by M. J. Rose
Over the course of several days, Elsa struggled to convince her husband to let Emma at least attend class for one semester. At night, after the last hotel guest had retired for the evening, she’d find her husband at the foot of the bed, massaging his tired feet, and she would gently advocate for her daughter’s studies.
“We must let her try, Milos. If she doesn’t succeed, she will always have the hotel to return to,” her mother reasoned.
At first, her father still refused. But when yet another customer commented on his daughter’s talent, and then another, Milos started to feel that perhaps he needed to listen to his wife and give Emma a chance to further her studies.
“If things don’t work out the first semester, then promise you’ll return home.” Her father believed this to be a fair compromise.
But Emma would do anything to make sure that would never happen, even if it meant working for men like Lewis Speyer.
* * *
The months she spent at Speyer’s ad agency had been a challenging ordeal. At his insistence, she had to do all her drawings in the office, often during the nighttime after she had finished her classes. He would hover over her as she worked on her sketches, sometimes placing his hand over hers as she put pencil to paper.
Emma hated the sensation of his cigar breath on her neck. His swagger and his brash way of speaking similarly annoyed her. But by far the worst part of her employment was when she handed over her sketches to him to deliver to the client.
He would take the heavy stock paper and lift it to the light, examining her careful and deliberate strokes. She tried to make the drawings look effortless and carefree, but they each had taken several hours, to make sure the artwork embodied the elegance of the particular dress or conveyed a sense of motion and vitality to the image. The goal was to entice women to visit the store for that particular piece of clothing. Emma strove to capture that desire in ink on paper, and it often took many revisions before she got it just right.
And then—after all that hard work, all those endless drafts that ended up in the wastepaper bin—she was forced to endure watching a smile appear on Speyer’s lips as he took out a fountain pen from his breast pocket and signed his name with great satisfaction. In those few quick strokes, he rendered her invisible. No one would know it was her hand that had created those images, and she despised him for the deception.
So it was a mixture of curiosity and self-preservation that made her take pause when she noticed the ad tacked to the bulletin board at the Art Students League.
Contest! Suffragette newspaper looking for original artwork to promote October 23rd New York City parade. Image must embody spirit for the passing of the 19th amendment. $50 prize money. Submissions must be delivered in person to The Woman Voter by May 30th, 1915.
Emma wrote down the address in her notebook. She had leafed through copies of The Woman Voter on occasion when one of her classmates, Mildred Stein, handed them out after class periodically. Milly, as her friends called her, was in Emma’s printmaking class, and was an outspoken suffragist. On more than one instance, she had tried to corral Emma and another female classmate of theirs to attend a meeting downtown.
She spoke on a first-name basis about women whom Emma knew very little about. The names Florence Guy Woolston and Vida Goldstein often rolled off her tongue. As well as the names Ida Sedgwick Proper and Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, who were artists themselves. Emma had been impressed by Milly’s zeal for women’s rights and the need to have their voices recognized by the government, but she never made time to attend one of the meetings that Milly spoke so passionately about.
Emma had been so preoccupied during her first semester with finding a job, and then later started working for Lewis Speyer, that the thought of making time to attend a suffragist meeting seemed untenable. But now the fifty-dollar prize money made her infinitely more curious about them.
She pulled Milly aside after one of their classes together.
“I’m thinking about your invitation to go to one of the suffragist meetings … I’d be honored to go to one with you if you’re still open to taking me…”
Milly, never one to mince words, smiled and said, “Ah, I see you noticed the announcement I posted on the bulletin board for the image contest.”
Emma blushed. “Well, yes, I did actually see that.”
“Ida Sedgwick Proper, the art editor of The Woman Voter, asked me to put that up. She was a student here herself before traveling to Paris to study further.”
Emma’s heart quickened. Just hearing about a woman who had pursued her artistic training in France gave her an enormous sense of hope.
“Paris?”
Milly laughed. “Yes, Paris!”
Emma shook her head. “I’ve so dreamt of going there myself, but just getting my parents to let me come to New York City was difficult enough.”
“Ida has had her own trials—her father was a Lutheran minister who thought there was no reason for her to go to college, but she persevered and put herself through school. She’s always reminding us to stay the course for what we believe in.” Milly’s voice was imbued with a mixture of respect and awe for the journal’s art editor. “It was her idea to create the contest to bring a little more attention to trying to pass the Nineteenth Amendment, but also to make sure that a woman’s hard work would be rewarded by the prize money.”
“I assume you’re entering the contest, too?” Emma queried.
“Are you kidding? I started working on my image even before I tacked up the announcement on the bulletin board.” Milly patted the front of her canvas satchel. “But it’s not just the competition; it’s the comradery.” She gave a little pump with her fist. “There’s a meeting at The Woman Voter next Tuesday. I’ll meet you after class and we can go together.”
* * *
Tuesday arrived and Emma found herself taking the subway downtown with Milly. They walked through Washington Square Park as mothers strolled in pairs with their enormous prams and men in their black suits and hats smoked pipes as they conversed on park benches. Milly talked excitedly about all the artistic and political activity being done by women in Greenwich Village. “Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney has a sculpture studio on MacDougal Alley!” Milly chirped ebulliently. “Can you imagine that? An heiress creating her own artwork on a street where, only a few years ago, horses were eating hay!” Milly laughed.
Emma couldn’t imagine it. Her experiences in Manhattan had been limited to the exuberance of attending classes at the league and the wretchedness of working for Speyer. She had spent a few exhilarating hours wandering the halls of the Metropolitan Museum, where she found inspiration in the paintings of the Dutch Masters and the ink scrolls from the Orient. But she rarely had the time or money to imagine all the possibilities the city had to offer or the people who were as wealthy and as trailblazing as Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney.
“It’s like what Professor Clark said to us yesterday: the most important quality for an artist to have is the curiosity to see. You’re helping me open my eyes, Milly.”
Milly beamed. “It makes me happy to do it!” She squeezed Emma’s hand and gently tugged her in the direction of the meeting.
* * *
When they arrived at The Woman Voter, the smell of fresh newspaper ink greeted them, and the room buzzed with activity. Women in long, dark skirts and lacy white blouses were working at wooden desks, scrutinizing page proofs and conferring with one another with great intensity. An immediate spark ignited inside Emma as she felt the energy and sense of purpose in the room.
Women immediately approached to greet Milly. One girl with fiery red hair came over and embraced her. “We’ve been working all night on the journal. Come here and see.”
“Let me first introduce my friend Emma.”
Milly began making informal introductions and took great pleasure telling the other women that Emma was also an artist at the Art Students League, just like her. “It took Ida’s image contest and the fifty-dollar priz
e money to whet her interest, though,” Milly said, and laughed.
“You brought another artist?” A strong, confident voice suddenly emerged from behind the circle of women. Ida stepped forward and looked to Emma. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Emma … Emma Kling, ma’am.”
Ida extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Emma. I’m so glad Milly brought you to see what we’re doing here at The Woman Voter. Did I hear Milly correctly that you’re a student at the Art Students League?” Ida’s eyebrow lifted with curiosity.
“Yes, ma’am. Milly and I are in the same landscape and printmaking classes.”
Ida smiled. “How wonderful! I’m so happy the contest enticed you to come down and see some of our work.” She gestured toward the printing press in the far corner of the room.
“I’m very fond of the league. I took classes there myself, as did our fellow suffragette Gertrude Whitney. That’s why I told Milly to put up a notice about the contest.” She folded her hands in front of her. “I’m indebted to many of the teachers I had there. Professor Merritt Chase is the one who encouraged me to continue my studies in Paris.”
“Milly told me you were in France. It’s always been my dream.”
“Paris truly is an extraordinary place.” Ida’s face softened as the memories returned to her. “I hope to go back one day. But in the meantime, I have my work set out for me here with the vote.” She motioned to the posters set against the brick walls and the copies of journals stacked on the front table. “I’m looking forward to seeing your contest submission, Miss Kling. Often an image has more power than words.”
“That’s what I think, too!” Emma blurted out. She found herself blushing at her inability to contain her enthusiasm.
“Good! That’s what I like to hear from my girls. Come spend some time with us,” Ida offered. “Look around at what we do, read the paper, speak with some of the other suffragists, and learn what we’re doing to get us the vote. You’re a woman. You’re an artist. I’m sure you know how hard you have to fight to be heard.”
Emma did, in fact, know that, and for several hours after she had left The Woman Voter office, she still heard Ida’s words ringing in her ears.
* * *
That evening when Emma entered Speyer’s office, her sketches from last week were on the reception desk with a note saying they were to be delivered to the executives at Bonwit Teller. Lewis’s prominent signature appeared on the corner of each and every one of them.
As she sat herself down at her drawing board, she thought about the suffrage movement. It had seemed so abstract to her in the past, but now she realized its objectives mirrored her own desires. Wasn’t fighting for the right to vote part of a desire to be heard? To be justly represented? In her employment with Speyer, Emma struggled with this every day.
Her drawings were bringing him not only praise and income, but also a sense of accomplishment and recognition, despite his never having touched the paper with a single stroke of his pen. She hated how he took such delight in signing her sketches and taking full credit for her work. She had been denied recognition for her own drawings because of this dreadful man. He had rendered her voiceless by signing his name where hers should have been.
Now with the office to herself, Emma took out her pencil and began to sketch. And this time it wasn’t for Speyer’s client—it was for the contest. Her desire to create something that embodied the spirit of all the women she had just met took over. She wanted to have her voice heard just as much as they did.
* * *
As the deadline for the contest approached, Emma began attending weekly meetings downtown with Milly, finding herself drawn to the courage and independence of the other women there. She didn’t share with them the details of the horrendous deal she had made with Speyer in order to pay her bills, but every time she went to a meeting, she felt herself growing stronger as she threw herself more into her sketches for the contest, hoping that she might win.
Many of her first sketches, however, found their way into the waste bin. She drew a woman standing next to the Statue of Liberty with her hand similarly raised in the air. She depicted a woman dressed in an American flag, and another one waiting in line with men to cast a ballot. But none of the images appeared powerful enough to Emma. She knew that the graphic had to embody more than just a woman’s right to vote, but also the entire spirit and vision of the suffragist movement.
It was, oddly, during a visit home to her parents, a place that felt so far removed from the women’s movement, that she finally found her seeds of inspiration.
She had just shared a cup of tea with her mother in the kitchen, and Emma was struck by how her mother’s face looked more lined than the last time she had visited and her expression appeared more reflective.
Elsa spoke softly. “I know you have often felt frustrated by your father and me. But I want you to know that when you speak of trying to get women the right to vote, it inspires me. When I was your age, back in Budapest, I think I had already given up dreaming of so many things.”
“You’ve done so much to inspire me, Mama. You create beauty with everything you touch.”
Her mother lifted her hand and touched Emma’s cheek. “In the case of you, that is true.”
“Mama…”
“Listen, Emma. What you’re doing with Ms. Sedgwick Proper is wonderful. I assumed when you went off to study art, you would learn more technique, and strengthen your own artistic style, but I never dreamt you would also find another voice inside yourself.”
Elsa paused for a moment.
“You’re not yet a wife or mother, but your work is not just for the young women of today. It is for every woman. Young and old.”
Emma absorbed her mother’s words. They were simple, but there was so much truth in them.
Instantly, Emma could envision an illustration to accompany them. Three generations of women. Their hands threaded together and their message floating in unison above.
She leaped up to retrieve her sketchbook from her satchel.
“Mama, that’s just it. I think the image I needed just came to me!” Her excitement was bubbling forth. “Would you mind letting me sketch you for part of it?”
Her mother’s expression changed. “Of course not. But, really, me?”
“Yes, you’ll see. Just wait.”
No longer did Emma see the thin feathering of lines on her mother’s face. Instead, Elsa’s face beamed. Transformed like a beacon of creative light.
Emma took out her pencil and began to draw.
* * *
Emma worked the whole weekend on perfecting her sketch. She used her mother as the model for the older woman, and sketched herself for the middle female. But for the child who represented the youngest generation, for whose future they were all now fighting, she found herself struggling to get the girl’s face just right.
Elsa walked into the kitchen where Emma was working, her robe tied tightly around her waist, her hair protected by her nightcap. “I was searching for this photograph upstairs while you’ve been drawing. I have been thinking about it all evening.” Elsa handed her a small sepia photograph of two girls nearly the same age, wearing dark wool dresses and with their hair in braids. The photograph was creased, but Emma was sure the face of the older girl was her mother’s. She put down her pencil.
“Mama, is that you?” Her finger hovered over the person in the left corner. She had the same eyes as her mother, and her expression was eerily familiar.
“Yes, it’s me.”
Emma squinted at the other girl, who had to be around three or four years old in the picture. “But who is this other person?”
“It’s my sister, Fanny,” she uttered so softly that Emma at first thought she had misunderstood her. “Fanny died two months after that photograph was taken. She was always so full of life, running all over the place. She had the most infectious laugh…”
“But … but you’ve never mentioned her before
.”
“I know, Emma. There is so much of my life in Hungary that I haven’t shared with you, like Fanny’s death. We both took sick with the measles. I survived. But she didn’t.”
Elsa’s voice broke midsentence.
“My parents forbade me from doing so many things afterward. They worried about losing their only remaining child. They wanted me to have a family. Many of the same things your father and I worried about when you went to study in the city were the same fears as my own parents’. But now I look at you and you make me so proud. Maybe you’d want to draw Fanny into your sketch for Ms. Sedgwick Proper’s contest?” Elsa dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I would love to think that Fanny is contributing somehow for a woman’s voice to be heard, since hers was silenced so young.”
Emma took the photograph from her mother. She looked at the two girls sitting side by side, their neat braids framing their faces, their collars trimmed in white lace. Their expressions were somber. But beneath their formal reserve, Emma began to imagine their distinct personalities and hidden layers. As an artist, she yearned to bring those qualities to life.
She tore off another sheet of paper and began sketching the three female figures with a renewed vitality. When she finally finished, the women were arranged in descending age, their hands were threaded together, and their expressions were united in conviction. Yet the figure inspired by Fanny would prove to be her favorite, for she would symbolize not just the face of the young, but also of the women in Emma’s family who came before her. Her spirit permeated each stroke that Emma put down on the paper.