The Bradley contains many works that definitively fall outside the frame, but she’s using the paintings that do—or might—to create a map of the connections and influences to fashion her imaginary museum. She has free run of the galleries and spends hours with a notepad and pencil in hand, roaming and thinking and sketching. When she gets home at night, she reworks her ideas, and although she’s absorbed by the pursuit, she’s flummoxed by the many contradictions and gaping holes.
She stands in the main room in front of Cézanne’s The Red Earth, painted in 1892, which is surely an Impressionist painting. It’s a representational landscape, painted plein air, focusing on how light falls on the scene. Then she steps into Room 2 to view his Still Life with Skull.
Although Cézanne completed Skull only six years after Red Earth, it rejects traditional perspective, flattens the picture plane, and plays with the illusion of foreground and background. These characteristics, plus the odd juxtaposition of a skull and fresh fruit, a slash of red creating folds in the white tablecloth, and a pear precariously defying gravity, are not within the Impressionist canon. But it’s a still life, a mainstay of traditional painting, and although a slightly oblique depiction, the painting remains a representation of what Cézanne saw before him.
Dr. Bradley steps next to her. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering if this is Impressionist or post-Impressionist. My gut tells me it’s post, as it speaks to me the way only the post paintings do, but my head isn’t quite so sure.”
“Perhaps that’s because he’s crossing from one to the other.”
“But where’s the demarcation?” She shows him the latest version of her map. Scribbled all over the page are boxes containing artists’ names (Cézanne, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Seurat) and others edging the names of schools of art (Impressionism, Pointillism, Symbolism, the Nabis, Fauvism, Divisionism, Cubism, Abstraction). The boxes are connected by arrows and lines penciled in and erased, crisscrossing, going nowhere. “I’m trying to figure out where the circle defining post-Impressionism would go. Who’s in and who’s out?”
He studies her map closely, studies her closely. “I was right about you, Miss Gregsby.”
She laughs, as his praise is expressed as a compliment to himself, not to her. “Then I’d say it’s time for you to start calling me Vivienne.”
“Edwin.” He bows slightly. “And if you have any interest, I believe you would make a valuable addition to our teaching staff.”
After that, Edwin loosens up, allowing his sense of humor to surface, and their laughter drifts from his office. They have dinner together once in a while, which at first was uncomfortable but is growing less so. He’s also helping her with the mapping project. His insights and knowledge are deep, and he’s becoming less insistent that he’s right—although their discussions are far from the open dialogue she and Papa shared.
They’re laughing one morning about the antics of one of the students when Ada strides into Edwin’s office and demands that they stop making so much noise. “I’ve got work to do,” she declares. “An important proposal to import some English roses. All this racket is keeping me from getting it done.”
“Why don’t you go work in the house, then?” Edwin suggests.
Ada’s face flushes with anger, but she doesn’t move or take her eyes from her husband’s.
Vivienne stands. “I’ve got things to do in my office. I’ll just leave you two—”
Edwin motions her back into her chair.
Vivienne looks from one to the other, uncertain what the wisest step might be. But before she can make a move, Ada throws her a look Medusa would envy and stomps down the hall to the house.
Edwin lights a cigarette. “She’ll get over it,” is all he says.
The Trial, 1928
After yesterday’s constant drone of motive, motive, motive, I was more than a little shaken when we arrived back in court this morning. But Ronald reiterated that the evidence Pratt presented is circumstantial. Ronald says that as long as there’s nothing to tie me directly to the accident, it means little.
Unfortunately, my first lawyer, the senior partner who succeeded in securing my bail and then dumped me into Ronald’s unproven hands, had explained to me how a clever prosecutor, which clearly Pratt is, tries a circumstantial case.
The thinking goes that, even though a juror might not give much credence to an individual piece of evidence, when lots of these pieces are placed before him, his mind searches for patterns. Because the human brain is designed to unearth linkages, it tends to find associations even if they don’t actually exist. It’s the connecting of these seemingly disparate facts that creates the illusion of a preponderance of evidence—and leads to a guilty verdict.
I can’t help wondering why the partner didn’t explain this to Ronald. Perhaps Thomas Quinton told him not to. As you can tell, I’m growing more paranoid with each passing hour. Although I’m not sure it’s called paranoia if what you suspect is true.
We knew the focus today would be on demonstrating I had the opportunity to kill you. Something we believed the facts would not support. First up was one of the teachers at the Bradley, Nathan Milner, who started just a month or so before your death—do you remember him? He testified that he and I had discussed how you always ignored that stop sign at the intersection of Route 29 and Phoenixville Pike.
“The site of the crash?” Pratt pressed, as if everyone in the courtroom wasn’t aware of this fact. “The one in which Dr. Bradley was killed?” Ditto.
Even though Ronald’s cross-examination revealed that many others also knew of this proclivity, it did little to mitigate the fact that I was aware you were going to drive right on through it. Ah, Edwin. Despite the seriousness of the moment, I had to smile at how consistently cantankerous you were. Only you would refuse to honor a stop sign because you opposed its installation.
Next was the Bradley cleaning woman, Blossom Sinclair. She reported overhearing a conversation between the two of us on the Thursday before the accident in which we made a date for dinner at six o’clock on that Sunday, thereby establishing my knowledge of the time you’d be leaving Chester County to return to Merion.
The manager of the Merion Savings Bank followed Blossom. He stated that I had a total of $18,033.43 in my savings account, which Mr. Pratt pointed out was more than enough money to “procure” anything I wanted—for example, a hit man. Although the judge sustained Ronald’s objection after a long pause and an excessively long eye roll, the damage was done.
When we recessed for lunch, Ronald admitted he was a little concerned about one of the afternoon’s witnesses, a supervisor at Empire State Transport, the trucking company that employed the driver who hit you. He asked me for the third time whether I was sure I’d never had any contact with Empire State or the driver, a John Johnston.
I didn’t have any recollection of either name. But as I don’t have access to the Bradley’s records—Ada and her lawyers are contesting Ronald’s right to review them—I can’t be sure. Working as your assistant over the past six years, I must have had contact with thousands of vendors.
And so it was: Exhibit 33, a receipt dated November 14, 1925, signed by me for delivery of three parcels shipped from Amsterdam to New York City to Merion. The truck driver who transported the parcels and countersigned the receipt was none other than Mr. John Johnston.
12
Vivienne, 1923
Credentials are unimportant for the staff at the Bradley School of Art Appreciation, which is fortunate because Vivienne has none. Her degree from the Slade is in studio painting, and she has no experience teaching. All Edwin demands is loyalty to the school’s principles, an enthusiasm for the artwork, and a willingness to deliver lectures that strictly adhere to his dictates.
His only concession to a teacher’s personal preference is to allow him or her to choose the specific artwork to which they will be applying his directives. Vivienne can’t bring herself to teach Music Lesson, or any
of her other paintings. So for today she’s chosen a much less loaded Joy of Life. Plus, it’s not within an ensemble.
Her father would be proud that she’s expanding her knowledge of art while also sharing it with others, and she wishes she could tell him about it. It’s been almost a year since the split, and the pain has barely lessened. She thinks of the dream in which she returned the colonnade seven to him, of his happiness and the feel of his arms around her.
Vivienne opens her closet door. She needs to choose an outfit that best reflects the subject of her class. This is a game she likes to play, and she believes her students appreciate the lightheartedness of it. What’s the right choice? Green and pink are the dominant colors in Joy of Life and therefore too obvious. As is anything mirroring the curves that swirl through the picture. What else did Matisse do to make the painting so alluring?
As in Music Lesson and the odalisque painting he told her about in Paris, Henri used perspective—or more correctly, lack of perspective—to play with the viewer’s eye, simultaneous depth and flatness. Vivienne pulls a black-and-white herringbone skirt from the hanger; it, too, plays with the eye, popping first black and then white, pushing forward and pulling back. She puts it on with a black blouse and clips a pink flower surrounded by green leaves in her hair.
She’s growing completely infatuated with the work and the mind and the method of Henri Matisse. She remembers how he traced the line on her palm. How she shivered. She wonders if he ever thinks of her.
“I know color is the first thing you notice in this painting,” Vivienne says after the students, who are sprawled out on the stairs, have spent a silent ten minutes appraising The Joy of Life. She begins every class with this type of quiet looking. The students are a varied bunch: older men and women who want to learn for learning’s sake, younger artists hungry for the secrets of the masters, Edwin’s workers who have advanced beyond the factory classes.
Today she’s going to talk about her concept of an emotional line, something she’s been developing while looking at Matisse’s paintings in particular. Edwin is at the factory, as he is every morning, so he won’t be around to contradict her. Although he’s willing to consider some of her ideas, he refuses to discuss anything that disputes his established notions. It’s likely that some of the students may agree with him, and that’s fine. At least they’ll be willing to reflect and converse, not close their minds to an idea just because they didn’t think of it themselves.
She leads the class through a discussion about the strength of the verticals, the tranquillity of the horizontals, the actual lines that define the edges of the nudes, the implied lines that draw your eye into the painting, the psychic line that isn’t actually a line but a direction the viewer’s eye follows when something or someone points in a particular direction.
When she asks them for their thoughts, she’s disappointed that no one mentions the power of line to convey emotion. “What about the emotion in the picture?” she finally asks. “What does it make you feel? How does Matisse use line to enhance these feelings?”
“All the curves enclose this perfect and imaginary world? It reminds us that this is a place that doesn’t exist except in our minds?”
“Good,” she says, although it isn’t what she wants. “What else?”
“There’re no jagged or sharp lines?” a student offers, his answer formed as a question. “Nothing that’s jarring? He wants to express smoothness, happiness, sexuality—and he chose curved lines to do this?”
“Yes,” Vivienne cries. “That’s exactly right. He uses lines to express emotion.” She hesitates. “So is this expressiveness another type of line or is it a subcategory of the other three?”
There’s a long silence, and then someone says in a tentative tone, “I think maybe it’s . . . its own category . . .”
“And why is that?” Vivienne prompts.
“Because, I think—I could be wrong, but I think it’s because it’s what the line does, it expresses, like actual lines define or implied lines—”
“That’s quite enough!” a voice roars from behind them. “Class dismissed!”
Vivienne spins around, although she knows exactly who’s speaking. Apparently he left Bradley and Hagerty early. He never does this.
As the startled students descend the stairs, Edwin glowers at her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands, loud enough for the students—and anyone else within a mile radius—to catch every word. “The outline I gave you clearly stipulates that you are to discuss three types of line. Not four. Not five. Three! You purposely defied me, you—”
“It just came up,” she counters. “A student—”
“Don’t give me that horseshit, Vivienne! You knew exactly what you were doing. I heard you. You were leading them where you wanted them to go—where you knew I didn’t want them to go.”
The fact that he saw through her infuriates her almost as much as the way he shut down the class. “That’s not what I was doing at all!” she yells, so incensed she almost believes she’s telling the truth. “And it’s unfair for you to think that, or talk to me like this, or dismiss my class early!”
“It’s not your class,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “It’s mine and mine alone. You’re just a conduit—and not a very good one at that!”
A conduit? This is how he sees her? Fury obliterates all reason. “Forget it, Edwin!” she cries. “All of it. I’m not a conduit of anyone’s—and certainly not yours. I quit.”
“You can’t quit, because as soon as I heard you at the top of the stairs, your position ceased to exist!” He always has to have the last word.
She grabs her notes and, head high, walks down the stairs. As her parents, nannies, and tutors were fond of pointing out, she doesn’t take direction well.
Vivienne makes it home in half the time it usually takes, rage propelling her onward. It’s a cold and wet September day, and the wind lashes her face. The man is so insecure that he can’t bear anyone questioning him. Such a child that he flies into a tantrum at the first sign of a flaw in his thinking. So controlling that he’s willing to turn his back on anyone who doesn’t show complete deference.
She stood up for herself, which would feel good if it didn’t mean she also defeated herself. Damn him and damn him and damn him. She takes a corner, and the force of the storm shoves her shoulders forward. She’s lost her job, and now the colonnade seven will remain imprisoned within Edwin’s suffocating ensembles, his collection unavailable to the world. “No!” she screams into the rain. The wind roars back at her.
By the time she reaches her small rooms, her anger has shifted inward. She flings her wet coat on the hook by the door and puts up water for tea. What is wrong with her? Who cares if there are four types of line—or seven or twenty, for that matter? Why did she need to be right about something so trivial? She knew it would lead to disaster if she clashed with Edwin, but in the end she succumbed to the hubris that she detests in him. She should have minded those nannies better.
Vivienne wraps her fingers around the warm teacup and stares out the window, imagining how George would laugh at her spectacular failure. He, who always succeeded, who always got what he wanted. He would never allow hubris—or anything else—to stand in his way. And if he did slip, he would use the mistake to his advantage. Devise a plan to make his mark beg for what he, George, wanted to give him all along. He would turn things around so that he ended up with an even greater gain.
The rain lashes the glass, and the drops merge into a rushing stream at the window ledge. Perhaps she could do the same. What was it that led to George’s success? He paid close attention to detail, didn’t skimp on what was necessary for the setup, and had the patience of a beast stalking its prey.
Despite Edwin’s multitude of faults, he’s a generous employer. Her original salary was high, and when she joined the teaching staff he doubled her remuneration, giving her the money, and now the time, she needs to emulate George. She can pay clo
se attention and pay whatever is necessary, within reason, for the setup. Patience, on the other hand, has never been her strong suit.
Following George’s logic, she needs to make Edwin beg to rehire her because he thinks she has a better offer. She’ll tell him she’s moving away, that there’s no stopping her because . . . ? She paces the narrow space between the table and the couch. Because she’s returning to Paris? Not strong enough, plus she just told him she didn’t want to. Because she’s taken another job? Too easily verified—or in this case, not verified.
She pours herself another cup of tea, running possibilities, absentmindedly stirring in twice as much sugar as she usually takes. It has to be something he’ll believe she would actually do. Something that would force her to leave Philadelphia. She takes a sip of tea, wrinkles her nose at the sweetness, and then takes another sip.
School? How about graduate school? A degree in art history. A PhD. In New York City. That makes sense. Very believable. She’ll send him a letter in the morning detailing her plans. Give him the opportunity to counter with an offer to get her to stay. On her terms.
Then she realizes that George wouldn’t just tell Edwin about it, he would actually do it. She remembers the opulent offices of Everard Sureties bustling with busy employees, the elaborate parties, the years it took to put it all together. Authenticity is key.
The next morning she sends Edwin the letter and then takes the train to New York. She spends two nights at a ladies’ boardinghouse that bears no resemblance to the one she stayed in in Paris, although it does remind her how much she misses Odette and the other girls, their warmth, their carefree company. She’s very busy here, but she’s as alone as she was as a child.
She goes to Columbia and New York University and speaks with the art history department at each. Unfortunately, Columbia doesn’t accept women. The dean of admission suggests she apply to Barnard, the women’s school, but although Barnard students are allowed to enroll in many courses at Columbia, art classes are restricted to men. New York University, on the other hand, is impressed with her work at the Bradley, her schooling in London, and her position at the Whitechapel Gallery. They have openings for the spring and encourage her application. So she takes the paperwork and scopes out an apartment for rent on Waverly Place, right near the campus.
The Collector's Apprentice Page 10