by Heather Webb
Warmth surged through Camille’s limbs. Others would understand her passion. A fierce happiness seized her and she laughed aloud.
“Look.” Paul nudged her with his elbow.
A man in a faded bowler hat made swift strokes on paper with a chunk of charcoal. The bald head and beady eyes of Jules Grévy, elected president of the Third Republic, emerged. The caricature displayed an overly large head and a narrow body. The latest bloody revolution had converted France from an imperial state to a republic once more. Papa debated Grévy’s election with the neighbors incessantly. “A moderate man who enforces change at a pace the people might digest, rather than those damned radicals,” he argued.
The sudden screech of police whistles split the air.
Traffic stopped. Their caravan of belongings halted. Artists slammed their cases closed and sprinted into alleyways or ducked into open taverns. People scattered in every direction. Two hackneys stacked with artwork pulled into traffic, dodging coaches, pedestrians, and street vendors, and sped away to their next destination. An officer on horseback thundered after them.
“What’s happening?” Camille asked, eyes wide.
A mustached policeman in black uniform stalked from vendor to vendor, flashing the pistol at his hip.
“You need a permit to sell art on the street, or to rent a gallery space,” Papa explained. “Otherwise, you will be fined, or arrested if you have been warned before. Boucher explained this when he escorted me through Paris last month.”
A third policeman blew his whistle and urged the traffic forward. Their caravan began to move once more.
As they continued through the city, Camille studied the sprawl of houses and apartment buildings. Sculpted fountains, monuments of statesmen, and Grecian figures decorated the city’s gardens. Windows framed with ornate structures and carved cornices adorned the public building fronts and the more expensive homes. She longed to stroke the bumpy stone vermiculation on their facades, or the smooth marble animals guarding their entries.
They turned down Rue du Parc Royal and Camille pressed her face to the glass.
“The Hôtel de Ville,” Papa said.
She gawked at the dozens of statues and intricate friezes that seemed to spring to life from the stone. Her fingertips tingled in anticipation. There must be so many working sculptors in Paris, her new home. She smiled.
Their coach wound through narrowed streets and across grand boulevards.
“Look at all the boutiques.” Louise squealed and kissed Mother on the cheek. “Imagine the gowns.”
Mother patted her favorite daughter’s knee. “You would be lovely in yellow silk. Too bad we won’t have much to spend on frivolities.”
Camille looked past the shops at the astounding number of gentlemen, boys, and even the odd woman on bicyclettes. She had seen a few before in town—the newsboy had one, the occasional neighbor—but never had she seen so many at once. Gentlemen wheeled around pedestrians and splashed through puddles, muddying the bottoms of their trousers. Some managed to ride without so much as tipping their hats. Camille cringed as one young man in a checked sac suit narrowly missed a flying hansom cab. He did not flinch and looked ahead as if nothing had happened.
The odor of garbage rotting in the summer heat permeated the air. Mother pinched her nose. “This city is foul. How will we stand it?”
Papa’s smile tightened, but he did not let her spoil his good humor. The rest of the family was thrilled to be in the city.
“Regardez.” Paul perked up. “La Bibliothèque Nationale. Can we visit it, Papa?” Paul studied the towering library, now under construction for expansion.
“Of course, my boy.” Papa squeezed his shoulder.
At last they neared Montparnasse, in the fourteenth arrondissement, their new home.
“This district is considered part of the Left Bank,” Papa said, “the home of many art schools and studios, though not Bohemian like Montmartre.” He pointed to a pack of students streaming from a narrow doorway between two brasseries.
Every student was male.
Camille eyed a man not much older than she. He carried a blanket-draped canvas and a satchel stuffed with paintbrushes; flaxen bristles poked from the top of his bag. A blob of violet paint smeared his cheek. “I’ll need a work space,” she mused aloud.
Mother snorted. “And how do you propose to pay for it?”
“All that occupies your mind is money, Mother,” Camille said, her voice laden with sarcasm. “Perhaps you should get a hobby, or a goal of sorts.”
Mother huffed, “You ungrateful—”
“Enough!” Papa said. “We are almost there.”
The traffic moved and they continued on their way. When they reached their apartment, Camille sprang from the coach. She could hardly wait to explore.
Within two weeks, Camille had settled into their apartment on the fifth floor at 135 bis Boulevard du Montparnasse, and Papa headed to his newest post in Wassy. When the first day of school arrived, she nearly skipped through the carved front doors of l’Académie Colarossi. Young women and men filed inside and scattered to their respective classrooms—drawing, painting perspectives, classical studies, sculpture. Camille inhaled a whiff of heaven: pine turpentine and paint, the chalky odor of plaster powder, and the acidic tang of shellac. Her nose sought out her favorite smell of all, the earthy scent of clay.
She wound through the rooms and at last found the proper studio. Large windows spanned the entire length of one wall, leaving the room awash in sunlight. On the opposite wall, a system of shelves displayed finished busts of all shapes and sizes, animal caricatures, and a smattering of tools and supplies. She chose the only free stool. A petite blonde sat next to her, and beyond her, a plump yet pleasant-faced brunette. Camille glanced at the cloths covering two large lumps in front of the girls. Their current works, no doubt.
“Bonjour,” the first girl said with a thick English accent. “Je suis Amy. And this is my friend, Emily. You’re new here.”
Camille smiled. “Yes,” she replied in English. Papa had harped on her learning it, though she had never mastered the difficult language.
“Good morning, students.” Their professor, a nondescript middle-aged gentleman, removed his hat and slipped into a gray smock. The remaining students shuffled to their places.
Camille studied her classmates while the professor began the lesson. Her heart beat faster with excitement. She would work side by side with men! She’d have the same education as they.
Students removed sheets from their models, revealing half-finished torsos and heads.
“Before we begin, please welcome Mademoiselle Claudel. She will be joining our class this semester.”
A dozen pairs of eyes turned to stare. Camille fixed her gaze on a spot on the wall and avoided eye contact. She wished the professor would get on with the lesson.
“You may prepare the plaster for your table today, mademoiselle,” the professor said.
A dark young man dressed in a white chemisier and a colorful foulard strolled into the room. His angular jaw, aquiline nose, and high cheekbones were striking, though he could not be called handsome.
Our model, Camille thought. A real, hired model.
“Parfait. Giuseppe is here. Let’s get to work. The plaster, mademoiselle.” Professor Jacques motioned toward several covered buckets at the rear of the classroom.
Camille chose a bucket of plaster, dragged the heavy container to her work space, and began to stir. She turned her body to get a better grip on the stirring rod and found herself facing Giuseppe.
The model smiled as he loosened and removed his scarf and laid it on a nearby stool. Camille’s heart thumped a bit faster. Next, he removed his shoes, and then unbuttoned his shirt, showing patches of richly colored flesh and black chest hair.
When he reached for his trouser buttons, a flush burned Cam
ille’s cheeks. She averted her gaze. Why didn’t he undress behind the partition? She dipped the thick rod into the viscous mixture with too much force. Plaster splattered her arms. She looked up to see who had witnessed her first blunder.
Giuseppe winked. Camille bowed her head, swirling the stick in her bucket one last time.
Amy leaned toward her. “You will grow used to seeing him naked. His . . . well, it is not as frightening as it seems.” She chuckled as she cleaned her wire end tool.
“I’m not frightened of . . . it,” Camille said, straightening.
Amy and Emily giggled softly.
Camille flipped open her sketchbook. She would need several preliminary sketches before she would be ready for plaster. She stole a glance at the model again—just in time for him to strip away his undergarments. An inaudible gasp escaped her lips.
His “it” dangled between his legs, encircled by a forest of dark hair. She could not tear her eyes away. So different, a man’s physique, when seen in reality rather than stone. She wondered at his member’s texture. Was it truly as soft and squishy as it seemed?
Her cheeks grew hot once more. It was perfectly normal to wonder about his . . . texture, she told herself. She was a sculptor, for God’s sake. If she were to reproduce him well, she must know the sense and movement of every part of the human anatomy.
Giuseppe sauntered to the front of the room and mounted his stand. He settled into the stance he had held, no doubt, for many days. He stood as if poised for battle, one arm suspended with a faux shield, the other raised to grip his sword. His features assumed a noble expression, though he stared at the wall and not a battlefield.
Camille plopped down on her stool and wiped her hands on a towel. She sketched the model’s body, careful to accentuate the patches of shadowed skin, the highlighted angles of his face, his muscular stomach and well-formed chest. At last she drew his thighs, feet, and his . . . flaccid member.
She wondered how he felt on the platform. Could she stand naked for all to scrutinize? She shuddered at the thought of prying eyes measuring and assessing her every curve.
The class continued their work in silence for hours. The professor floated around the room, making suggestions and demonstrating techniques. When he stopped at Camille’s table, he did not say a word, but stood and watched her.
Monsieur Jacques handled the miniature portrait she had made of Giuseppe, turning it this way and that. “There should be more harmony here between the chin and jaw. And again here.” He pointed to the shoulder blades. “These grooves are too deep and create too much shadow. The lines should flow from one to the other.”
“Merci, monsieur,” Camille said.
He fished in his pocket and produced a watch. “Now we break for luncheon. Everyone, meet back here at three this afternoon. Please do not be late. You will have only a couple of hours of proper daylight left to work.”
Camille’s face fell. She had just started to make progress. While she packed her things, the other students milled about before leaving for home.
Giuseppe jumped down from his perch and moved to the back of the room. As he passed her table, he smiled.
“You have all the luck,” Amy said, winking. “One day in class and already you have the model wishing you were his girl.”
Camille laughed. “I doubt that.” She wrapped her clay models in a towel.
Amy touched her hand. “Emily and I like to dine at a café across the street. You are welcome to join us.”
Camille regarded Amy’s clear brown eyes and plain features. She had not had many friends and couldn’t help but be a little suspicious of her intentions. In the past her classmates had turned on her when her work outshone theirs, or when she had received attention from boys, and now men. She did not have time for such nonsense. She was here with one goal in mind: to break the rules restricting her sex so she might become one of the greats.
“Come! We won’t bite, I promise.” Amy smiled, melting Camille’s defenses. She seemed genuine and friendly.
“That would be grand,” Camille said.
“On y va!” Emily replied. “I’m famished.” She removed her smock, which covered a gaudy yellow dress with red floral print.
Camille smiled. Things were already better than she could have hoped.
Camille settled into her routine at the Académie Colarossi. Her classmates, the weekly schedule, even the model’s nakedness became familiar. Yet frustration came again and again when she tried to work at night in the dimly lit makeshift studio in their apartment. She would never advance in such a cramped space.
After a long night of cleaning the hardwood over and over, she posed the idea of an atelier to Mother at breakfast.
“Out of the question,” Mother said. “It isn’t acceptable for a woman to have her work space outside the home.”
“We’re in Paris. Everything is acceptable.” Camille dropped her slice of bread slathered with strawberry jam onto her plate.
“That is not true.” Mother sipped from her dainty espresso cup. “I’ve spoken with several new lady friends in the city. They’re appalled I have a daughter in art school at all. Can you imagine what they would say about an atelier? Absolutely not, Camille. The idea is preposterous, and you know it.”
Camille clasped her hands together beneath the table. Frustration choked her. “How will I become a well-known sculptor if I don’t have a proper place to work? I want to be one of the greats. I despise being a woman.”
“One of the greats? Really, child. You are delusional. And look at you. Your flushed cheeks and bright eyes, chestnut hair and dainty form. Even a mind too intelligent for your own good. You’re everything a woman could hope to be,” Mother said, her tone brittle. “Yet you want to be something you are not. It makes me ill.”
Camille shifted in her chair. Mother’s list betrayed her own envy. She had never been quick-witted or beautiful; neither did she possess any skills outside of sewing. Though Camille had been chastised many times before, it never ceased to make her uncomfortable and worse, guilty for being herself.
“I suppose I will continue to dirty your floors and furniture,” she said, ignoring Mother’s comment. She gulped the remainder of her coffee and pulled on a linen jacket the length of her dress, trimmed with a stout black collar and buttons.
She needed an atelier and soon. She would think of something.
Once at the academy, Camille took out her frustrations on the clay. She dug at her piece with fury, gnashing at the surface to create uneven planes. Garlands of light and dark wreathed the maquette’s neck and torso. Her emotions seeped from her hands into the clay.
Why did Mother compare herself to her? It did not seem natural for a mother to be jealous of her own daughter.
“Striking, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Jacques said. “Smooth this portion here, if you want it to be more realistic.” He ran his fingertip along the bust’s nose. “It is too pointed, especially from this angle.” Camille stared at him for a moment, her expression fierce. The professor cleared his throat, his unease apparent. “Do you have a private tutor?”
“Oui. Monsieur Alfred Boucher. But it has been difficult to meet with him in my small work space, and my mother won’t pay for an atelier. She would have me quit altogether.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, smearing her cheek with clay.
He rubbed his chin. “There are others in your predicament. Perhaps you should consider sharing a space and expenses.” He motioned toward Amy and Emily.
Camille had eaten lunch with them several times, but would not call them friends. Still, to have an atelier away from the house . . . Perhaps she would speak with them.
The professor touched her shoulder. “To advance, you must take risks.” His brown eyes were kind.
Her shoulders relaxed. She hadn’t realized how tense she felt. She did not have to defend her desires to her teache
r, or to her classmates. They were on her side. At the very least, they understood her. She watched Amy carve curls onto the head of her bust with absolute concentration.
A plan formed in Camille’s mind. She had not used the supply money Papa had given her the past two months. The sum would be a fine down payment for rent. And the girls—she must convince them to join her.
“Let’s break,” monsieur said to the class.
Camille dampened her cloth with a sponge and placed it over her piece. “May I join you at the café?”
“Of course,” Amy said. “I’ll just wash up.”
They made their way to the door and bolted across the cobblestone road, narrowly missing a gilded carriage. “Watch where you’re going!” Amy called after it.
“Idiot!” Camille shouted. Emily laughed.
They entered the brasserie and chose a table near the window. The girls removed their coats and gloves and chose their seats. Camille looked around the cozy, well-lit brasserie, perfect for a chilly afternoon. As she sat, she noticed Amy talking to a gentleman a few tables away.
“Does she know him?” Camille asked.
Emily sat beside her. “Amy talks to any man who will listen. She has kissed a few as well.”
“Desperate to marry, is she?” Camille thought her new friend would not last long as a student at this rate.
Amy swept over to their table, her cheeks glowing from the attention, and sat down. “He called me lovely.”
“Don’t they all?” Emily said. Camille laughed.
A man in dusty trousers and a coat with frayed cuffs set a carafe of wine and glasses on the table. He filled each of them. “We have côtelettes de lapin, spinach, and pureed potatoes today.”
“Fine,” Camille said, waving him away.
“Did we just order rabbit?” Emily wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat rodents.”
Camille laughed. What an odd thing to say. She had never met an English person before. They clearly had different views of food and art, else the serious female artists wouldn’t flee to Paris.