*
Julia entered the cab. “215 West 57th,” she said.
She entered the Art Student League building and walked to the second floor. On the right, she entered the classroom where she studied the basic methods of oil painting. Inside, the students moved around the room putting away their canvases, paints and brushes. Carlo de Luca stood in the corner of the room, hands in pockets, watching the chaos. He ran his hand through his black wavy hair.
Julia walked to Ann Bayle, a tall girl with long, straight dark brown hair and outsized round glasses. “Ann, what’s going on? Am I late for class?” Julia looked at her watch.
“No, not at all. We’re going to Harlem.” She opened her eyes wide, and Julia knew this was unexpected. Or that Ann thought Julia would be surprised.
“Harlem? Whatever for?”
Ann looked over in the corner. “Carlo is taking us over there to look at the murals in the Harlem Hospital.”
“That’s a long way. Why didn’t he tell us before?”
“I don’t know. Who cares? I think it’ll be fun, and he thinks it’s important.”
Julia thanked Ann and walked to where Carlo stood. “Professor, I’m sorry I missed your remarks this morning. Can you tell me why we are going to Harlem? I thought we were going to continue discussing brush techniques.”
Carlo smiled with a row of perfect white teeth. He looked intently at Julia’s eyes. “Of course, Julia. It’s simple, really. The murals at the Harlem Hospital are modern painting at its best. This is a class in fundamentals. It’s not all about getting the paint on the canvas. It’s about the meaning of art. And this work is about the social justice in art.”
“Social justice?”
“Julia, where have you been? You don’t learn brushstrokes and then figure out what to paint. It’s all part of the same process.” He put his hand out and touched her on the upper arm, the same as he had done at the train station.
She withdrew a step.
“Julia,” he said in a warm, personal voice as he took a small step toward her, “if you think pure abstract art is what you want, perhaps you should be in another class. There are people in other rooms who are throwing paint on the walls. Is that what you want?”
His accusation stung. “I signed up for this class, Sir.” She grew nervous, pressing her lips together.
“Please, call me Carlo. And forgive me, I didn’t mean to cause you any harm. But I believe very strongly in my mission. Will you come with us?” He defended himself with his smile. “You like to do portraits, I know, but perhaps you will see something helpful.”
Julia ran her tongue along the inside of her lip. “Thank you-Carlo.” She glanced left and right to see if anyone was close enough to hear them. “I’ll meet you up there.”
“Thank you. Listen, everyone’s going on the subway together. I’m glad you’re going to join us. You’re going to be delighted and enlightened.”
Julia followed de Luca and the group into the Harlem Hospital and down the corridors with the WPA paintings along the walls. He pulled Julia to walk along with him. The first mural showed Charles Alston’s Magic in Medicine, and on the opposite wall, his Modern Medicine. De Luca stopped the group halfway down the hallway, in the middle of the two murals.
“You see, this is what I’m talking about. You know these murals caused a great controversy several years ago? Too much Negro subject matter. Can you believe that? But look at these two murals? Do you see the difference? Do you see the social justice in these murals? Just walk up and down and absorb this art.” He stopped and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Go on. I’ll wait.”
The group moved in a slow, chaotic dance walking up and down the hallway, stopping to talk and point.
De Luca waited until they had all observed enough of both murals. “You see, on the right, that’s modern medicine, but there aren’t just Negroes in it, are there? “ His eyes brightened. “Look, that man in the center, that’s Louis Pasteur. And that woman, holding the baby, that’s Dr. Logan, the painter’s wife.” He looked around at the group, making sure they were paying close attention. “Do you get my point? This is the power of art. This is what brushstrokes and mixing oil are about,” he said, hesitating, looking at the murals again before continuing. “And perspective.” He stopped, his hands folded in front of him, looking down, waiting for it to sink in. “Now, I want you all to take one last look at these murals, and we’ll go on to the other. You’ll see. It’s not just medicine and people wanting integration. You’ll see the Cotton Club, too!”
Julia held back as the group of artists wandered down the long hallway. Carlo leaned close to talk to Ann Bayle, and Julia let them all go on ahead, until she had the hallway to herself. Carlo did not notice her absence from the group, which gave her relief. She made a mental note to keep her distance from him in the future. The thought of him touching her chilled her entirely. She ran her fingers through her hair and walked back to the lobby and out to the street.
A cab let someone off in front of the hospital, and she instructed the driver to take her back to 85th and Park Avenue. On the ride home she felt confusion. Could it be that the foundations of oil painting was a subject too advanced for her? That’s what Carlo was implying. That it wasn’t about painting at all. But as she settled in the seat and watched the buildings passing by, she understood. The class was being taught by the wrong person. She was interested in art. He was interested in her. He was a person to stay away from as much as possible. Finish this class. Be involved at the bare minimum.
Julia Page 6