The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  She didn’t mention the other reason she enjoyed going to the School of Art twice a week. Sometimes after class, she and Levon would meet for a coffee in the Grand Central Terminal Restaurant. Or they’d sneak off for a quick smoke away from the students, in her favorite place in the building: a secret room behind the huge Tiffany clock that overlooked Forty-Second Street. While there was no reason to keep this from Oliver—after all, she had friendships with many male artists these days—Oliver and Levon never seemed to get on. They’d run into each other at a couple of faculty dinners at the Lorettes’ brownstone in the Village, where Levon had drunk too much and carried on about the superiority of Armenian poets over American ones. Clara didn’t blame Oliver, really. While she admired the depth of Levon’s knowledge and his natural exuberance, he could become a tedious conversationalist when his authority was questioned. Clara often teased him that he’d win even more admirers than he had already amassed if he could only pretend, on occasion, that he thought slightly less of himself.

  But Levon was even more defensive and self-aggrandizing now than he had been when they first met. He’d been stuck in an artistic rut for some time, painting the mother and child over and over, unable to move forward. Clara’s good fortune made her want to assist in some way. She’d insisted he be invited to that night’s dinner party, even though the thought made her nervous. The guest list was eclectic, a mix of poets and singers as well as a couple of moneyed husbands and lovers. If Levon was in a charming mood, he might be able to entice a potential buyer to a studio visit.

  She patted some rouge on her cheeks and smiled. Oliver enjoyed pulling together people from different walks of life; he was a natural as a host, even though sometimes she wondered if his energies might be better put into his poetry. “I do appreciate you bringing the mountain to Mohammed. To have a dinner party in my own home without having to lift a finger? You’ve been a dream. Who are we expecting tonight?”

  The doorbell rang, and Oliver leaped to his feet. “A banker and his ode-writing poet mistress, an automobile executive and his opera-singing wife. A fellow alum from Andover and, of course, Levon.” The last name hung in the air. “I’ll make the introductions. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

  He disappeared, off to help her maid greet the guests.

  They were eight around the dining room table, a shiny walnut number with a matching sidebar, where a silver-plated cocktail set and tray sparkled in the candlelight. Another of Oliver’s finds. Levon strode in late, catching Oliver up in an awkward hug and kissing Clara’s hand before diving into a conversation about European politics with the Andover classmate.

  Seated to Clara’s left was Mr. Cavanaugh, the banker, a man with a penchant for expensive clothes and inexpensive dentistry, judging from his yellowed teeth. He gushed over Clara, remarked on her latest cover, asked her about the Paris fashions. “My wife goes over every season, you know. She adores your work, has even had several framed for our house in Glen Cove.”

  She smiled and answered his rapid-fire questions with as much grace as she could muster. After all, how lovely it was to be sought after, instead of desperately seeking.

  “Framed? I’m touched. How kind of her.”

  “Yes. Like they’re real art.”

  Real art. As if her imagination, technique, and execution were false.

  “What are you working on now, Miss Darden?” The banker’s mistress, a slight, redheaded woman named Sally, chirped from the other end of the table.

  “Another cover. And another one after that.” Each had to be better than the last, more whimsical. Illustrators were glorified factory workers, she’d complained to Levon just that week. There was always someone new coming up the ranks, offering a unique angle. Just as she had.

  Oliver piped up. “Clara’s contracted through the end of this year with Vogue, and I have no doubt they’ll renew for another year.”

  The banker’s mistress took several puffs from her cigarette holder, her eyes glittering. “I loved the latest issue. The cover was gorgeous, of course, but there were also so many delightful photographs. One layout, do you call it a layout?”—she didn’t wait for Clara’s response—“showed the most divine tweed suits. I swear I could see every thread.”

  Mr. Cavanaugh held up his wineglass for the maid to refill. “Do you think eventually magazines will be all photographs? What would all the illustrators do then?”

  “It’ll never happen.” Oliver looked over at Clara, silently apologizing for the turn in the conversation. “Photography is far too expensive and not nearly as expressive.”

  Mr. Cavanaugh slapped the table. “Good to hear. Speaking of expression, how is your poetry going, Mr. Smith? You and Sally are in that literary group together, aren’t you?”

  Oliver hadn’t written anything new in months. Clara had told him he didn’t have to do so much for her, that he ought to take time out for himself, but he’d brushed her off.

  “Perhaps after dinner you both could read some of your work,” she suggested. One of the other guests was going to sing; the Andover alum had brought a guitar. If she could persuade Oliver to share his work, get some approbation, he might be newly inspired.

  Sally squealed with delight, but Oliver shot Clara a worried look. “I’m still in the early stages, I’m afraid. I’ve been so busy lately.”

  She tried again. “Maybe one of your earlier poems?” She looked out over the table. “He’s an extraordinary talent.”

  “Don’t, Clara.”

  The other conversations at the table, including Levon’s, quieted down as the tension rose.

  She hadn’t meant to put him on the spot. Clara turned to the guest to her right, a gentleman who manufactured and sold Studebaker automobiles, to take the attention off Oliver. Mr. Bianchi was his name, and his wife was the singer in the group. “Tell me, Mr. Bianchi, what’s your favorite poem?”

  The man chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He wore round spectacles that echoed his bulbous nose. “I do love the Italian Decadents, D’Annunzio and the like.” Mr. Bianchi winked at her.

  Levon’s fork clattered to the table. “The fascist?”

  “Sometimes you have to ignore the politics and focus on the poetry.”

  “Is it possible to ignore politics?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve upset you.” Mr. Bianchi shrugged. “What can I say? I like beautiful things. Beautiful poetry, beautiful art, beautiful cars.”

  The maid began serving dessert, an upside-down cake, as Clara grappled to gain control of the conversation. “What’s your latest automobile model?”

  “Ah, that’s quite exciting. It’s a lower-priced one called the Dictator.”

  Dear God.

  Levon spoke with his mouth full of cake. “Really? You can’t be serious.”

  Clara noticed Oliver wince at his bad manners. She should have never invited him.

  Levon finally swallowed. “You want to speak of dictators? In the last decade of the last century, Sultan Abdul Hamid II of the Ottoman Empire concentrated power into his own hands and ordered the massacre of the Armenian people.”

  A startled Mr. Bianchi turned red. “We don’t mean that kind of dictator. We’re imagining someone like Mussolini, a man of strength, of power. Our lines include the Commander, the President, and now the Dictator. It ‘Dictates the Standard.’”

  Oliver stepped in. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.”

  “It’s an uphill battle.” Mr. Bianchi shook his head. “The market is saturated. Everyone owns a car these days. Our hope is that a cheaper model will encourage families to buy two.” He waved a chubby hand at Clara. “In fact, next week we’re bringing in a consulting group of lady decorators to help us figure out the best way to appeal to the wives. You should come on board; we could use an artist in the group.”

  Clara thought of her current cover. A close-up look at t
he latest car model might inspire her. Also, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, the banker’s mistress had a point about the threat of photography. Clara could envision a time in the future when magazine illustrators were reduced to scrambling for crumbs. Branching out into consulting work was a wise idea. But she didn’t want to be lumped in with a group of “lady decorators.” She had more to offer Mr. Bianchi than that. “I’d be happy to get involved. In fact, I bet I can solve your problem.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s all in the ad campaign. I bet I can create one that will make your Dictator the bestselling car of the year.” As she spoke, her excitement grew.

  Mr. Bianchi sat back and studied her. “You could, could you?”

  “Of course she could. You’re talking to Clara Darden, one of the finest instructors at the Grand Central School of Art!” Levon raised his glass to her, and Clara bowed her head slightly in response, hoping to temper his enthusiasm.

  “Do you really have time to do car advertisements?” Oliver again. “Your schedule is quite booked already.” He was trying to save her, thinking she was being bulldozed. But he was wrong. She wanted this. Something new, something that would provide some contrast to her magazine covers.

  “Plenty of other illustrators do designs for more than fashion magazines. I don’t see why I can’t as well.”

  Sally giggled. “But automobiles? It’s not very feminine work.”

  Clara sat back, crossed her arms, and shot Sally a look that made her choke on her laughter. “Maybe it should be.”

  * * *

  A week after the dinner party, Clara was picked up by a gleaming Studebaker, sent by Mr. Bianchi, and driven to the factory where the cars were made, a massive, drab cement structure about an hour away from the city. Mr. Bianchi’s well-appointed office, however, was a pleasant surprise, replete with geometric paneling and Ruhlmann chairs. Finely detailed toy cars dotted the bookshelves.

  Four other women, two of whom were renowned designers, sat in chairs in a semicircle around Mr. Bianchi’s desk. Clara made her way to the empty seat as introductions were made.

  “I’m so pleased you could join me today. Would anyone like a drink?” Mr. Bianchi’s nose twitched.

  All the women, save Clara, declined the offer.

  He poured a couple of Scotches from a bar concealed behind one of the panels, then handed a glass to Clara. She drank a sip, careful to not let him see how it burned her throat.

  “On my desk you’ll see the latest design for the Dictator. Take a look and let me know your thoughts. We want to know what’s the best way to market it so women will encourage their husbands to snap one up, over all our competitors.”

  The ladies huddled around the desk as Mr. Bianchi made his way to the back of the room. Better to study their figures, Clara surmised. This was all a sham so he could announce to the world that he’d designed a car using the input of women. He really didn’t want to hear what they said.

  The drink made her bolder than she might have been otherwise, more easily outraged, but she patiently waited her turn to study the drawings. Each page offered a different view: the exterior, the interior dash, details of the hardware. “Who is your ideal buyer for this car?” asked one of the other consultants.

  “A family that requires a second so the wife can toodle around town while the husband’s at work. Or a family that’s just starting out, that can’t afford our more expensive lines.”

  Clara spoke up. “What’s the price point?”

  “I see you’ve studied the terminology. Well done. Around twelve hundred dollars.”

  The ladies spoke over one another in an effort to impress. “You must have an advertisement of a man opening the door for the lady, and maybe she’s dressed like Cinderella going to a ball.”

  “How about a woman behind the wheel with a little boy on her lap, pretending to drive? That’ll warm the hearts of the mothers.”

  While they brainstormed, Clara wandered over to an observation window to the right of the desk, which looked down at the factory floor. Below, hundreds of men attended to the assembly lines, lifting parts from trolleys and affixing them to metal chassis, an intimate dance of muscles and machinery. She touched her fingertips to the glass. “I’d like to go down on the floor.”

  Mr. Bianchi blanched. “You don’t want to go down there. You’ll get grubby. I’d hate to see you spoil your lovely dress.”

  She insisted, and he called in a foreman, who handed her a smock as they headed down several flights of stairs to the floor, where the noise level almost burst her eardrums and the smell of grease and sweat threatened to overwhelm her. Instead of covering her nose, she inhaled deeply. This is what car-making was all about. They were machines, and the design was secondary to the utility.

  But that didn’t mean the design was superfluous. The foreman, unlike Mr. Bianchi, didn’t rush her. She got down on her hands and knees and peered under a finished car, curious what she would find. Another worker pointed out the various locks and hinges of the hefty doors, and she ran her fingers over the cold metal. As a fashion illustrator, she had learned to pay attention to material, color, line, and anatomy. An automobile, which was almost like a coat of armor, was no different from a coat of fur. Protection against the world.

  Back in Mr. Bianchi’s office, the other ladies were long gone. He looked up in surprise. “Miss Darden? I’d forgotten about you entirely. What on earth have you been doing?”

  Clara pulled off the smock and pointed at the drawing. “Not even the cleverest advertisement will work if the interior of the car isn’t functional for women. Right now it’s not. There are too many knobs that stick out, gears that get in the way. It’s too easy for her to catch a sleeve on a gear shift or a glove on an instrument gauge.”

  He regarded her warily. “We thought women might like all the styling. The rosettes, for instance, on the robe rail. Don’t you think they’re pretty?”

  “There’s too much frippery entirely. Women don’t want to be riding in a stagecoach from the Georgian age. This is a new, American mode of transport and ought to reflect that. Look at our clothing. No more bustles and corsets.” Mr. Bianchi blushed, but she kept on, picking up a fountain pen and drawing right on the plans. “You want only clean lines inside the vehicle, an art deco approach. Get rid of the boxiness of the dash and curve the edges. Everywhere.” Her pen raced across the paper, her hand sure and even. “The door handles could look like this. Tuck the ashtray away, here.”

  He studied them for a long moment, his brow furrowed. “Do you really think this will sell?”

  “Let me go back to my studio and come up with some proper sketches for you. Let’s make the 1930 Studebaker something that everyone will talk about.”

  “I’m not sure; this is rather overwhelming.”

  If she were a man, no doubt he’d give her opinion more consideration. She stopped drawing and gestured for him to sit. He did so, blinking with uncertainty.

  “You can use me to sell it.”

  “Use you?”

  “All this past year, I’ve been telling women what looks good, what’s a quality product, and why they should buy it, through my illustrations. I can do the same for you. Hire me for the interior design of the Dictator, as well as the advertisement campaign. In the ads, we’ll use my name. ‘Styled by Clara Darden.’ They’ll trust my taste and insist their husbands buy your car.”

  He looked at the plans, avoiding her stare. He was balking. “Well, I’ll have to see.”

  As a girl, she’d listened while her father bamboozled potential clients and had picked up some of his techniques. Time to close the deal. “Here’s what you do. Go home and ask your wife. Tell her about our conversation. Then call me tomorrow and we’ll talk numbers.”

  A strong handshake, and she was out the door.

  * * *

  That evening, Clara shared
the day’s events with Oliver as they lay in bed.

  His face stayed still, inscrutable. “Is this why you came to New York City, to design car door handles?”

  “It’s not just the handle. It’s the entire interior, possibly the exterior as well. I’m shaping the car, you see. Like a sculpture.”

  “If you want to do sculpture, then do that. Don’t pretend that prettying up an automobile is art, though.”

  His words hurt. But he didn’t understand. She tried again. “I’m not ‘prettying it up.’ Machines can be beautiful. Just like furniture, which can be pleasing to the eye and functional at the same time. A Marianne Brandt teapot is gorgeous, right? And useful. It’s called industrial design, and you oughtn’t pooh-pooh it. What I’d be doing is hard work, but my guess is that it’ll pay off grandly. With a company, with a product, I have an infinite number of possibilities. They change car designs every year. Which means a new opportunity to make my mark.”

  “And another reason to avoid spending time together.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re together right now.”

  “You’re working all the time, either in class or in your studio. Now this car project.”

  “You could work as well, on your poetry.”

  She expected him to rage out of the room, but instead, he sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. I have no right to stop you from exploring whatever you want. I’m taking out my own writer’s block on you. It’s just that you’re so prolific. Whatever you do turns to gold. As for me, I’m a champion at dinner parties. No different from my father.”

  She’d never admit it out loud, but his words contained a kernel of truth. Clara wasn’t a struggling teacher anymore, was finally making her own way, but every so often, she got the impression that Oliver didn’t approve of her independence. His happiness at her early successes had soured with the more recent ones. He’d seen his mother’s independence stifled by his father, and sometimes Clara worried he was falling into a familiar pattern. If only his work would sell. “How about you try a different form? A short story, perhaps?”