by Fiona Davis
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 b
e.”
Levon dropped the shards of glass into the trash. They tinkled like wind chimes. “Why not? What do you have to lose, Felix?”
Felix set down his glass. “Do you have any idea how much money it takes to put on a show? You artists, you all think it’s a matter of hanging paintings on a wall and waiting for the crowds to come.” He counted off on his fingers. “I must find a suitable space, arrange to have all the paintings framed, solicit potential buyers in a discreet yet unyielding manner. There’s a kind of magic required. An expensive magic. I can’t take that chance if I can’t guarantee sales.”
She stood her ground. “We know you can do it. You’re the best, Felix, and you love the work. Shouldn’t it come down to that? The work will sell. You’ll be hailed as the man of the hour.”
“Stop flattering me.”
“If it’s about the economics, I can help.” Levon stepped closer. Together, the two of them were circling in on Felix. “I’ll pay for the framing.”
“How? How will you do that?” Clara asked, dreading the answer.
“I’ll take up more private lessons.”
“No. You don’t have to do that.”
Felix took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of a napkin. “If you can pay for the framing, we might be able to pull it off.”
“We’ll do it, don’t worry,” Levon insisted.
“I’m not promising anything.” Felix stood and pulled his coat off the coatrack by the door. “And I’m drunk. So don’t count on it, either of you. Stop ganging up on me.”
Clara gave him a kiss before he headed out into the early morning.
“Thank you, Felix.”
“Clyde? Insane. Both of you. All three of you.”
And he was gone.
* * *
“Where are you going now? And what’s in the satchel?”
Clara didn’t mean to sound like a harpy, but she’d been painting for two months straight, ever since they’d hatched the Clyde show idea, and had serious cabin fever. Felix had arranged for an exhibit to take place next month, early April, when he hoped the change of weather from winter to spring would encourage art lovers to open their wallets.
She’d let Levon and Felix handle all the details. Clara didn’t care where, or when, the show would happen, because the pressure to create enough paintings to fill the room was enough to deal with. Some days she didn’t venture outside at all.
Levon gave her a quick kiss. “I’m heading uptown. Do you need anything? More supplies?” The man was adept at changing the subject when it came to his mysterious errands.
But she knew what he was up to. Raising money from his Park Avenue ladies to help get the exhibit mounted, to get enough cash to pay for frames. Earlier that morning, she’d spied a note on the dresser signed Nadine, which had turned her stomach. Sharing him with anonymous old biddies was one thing, but a mutual acquaintance, especially that wretched girl, was quite another. Not that Clara had said anything, knowing she should shut up and be grateful for his efforts on her behalf. He’d even begun filching from his own bookcase when he thought Clara wasn’t looking. The strap of the satchel strained against his shoulder.
“Please stop selling your art books,” she implored, not for the first time. The books were like his children, each one precious. “You don’t have to do that. We’ll find another way.”
He patted the side of the bag. “Never you mind. Besides, once the show’s a great success, I’ll buy them all back, first thing.”
Any talk of the show made her squirm with irritation. “When you return, I want you to paint as well,” she said.
Levon’s doctor had declared his symptoms much improved on his last visit. Yet he’d resisted Clara’s entreaties to pick up a brush. The more he resisted, the more she pushed him. Partly to offset her own nerves, and also because she feared the longer he put it off, the harder it would be to find his footing.
“Stop with that, woman.” Levon waved her away. “Concentrate on your own work.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then paint with me.”
He let the satchel fall hard to the floor. “You want to see me paint?” He was beside her in a flash and snatched the brush from her hand with his left hand. “I tried it the other morning, when you were still asleep.”
He held the brush clumsily in his dominant hand. It fell to the floor after only a few seconds.
Such histrionics. “You didn’t even try. You have two hands. Paint with your other one.”
They’d been going at each other for the past couple of weeks, as the pressure ratcheted up. She shouldn’t pick fights, should let him go about his business, but she was desperate for something else to focus on. Something that would take her out of the terrible images she was painting day in and day out. Of the world turned upside down, where no one cared about the child crying alone on the street or the man with one leg shivering in the cold. The works were expressionistic, imprecise, as far away from her earlier work as an illustrator as possible. She imagined the art crowd stunned into repulsion by the sight of them, ridiculing one after another.
“I will not paint with my left hand unless you paint with your toes. Leave me alone.” Levon stormed off.
She let him go. Levon would paint again. Once the show was over, she’d have time to cajole instead of shame him into trying once more. Right now, her work crowded out everything else. It was loud and forceful and took up all the air in the room.
* * *
The day of the show, Levon and Felix spent the afternoon at the gallery, putting on the finishing touches, making sure everything was set. Clara had done a quick walk-through the day before, but Felix asked that she stay as far from the place as possible, to avoid giving anything away. He’d insisted they not hang the painting of Levon she’d done, to avoid adding fuel to the speculative fire. Which was fine with her. During her short visit, Felix pulled Levon and Clara into a back room to reveal good news: A third of the paintings had already sold.
The pride on Felix’s face, and the joy on Levon’s, made the past several months of agony well worth it.
Felix’s approach had worked beautifully. He’d shown the paintings to a select group of still-wealthy collectors and the city’s art critics that morning, and the mystery around the identity of “Clyde” had upped the ante.
The evening of the opening, Clara put on her peacock dress, her one fine frock, and headed uptown. A crowd surrounded the entrance to the gallery, and she slipped in unnoticed. She thought back to her first show, at the Grand Central Art Galleries, where her illustrations had been relegated to a back office. Not this time. She’d clawed her way to the top back then. Against all odds, she would be famous once more by the end of tonight.
She relished the idea as she wandered through the rooms, unremarked upon, invisible.
A young, new illustrator was now the hotsy-totsy Vogue cover artist. A man had supplanted her at Studebaker. Everyone could be replaced, but Clara refused to be forced down and out. Not by her father, by Mr. Lorette, nor by Oliver.
Oliver. If he hadn’t destroyed The Siren, it would have been the highlight of the show. She’d tried to replicate it but couldn’t and finally had given up. That painting had sprung from a particular place and time, of cool Maine sunrises and her rising awareness of her love for Levon.
Levon stood in the middle of the main room, surrounded as usual by admirers, men and women. A man nudged her on the elbow, and she turned to see Mr. Bianchi.
“Miss Darden, are you here to find out who this mystery artist is, like the rest of us?” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his shiny forehead. “They better do it soon or the place will explode from anticipation.”
“I’m sure it’ll be soon.” She spied Felix in one corner, adjusting his tie and murmuring to the critic from Art in America magazine. “
What do you think of the paintings?”
“They’re exquisite. I’m kicking myself for having spent money on a painting just last week. If I hadn’t bought that, I would pluck one of these right off. But times are tough.”
Right. So tough he could only afford one painting, instead of two. She tamped down her anger. Not now. He’d learn the truth soon enough. “What painting did you buy?”
“A Zakarian. Felix turned me on to it. A private sale, and Felix said it’s one of his best.”
Levon hadn’t mentioned any sale.
No. He couldn’t have.
“Which Zakarian was it?” She knew the answer before Mr. Bianchi opened his mouth.
“One of a boy standing next to his mother. It’s strange and kind of eerie, but Felix assured me it would go up in value in another ten years. That I just have to hold on to it.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Levon had sold his best work so that her exhibit could go on. She looked around to find him, but he’d disappeared.
Mr. Bianchi continued. “I’ve stashed it in the carriage house on the estate for now. I don’t want it in my apartment or my weekend house; it’s not a happy painting, you know? I’ll wait until the market recovers and it rises in value, before selling it to the highest bidder.”
The thought of that painting sitting in a damp carriage house, abandoned and probably eventually forgotten, made her ill. How could Levon have done this?
She made her excuses and turned to go outside, to get some air, but it was too late. Felix was calling for everyone’s attention. Levon stood a little apart from him, off to the side.
The time had come. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick.
“I know everyone is here to learn the identity of my new discovery.” Felix’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I have quite a secret and am very eager to share it with you.”
The crowd was silent, almost worshipful. Clara hated them all. Hated them for how easily led they were, not by artistic merit but by whatever was the latest craze. Clara was the next big thing, the fur coat on the cover of Vogue, the art deco door handle on a car. They would eat her up and spit her out again.