C’mon. He told me he wanted to meet you.” Sirena took Sarah by the arm, positioned her in front of the artist, and interrupted his conversation.

  “Hi, Mr. Hansen, here she is.”

  He turned to look at Sarah. Their eyes exchanged equal curiosity.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cunningham,” he said, giving her his full attention. “Your sister was a dear friend of mine. We often painted toget
her on the wharf. This might not be the most appropriate time to say this, but I was deeply saddened by her death.” Sarah was relieved there was no mention of suicide and thanked him for his condolences.

  Their conversation turned to a discussion about the colorists they knew and respected. When Hansen said he had to leave, he asked her if she wanted to join his class on Monday. “I think you’d enjoy painting on the wharf,” he said, “and it would give us a chance to continue our discussion.”

  At least until I’m free to return to Paris, she said in an argument with herself. And being down on the wharf I might recognize that Portuguese fisherman and find out why he ran away when I called out to him.

  She glanced over at Sirena who was starting to help with the cleanup after the show. “Can Sirena come too?”

  Hansen lit his pipe. “I don’t see why not.” His eyes glanced up at Sarah’s hat and grinned. “But please don’t wear that peacock feather. It would be a distraction not only for me, but the other students as well.”

  Sarah blushed. Was Armin Hansen flirting with her? If so, she rather liked it.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 3

  —21—

  Sarah had offered to make sandwiches for her picnic with Robert and walked up to Leidig’s on Ocean Avenue with Albert. It was disappointing. No Parisian foie gras, Camembert, or fresh baguettes. Just blocks of orange cheese, salami, and the new spongy Wonder Bread that even Albert turned his nose up at. She impulsively added fresh-baked strawberry tarts to her basket and hurried home.

  And now what to wear. She put on a white linen blouse, slipped into a pair of Ada’s brown jodhpurs, and for spice added a red plaid silk vest and matching bow tie. Why not? The boyish look was fashionable and the jodhpurs would be far better for biking than her mid-calf sundress.

  She looked at herself in the mirror from all sides and topped her chic sporty outfit with a tweed cap. She tilted it to one side and winked at herself.

  The cowbell clanged and she opened the door.

  Robert’s startled look was not what she’d expected.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, adjusting her bow tie.

  He smiled. “No. Not at all. I was just taken aback by what a lovely girl you are even if you are dressed like a boy.” He handed her a bouquet of yellow daffodils he must have picked on the roadside. There were no flower shops in Carmel.

  “That was thoughtful, Robert, thank you. Let me go put them in a vase before they wilt.” And you see me blushing like a schoolgirl!

  “No hurry.” He held up a bike pump. “I have some work to do.”

  She’d already put Ada’s bicycle out on the front porch.

  When she came out again, Ada’s red bicycle was leaning against the fence, gleaming and polished like it was new. She looked at Robert, stunned. “Can that be the same bike?”

  “I just cleaned it up a bit, oiled the brakes, and pumped up the tires so it’d be safe to ride.”

  He swung a black bicycle out of the rumble seat of a swanky white Ford coupe with an open-top and turned to Sarah, “I hope the fog burns off soon.”

  She stopped staring at the Ford and straddled Ada’s Schwinn. “So where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d head north through part of the Del Monte forest, then pedal along the shoreline and picnic near Cypress Point. After lunch we could go on to the Monterey wharf and then take the bus back to Carmel. But maybe a twelve-mile trek is too exhausting for a Parisian girl,” he added, teasingly.

  “Oh please! I get plenty of exercise walking the streets of Paris.”

  “There are lots of challenging hills in the forest.”

  “Really, Robert. Do I look that frail?”

  “No. But you are shaped like a willow and you might be blown out to sea at Cypress Point.”

  In response, Sarah stepped on the pedals and took off. She hadn’t had any light-hearted fun like this in quite a while and it felt so good. She was reminded her of the rides through Central Park she used to take with Joe Donaldson before he was killed in the war.

  “I can see I’ll have to keep a watch on you,” said Robert, as he caught up to her and they stopped to rest. “You might take a fall speeding like that.”

  “It might surprise you to know, Robert, that this willow, as you say, is very athletic. I even broke through my recent fear of the water by taking a swim in the ocean.”

  “That wasn’t very smart, Sarah. There are strong currents offshore. I hope you didn’t go swimming on your own.”

  “Of course not. Sirena was with me. She turned out to be a very good lifeguard.”

  “I’m sure she is. She has those well-built swimmer’s shoulders.”

  “Have you gone swimming with her?”

  He laughed. “With Sirena? She’s a bit too young for me, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t like to swim in the ocean when I can sail over it. Remember, I’m a naval man.”

  “Do you swim at all?”

  “Not really. Though I’ve been near water all my life, my father had me working on the docks at such a young age I never had time to learn.”

  They pedaled across Ocean Avenue and passed through the Carmel gate onto the inland forest road. The fog had lifted and sunshine filled the air. With a burst of speed she triumphantly caught up to an astonished Robert on an uphill stretch through the pine trees.

  “I’ll race you to Cypress Point,” she yelled as she flew by laughing.

  An hour later they reached the Point, gasping for breath. Sarah jumped off her bike and ran out to tag the famous lone cypress rooted to a steep precipice.

  “I won, I won!” she shouted back to Robert who was just getting off his bike.

  She leaned over the rocky ledge, which dropped abruptly to the churning surf below.

  “Get back!” shouted Robert as he came up and gripped her waist and pulled her back.

  He snapped several photographs as she laughed, hugged, and kissed the silver trunk of the ancient tree. They then rode their bikes up to Point Joe and stopped to rest. Nearby Sarah saw a sign wedged between two rocks: ROCKS AND FOG SPELL DISASTER.

  “That sign marks where the Celia was shipwrecked,” said Robert. “It was the same time as the 1906 earthquake in San Francisco.”

  “Did anyone drown?”

  “Only a cargo of lumber was lost.”

  “I guess you know a lot about ships after working on the docks and being in the war.”

  “Kind of,” he said, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. He strapped his heavy camera case over his shoulder. “Let’s go down on the beach. We can have our picnic there.”

  “This is so gorgeous!” said Sarah, plopping down on the sand and pulling off her shoes and socks. She found a flat area to spread out the red-checkered tablecloth she’d brought in her knapsack. They were both disappointed that the salami and cheese sandwiches had gotten crushed and the white bread was damp and stained yellow from the oozing mustard.

  “Sorry,” said Sarah. “Shopping at Leidig’s isn’t like Paris.”

  “No worries. Next time I’ll bring something gourmet from a Hollywood delicatessen.”

  Sarah liked him saying “next time.”

  They soon forgot about the miserable sandwiches when Sarah brought out the strawberry tarts. Robert ate three.

  After she put away the paper plates and the tablecloth, she pulled out her drawing pad. She looked at Robert and started to sketch. She tried to draw his handsome features, deep-set wide eyes and square chin, but he kept moving around and she ended up with a lot of squiggles. “Hey, I let you photograph me.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t like to be drawn. It’s just a silly superstition I have about someone capturing my soul.”

  Sarah put down her pencil. “That’s certainly hypocritical, Robert. You take pictures of me and other people all the time.”

  He jumped up. “Look!” A family of sea otters was floating on their backs on top of the sea kelp, clutching their abalone shells to their chests with their tiny hands. “I’m goin
g to go take some pictures,” he said. “Do you want to come?” he asked.

  “You go ahead. I’d rather stay here and sketch.” As much as she was liking his company, it would be pleasant to have some time on her own.

  He picked up his camera. “Okay. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  After she made some sketches of the frothy waves splashing against the rocks, she moved under the canopy of a bent cypress. The bike ride had been more tiring than she realized and she soon fell asleep.

  She woke up when she heard, “You’re going to get wet, Sarah. The tide’s coming in.” Disoriented, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Robert was kneeling over her. “Have I been asleep long?” she asked, looking around her, distressed not to see the drawing pad that had her sketches.

  “Here, is this what you’re looking for?” He handed her the drawing pad, then pulled her up. He was putting his arms around her when an unexpected wave crashed nearby and splashed them. He bent down to save his camera and strapped it over his shoulder. “C’mon, my sea-maiden,” he said, gallantly.

  He firmly took her hand and they walked up the beach and got back on their bicycles.

  A fog was coming into shore when they were pedaling down to the Monterey Wharf.

  Sitting on a bench, Sarah leaned back and closed her eyes. She listened to the halyards slapping against the wooden masts of scarcely visible fishing boats that rose and fell at anchor on the lapping waves. The natural rhythm gave her a precious second of tranquility from her worries.

  “Sarah!” shouted Robert. She stared wide-eyed into the lens of his camera just as he clicked a photograph of her.

  “Robert, please don’t do that again.” She made room for him on the bench. “You’re right about souls being captured, but by drawing pads as well as cameras. Let’s make a bargain. I promise not to draw your portrait without your permission and you do the same for me with your camera.”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s just I can’t resist taking pictures of you. You could be a model, you know? After I develop the images I took of you today, I’d like to show them to you. I don’t think you realize how photographic you are.”