“This is for tomorrow’s class,” she lied. “As we do not have a live model to work from, I was planning on using a work of my own to guide them.”
As she hoped, the mention of her standing request for a model redirected his attention.
His voice rose in pitch to that of a schoolgirl. “The students are free to take a life class at any time. This is an illustration class, and right now our models are reserved for the fine arts classes. As you said, they can use their imaginations, no?”
“But it is not ideal. If we can have a model to understand the anatomy underneath the fashions, to have the model begin nude and then add layers of clothing, we could build upon what we’ve learned already.”
She never meant to be ornery, but somehow Mr. Lorette brought out a stubbornness in her every time.
“As yours is a class of mixed genders, taught by a woman, having a nude model would be most inappropriate. I’m sorry you find our school so deficient, Miss Darden.” He clucked his tongue, which made her want to reach into his mouth and pull it out. “The other instructors, who have vastly more experience than you do, seem to manage just fine.”
The other instructors—all men—had their every whim met by Mr. Lorette. She’d seen it in action, the director encouraging them to stop by his office for a smoke, the group laughing at some private joke, the director’s feet propped up on his desk in an attempt to convey casual masculinity. Clara didn’t fit the mold, which made her vulnerable.
“I’m sure we can manage, sir.”
He shuffled off, closing the door behind him.
She directed the class to continue. Gertrude’s work had only three rips from her overuse of the razor for corrections, a record low for her.
“Your stormy clouds are exquisite, but where would the lettering of the title and author go?” Clara asked.
Gertrude rubbed her nose with her wrist, leaving a gray streak at the tip. “Right. I got so caught up, I forgot.”
Clara pointed to the top edge. “Try a damp sponge on the wet areas to lift out some color.”
The girl was always eager, even if her strong hand was better suited to clay or oils than to the careful placement of watercolor, where mistakes were difficult to correct. Use too much water, and a brilliant cauliflower pattern would bloom where a smooth line ought to have been. Too dry, and the saturated color would stick to the page, resisting softening. But Clara loved watercolor in spite of, or perhaps because of, its difficult temperament. The way the paper shone after a wash of cool orange to convey a sunset, how the colors blended together in the tray to form new ones that probably didn’t even have a name.
Finally, five o’clock came around. The students stored their artwork in the wooden racks, and once the room was empty, Clara hid her own sketches up on the very top of the storage cabinet, away from Mr. Lorette’s prying eyes.
Starving, she headed downstairs to the main concourse, where cocoa-pink walls trimmed in Botticino marble soared into the air. Electrically lit stars and painted constellations twinkled along the turquoise vaulted ceiling, although the poor artist had inadvertently painted the sky backward, a mistake the art students loved to remark upon.
The first time she’d entered the hallowed space, stepping off the train from Arizona last September, she’d stopped and stared, her mouth open, until a man brushed past her, swearing under his breath at her inertia. The vastness of the main concourse, where sunshine beamed through the giant windows and bronze chandeliers glowed, left her gobsmacked. With its exhilarating mix of light, air, and movement, the terminal was the perfect location for a school of art.
Since then, she’d been sure to glance up quickly before joining in what seemed like an elaborate square dance of men and maids, of red-capped porters and well-dressed society ladies, all gliding by one another at various angles, yet never colliding. She liked best to lean over the banister on the West Balcony and watch the patterns of people flowing around the circular information booth, which sat in the middle of the floor, its four-faced clock tipped with a gleaming gold acorn.
Her stomach growled. She followed a group of smartly dressed men down the ramp to the suburban concourse and into the Grand Central Terminal Restaurant, where she secured a seat at the counter.
“Miss Darden?”
A young woman wearing a black velvet coat trimmed with fur hovered behind Clara, offering an inquisitive smile. “Yes, I thought that might be you. I’m Nadine Stevenson. I take painting classes at the school. You’re having a bite before the show?”
“I am, Miss Stevenson.”
“Oh now, call me Nadine.”
Nadine’s nose was large, her eyes close together and deep-set. Her right eye was slightly larger than the left, and the asymmetry was unsettling but powerful. Clara couldn’t help but imagine how Picasso might approach her, all mismatched cubes and colors. Next to her stood an Adonis of a man whose symmetrical beauty offered a fascinating counterpoint. Shining blue-gray eyes under arched brows, hair the color of wheat.
“And this is Mr. Oliver Smith, a friend and poet.”
Even though Clara had hoped to eat dinner in peace, she didn’t have much of a choice. “Lovely to meet you both; please join me.”
They took the stools next to her as the waiter stopped in front of them, pen in hand. Clara ordered the oyster stew, as did Oliver. Nadine requested peeled Muscat grapes, followed by a lobster cocktail.
Many of the young girls at the Grand Central School of Art had enrolled only so they could list it in their wedding announcements someday—a creative outlet that wouldn’t threaten future in-laws. Nadine seemed to fall into that category, with her airs and pearls.
“Miss Darden is the only lady teacher at the Grand Central School of Art,” said Nadine to Oliver. “She teaches illustration.” She turned to Clara with a bright smile. “Now tell us about what you’ll be showing tonight.”
“Four illustrations that depict four seasons of high fashion.” Clara couldn’t help but elaborate. She’d put so much thought into the drawings. “For example, the one for winter depicts three women draped in fur coats, walking poodles sporting matching pelts.”
“Well, that sounds pleasant.”
Was Nadine making fun of her? Clara couldn’t tell. She’d hardly had time to socialize, other than occasionally trading a few words with some of the other women artists who lived in her Greenwich Village apartment house. She’d been far too busy trying to make a living.
Nadine placed one hand on the counter and leaned in closely. The citrus scent of Emeraude perfume drifted Clara’s way. “Did you know that Georgia O’Keeffe—she does those astonishing flowers—was a commercial artist at first? There’s no need to be ashamed of it, not at all. Illustration is a common stepping-stone into the true arts.”
“I’m not ashamed in the least.” The audacity. Clara didn’t enjoy being talked down to by a student. “I don’t intend to do the ‘true arts,’ Nadine, as you put it. I enjoy illustration; it’s what I do best.”
“Well, I adore my life drawing and painting class. I’m learning so much from my instructor, Mr. Zakarian. He made me class monitor, and he’s magnificent.”
Jealousy pinged. None of Clara’s students would describe her in such superlative terms, of that she was quite certain. “Class monitor, that’s quite an honor. Do you plan on becoming an artist, then?”
Nadine gave out a squeak of a laugh. “Oh dear, no. I’m only taking classes for personal enrichment.”
The waiter dropped off their bowls, and for a moment nothing was said. If Clara had been alone, she would have surreptitiously folded a dozen or so oyster crackers into her handkerchief, to have something to snack on before bed.