The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TWELVE

June 1929

As she’d hoped, Mr. Bianchi offered Clara the chance to reinterpret the interior of the Dictator, as well as take the lead on the advertising campaign. She immersed herself in the job, stopping by the factory twice more, staying up all night sketching out dashboard designs and advertisement ideas. Even though her schedule was packed, Clara made a point of stopping by Levon’s studio every few days, dropping off some bread and cheese or soup, waiting until he’d eaten it all before heading back out. From what she could tell, he still hadn’t made much progress on the paintings, but she made a point of not speaking about art, either his or her own.

Today she’d brought an apple and some cold chicken drumsticks, wrapped in brown paper. A lazy heat had settled over the city in the past couple of days, and she didn’t want to have to turn on Levon’s stove. Striped awnings kept her own apartment cool, but she knew his top-floor studio would be sweltering.

She knocked twice before letting herself in with the spare key, which she’d pilfered after he’d refused to answer the door one day. She’d had to pound away until he finally let her in, looking morose and surly. This week had shown signs of improvement: He’d had other visitors one day, and on the others, she’d found him reading a book or newspaper instead of indulging in his melancholy.

“Here. Eat this before it spoils.” She laid the bag on the table as she unpinned her hat.

Levon wore a white undershirt and blue serge trousers. He reached for his shirt, which lay over a chair, sweeping it about him like a cape and tucking one arm through.

“You don’t have to do that for me. It’s too hot for long sleeves.”

“I’d never be so gauche as to eat in front of a lady with my arms bare. I may have been raised in a dirt hut, but even peasants have standards.”

She laughed. “You’re about as far from a peasant as any man I know. You’re a secret member of the aristocracy, no? Russian, perhaps? I’ve always suspected that accent wasn’t quite right.”

“If only. My father was a cobbler, not a duke.” He sighed, hiding a smile.

“What was he like?” She’d found that getting him to reminisce often lightened his mood. Which was especially odd, as most of his memories were sad, bordering on grim.

“Simple, but strict. He fled before the worst of the persecution began. I remember once, a few months after my father was gone, a Turk tried to steal from one of my neighbor’s homes. In the darkness, he hit his eye on a nail, blinding himself, and was caught. The Turk went to court and insisted that my neighbor was responsible for his accident, and the judge agreed. They pinned him down and gouged out his eye as well.”

When he ranted like this, it was best to stay neutral. “How biblical.”

Levon burst into peals of laughter. “That is why I adore you, my Clara. You are not afraid of anything. You don’t cower like the rest of them.”

“What happened to your father? Did you ever find out?”

“He started a new family in the States. When my sister and I finally came here, she wanted to try to find him. But what was the point? He had left us behind in that morass. I wanted nothing to do with him.”

“How did you manage, when you first got here?” If she could remind him of his resiliency, maybe he would break free from these doldrums, return to the passionate man she’d first met.

“I found work in an art store. I’ve always drawn, even when I was young. I made paints from whatever I could find, pear juice and peels, from egg yolks. You’re the same way, no?”

“I suppose.”

He lurched over to the painting of his mother. “What if I can never finish it?”

She stood behind him. Sections of the canvas shone like porcelain, from the application of multiple coats of paint, followed by scraping and sanding until only a reflective layer remained. While arduous, the technique worked—the finish showed depth that she’d seen before only in the work of Vermeer.

“Who says you have to finish it, anyway? Why not keep on painting for as long as you like?”

“You’re saying that so that I do the opposite, right? That I fight back and say that I must finish it.”

He was impossible. “Do whatever you must, Levon. It’s too hot to argue with you today. Let’s go out.”

“Where?”

She opened her leather satchel and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “The Heckscher Building. Three society ladies are creating a museum of modern art there later this year, and I was asked to stop by and give my opinion on some works they’re considering.”

“Which artists?”

“Cézanne, Gauguin, Seurat, and Van Gogh.” She handed over the list.

He scanned it voraciously. “So many.”

“They’re aiming for a hundred artworks. Can you imagine? We can see them firsthand, right here in New York, and they already have a dozen at the gallery. It’s an exciting prospect. You should come.”

“What exactly are you doing for them?”

“Mr. Lorette told them I’d take a look at the space, offer my thoughts on the light. That sort of thing.”

“Why didn’t he ask me?”

Good. The old, competitive Levon was seeping through. She tried not to smile. “Because you’ve been a miserable wretch the past month and he was probably afraid to approach you. Like almost everyone else at the school.”

“But not you.”

“No. Not me.”

In the gallery space, a woman in her sixties, with a frizz of caramel-colored hair poking out from under a hat, greeted Clara and Levon as they entered.

“I’m Miss Lillie Bliss; you must be Miss Darden. I do love your covers. Such an air of whimsy to them.”

“Thank you. May I introduce you to Mr. Zakarian, also of the Grand Central School of Art, and a painter.”

“Pleasure.”

Miss Bliss turned back to Clara and began rattling on about frames, shipping fees, and storage. Clara already regretted bringing Levon, who sulked quietly behind her like a fretful bear. She wished Miss Bliss had at least recognized his name.

A slight man with crooked teeth and a high forehead approached.

“Ah, Felix. You’ve arrived.” Miss Bliss greeted him warmly.

“I certainly have and am eager to offer my strong opinions and have you shoot them down.” The words came out in staccato stabs.

“Miss Darden, Mr. Zakarian. You must know Felix Hornsby.”

Of course. Oliver had pointed him out to Clara during a cocktail party as one of the city’s most distinguished, and successful, art dealers. His unremarkable presence, more like that of a plumber who’d come to fix the sink, caught her off guard at this second sighting.

Clara held out her hand. “Mr. Hornsby. We have a mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Alston Smith.” Oliver’s mother had recently purchased several Steichen photographs from Mr. Hornsby for the Newport house.

As expected, the man regarded her with a great deal more interest now. Connections, always connections.

Miss Bliss waved her gloved hand. “Such a small world, we art lovers. Everyone, please follow me. I just received a special piece from France, and you’ll be the first to see it.”

In the next room, two assistants lifted a frame out of a wooden crate with care. They all leaned over to examine it.

A Van Gogh.

“This is Madame Ginoux,” said Miss Bliss. “What do you think?”

In the painting, an older woman in white, wearing a mint-green scarf and matching cuffs, rested one elbow on a table. Her craggy closed fist supported her cheek, and she seemed both amused and sad. The strong eyebrows and coal-black eyes reminded Clara of Levon’s mother’s portrait. But this woman had not been abandoned. Her face showed resilience and a fading beauty. It was not a plea for rescue.

Clara took in the clarity of the painting like a drunk to whiskey. This is the woman she wanted to be in forty years. She wasn’t a beauty, or at least hadn’t been spruced up to be prettier than she was, the way the famous portraitists of the time tended to do. She was hardy, wary, and tender.

“If you like this, you really should visit Levon’s studio.” Clara addressed Mr. Hornsby directly, avoiding Levon’s openmouthed stare. Daring him to defy her boldness. “His work is exquisite.”

Mr. Hornsby nodded. “I’ve heard many good things about you, Mr. Zakarian. I remember your work in the Grand Central Art Galleries last year.” He slapped Levon on the back.

Levon didn’t bellow or storm out as she feared he might. Instead, he remained strangely mute as they wandered through the rooms, while the rest advised Miss Bliss on lighting and paint color.

After the tour, Levon made his excuses and left without waiting for her.

Here she was, giving him the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d blown it. What bothered her most was that his work was terrific—she hadn’t embellished her admiration.

“Mr. Hornsby, I’d like to invite you to see Mr. Zakarian’s studio.”

Mr. Hornsby looked confused. “Wouldn’t he normally invite me himself?”

“He would, but he was in a rush to get back and paint. Why don’t we meet there tomorrow at one?”

She’d drag Levon with her into the blinding glare of success, in spite of his moods and lack of any social niceties. Just as Levon had unknowingly inspired her at the May Ball, she would prop up Levon for as long as she could stand him, offer him access to her contacts and her sway. His works deserved to be seen and sold, she was sure of that, and perhaps one sale, or even an encouraging word from someone like Felix Hornsby, would lift him out of the darkness that pulled him back to the pain of his past.

He’d be furious. But she didn’t care.

Clara let herself in with the key to Levon’s studio and looked about. The weather hadn’t cooperated one bit. Dark storm clouds brewed beyond the slanted windows, rendering the place more like a vault than an airy artist’s loft. But she’d have to make do. Mr. Hornsby would be there any moment, and she wanted him out by the time Levon returned from teaching his class at two.

A lightning bolt cracked like a warning as she arranged the easels in a U-shape before turning to the dozens of paintings leaning against the walls. She examined each canvas carefully before deciding either to place it on an easel or prop it on top of any empty shelf or mantel, as close to eye level as possible. Levon’s breadth of talent astounded her. So many different ideas, wrangled and rewrangled, resulted in a powerful array of images. Except his imitation Picassos, which she tucked out of view in the small bedroom.

Clara stepped back and surveyed her efforts. Not bad at all. But where was Mr. Hornsby?

She waited, hopeful at first, but after forty-five minutes, she began to panic. Her plan was to amaze him with the artwork, get him to agree to represent Levon, and then show him the door so she had time to right the room. She’d tell Levon the good news when he returned from teaching.

But time was getting tight.

A fierce bang on the studio door brought her to her feet. She sprang for the latch. Mr. Hornsby stood on the other side, rain dripping off his hat and down his shoulders.

“I couldn’t get in. I’ve been waiting downstairs for five minutes. I was about to leave when someone came down and let me in.”

“I’m sorry.” She must not have heard the buzzer over the chain saw of rain slamming on the roof. “Please, I’ll get you a towel.”

She ran to fetch one from Levon’s tiny bathroom, where a delicate child’s brush balanced on the edge of a pedestal sink, strands of black hair entwined in the bristles. The unexpected intimacy brought tears to her eyes. For all she knew, he’d brought it with him from his homeland, carried it all that way. The image of a young Levon running it through his thick mane in an effort to appear presentable, in the midst of so much turmoil, pained her. The fact that Levon, as a grown man, used it still was unbearably sad.

She pushed it from her mind and went back out, offering tea and cookies, anything to swing Mr. Hornsby’s foul mood.

“No. I don’t have much time. Where’s the artist?”

“Levon is running late. But why don’t we start here, with the still lifes?”

Mr. Hornsby surveyed them, various arrangements of pears and figs in bold, almost garish, hues. They moved on to the drawings, including one of a woman in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Then landscapes, a couple of self-portraits. He didn’t speak, didn’t nod, offered no sign of his reaction whatsoever. Finally, they reached the painting of mother and child.

“That one’s of his mother when—”

Mr. Hornsby cut her off. “Don’t tell me anything about it.”

He moved closer, then back. She stayed quiet. Mr. Hornsby was right; there was no need for words. She could tell the figures on the canvas haunted him, just as they had her.

The rain ended, and a powerful silence descended over the studio, broken by a faint scratching sound.

For a second, she thought maybe a mouse had skittered across the floor. But no. It was Levon’s key in the lock.

He entered with his back to them, closing a large umbrella and giving it a final shake in the hallway.

He turned around, staring at Clara, then Mr. Hornsby, and back again at Clara. She wished she could fall into a hole, disappear.

Mr. Hornsby held out his hand, practically skipping across the room. “Mr. Zakarian. What a pleasure.” Levon didn’t respond. Mr. Hornsby looked over at Clara. “Is something wrong?”

She implored Levon with her eyes, keeping her voice measured, pleasant. “Mr. Hornsby is here to see your work. I arranged for him to come by.”

Mr. Hornsby’s expression turned from confusion to suspicion. “Mr. Zakarian didn’t know I’d be coming, did he?”

She shrugged, waiting them both out. It was too late now. Let the games begin. Levon barged across the room, and to Mr. Hornsby’s credit, he ignored him. The man clearly had experience with temperamental artists.

“How did you achieve the luminescence in the background of this one?” Mr. Hornsby pointed to a still life.

Levon stopped in his tracks. She recognized the desperate look in his eyes. Wanting acclaim. Wanting success. If Mr. Hornsby played him carefully, this just might work.

They began discussing viscosity and tints. Levon’s words began measured, precise, but soon they tumbled out, just like in his painting classes. The two men shared the same vocabulary, which helped break down Levon’s defenses.

The still lifes vibrated with energy, the self-portraits murmured with pain and loss. She finally understood why Levon was reluctant to put his work up for inspection. His art was a direct reflection of his very being, which meant an analysis by someone like Mr. Hornsby was in fact an examination of Levon’s soul. Clara’s illustrations were a completely different animal, outside of herself, a separate product. A business, as Levon had put it.

They approached the mother-and-son portrait. “It’s not finished.” Levon’s words grew clipped again, all goodwill fading away.

Mr. Hornsby ran his index finger over his bottom lip, staring hard. “No. To finish it would destroy it. It’s the rawness, the empty spaces, that make us grieve for this woman and this boy. It should never be completed.”

That pinprick of approval, of understanding, shredded Levon’s carefully constructed facade. He stormed away, grabbing a pitcher from the table and hurling it across the room. “I’m done with this. Get out. I didn’t invite you here, and you should never have come.”

“Levon, he understands. Let him stay. Don’t do this.” Clara shook with disappointment and fury.

“Out. Now.”

She grabbed her bag and hat and retreated, Mr. Hornsby skittering behind her.

To her surprise, Mr. Hornsby accepted her apologies out on the street, patting her hand. “Don’t fret, Miss Darden. I’ve been kicked out of many an artist’s studio in my time. At least I didn’t get hit by a palette covered in wet paint.”

But she couldn’t let it go. Clara stewed during her illustration class the next day, angry at the unwarranted drama of it all. She’d done Levon a favor, even if he didn’t recognize it.

She clapped her hands together. “All right, class. The break is over; please take your places.”

Thanks to a favor from a Vogue editor, the students had been treated to a true fashion model today, a sylphlike girl who’d appeared in the pages of the magazine in the latest editorial layout. The model puffed on her cigarette holder before resuming her position on a green chaise lounge that the students had dragged to the front of the room.

Two more hours of class. Knowing she’d go mad if she didn’t do something with the extra energy coursing through her body, Clara sat down at a drawing table near the back of the room, where she could survey her students’ efforts while keeping her own work private.

The model wore a cerulean blue Georgette crepe dress with a dropped waist and neckline, wide sleeves, and a matching ring of rosettes that encased her hips. A turban covered most of her black hair. Her features were tiny and pointed, allowing the clothes to take center stage. Clara took up a pencil and sketched an outline, filling in details, taking her typical approach: elongating the neck, sloping the shoulders, and deemphasizing the head. The final rendering was all curves and froth. Out of habit, she signed her name on the bottom right corner, along with the year.

She stepped back and tried to view it as if it were one of her students’ efforts. Pedestrian. Rote. An object to be looked at once in a magazine and then tossed in the trash. A calling card for a business proposition.

Turning over the paper, she tried again, this time from a purely artistic standpoint. How would Levon see it? Instead of sketching with fluttering, light lines, she pushed down hard, not caring if it didn’t align with the editorial perspective. The model became an afterthought the longer she concentrated, her focus staying on the paper and the drawing. She wanted to paint like Levon, from the inside. The model was exquisite, which only made Clara’s irritation grow. Why did she have to be pretty? What did it mean, that this woman was considered a beauty?

The woman in the Van Gogh painting wasn’t pretty, and that was why the artist chose her. Because she had lived a life and it showed on her face, in her posture. A smooth face was a bore. Drawing a set of perfectly bowed lips was fun the first time, but what if this time she made the mouth garishly wide? What then? And what if the fingers were thick stubs instead of long tapers?

The drawing was a mess, but a good one. She unscrewed some paint jars, chose a flat brush, and swept a light water wash across the background. No. The water diluted the brushstrokes. Working dry, she mixed the blue for the dress and laid it down fast, knowing it was a race against time before it set. The deadline worked in her favor, preventing her from second-guessing her decisions.

So this is what Levon felt as he worked. Once she banished the running commentary of an editor’s critique from her mind—“The model needs to be thinner,” “Enlarge the masthead”—her imagination was free to play. She took what she saw in front of her and attacked the paper with little forethought. The rush stayed with her until class came to a close. She thanked the model, checked in with her students, and made sure the room was cleaned up before tucking the painting on top of the storage cabinet.

Oliver was waiting for her by the clock on the concourse floor. They were due to catch the train to Newport, to spend a weekend at his parents’ country house.

“Oliver, I’ve had the strangest experience.”

Her words came out in a tumble, how she’d approached the painting in a new way, a more instinctive one. “It was almost mystical, the sense that this creation was erupting from inside me. Not outside. Does that make any sense?”

He laughed. “Good for you, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

He counted on his fingers. “The magazine work, your teaching, the Studebaker job. Are you about to shoot off in another direction? Maybe you’d rather stay in the city and skip our Newport trip? Again?”

She would. But she’d never admit it.

“You’re diluting your energies, Clara. Be careful.”

He had a point. A physical and mental heaviness weighed on her after those two hours of concentration, unlike anything she’d experienced before.

As she gave him a reassuring smile, Levon came into view.

She braced herself for another round of derision. Or maybe he’d just ignore her and walk right by them.

Instead, he took Oliver’s hand and shook it heartily. “How are you? And Miss Darden?”

“We’re both well. Off to Newport. And you?”

“Meeting with my dealer in the restaurant.”

Clara threw Levon a look. His dealer? What was he talking about?

Levon stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m working with Felix Hornsby after all. Two landscapes to start. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“When did all this happen?” she asked.

“I went to his office, after you left. Told him I wanted to work with him. He made a couple of calls and, like that”—he snapped his fingers—“I was flush.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I needed to eat.”

That would do it. She was glad he came to his senses. “And?”

“And I guess I should thank you for making the introduction.” He bowed in her direction. “And for breaking into my studio and showing my work without my consent. At the time, I was worried I’d allowed goats on my roof.”

“Goats on your roof?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

He gave them both a hug, smiling broadly, before striding away. The old Levon was back.

“Strange man.” Oliver shook his head as Levon disappeared into the crowd. “Let’s just hope his English skills improve soon.”