The Masterpiece

CHAPTER THREE

April 1928

Clara stood on the corner of Forty-Second Street and Vanderbilt Avenue, enraged. The sight of her illustrations, which she’d taken months to plan, design, and execute, hanging on the wall of the gallery’s sales office like some cheap prints, ran through her head like a newsreel, followed by Mr. Lorette’s sniveling face and that teacher’s feeble attempt to mollify her.

“Wait!”

Levon Zakarian emerged from the terminal, wearing a long dark coat that flared behind him like an eagle’s tail. Five of his students, including Nadine, trotted to keep up with their hero. “Where are you off to? I feel awful about what happened up there.” He gestured with his thumb to the roof of the building.

“You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

She hadn’t noticed how tall he was. He had about four inches on her, she guessed. At six feet tall, Clara wasn’t used to having to look up to anyone. Her mother would have called him a swarthy man and not intended it kindly. But his pointed chin and nose created an elegant profile that counteracted the very bulk of him.

She’d never seen eyes so black, like ink, that it was hard to distinguish his pupil from his iris. His heavy eyelids lent him an air of recalcitrance or amusement, she wasn’t sure which.

He smoothed his mustache, as thick and dark as the hair on his head, and regarded her. “As a fellow teacher, I feel the need to come to your aid.” She couldn’t place his accent, eastern European, perhaps.

“I don’t need your aid. I needed the editor of Vogue to see my illustrations and offer me a contract, which did not happen because Mr. Lorette buried my work.”

“You’re so confident that this editor would have hired you on the spot after seeing your work?”

“I am.”

“Very well, then, you belong with me. Come downtown with us. We’re going to Richard’s, which is full of people who hold similarly high opinions of their own work. You’ll fit right in.”

A few moments ago, all she wanted was to go back to her studio on East Tenth Street, rip up all her sketches, shove over her drawing table with its paints, trays, and rags, and watch the rubbish clatter to the floor.

It would probably be better for her art supplies if she avoided going home until her rage subsided, and part of her wanted to pick a fight with this man, who seemed sure of himself and his place in the world.

She squeezed into a taxi full of jabbering students, Nadine perched up front next to Mr. Zakarian, and stared out the window until it pulled up to a basement restaurant off West Fourth Street. The place was full, but the owner ushered them to a room at the back, where Mr. Zakarian took a seat at the head of a long table while the rest pulled up chairs around him, shouting out orders to the waitress.

Clara hung back and watched Mr. Zakarian’s disciples jockey for the seats nearest him. The only other teacher present she recognized was Sebastian Standish, who had achieved a modicum of fame with his flattering portraits of newly wealthy businessmen and their families. He led the antique drawing class, where beginner students were taught to draw from cast models of Greek and Roman sculptures.

“It’s old news,” Mr. Zakarian announced, in response to a question Clara hadn’t heard. “The Armory Show was the death knell to representational art. Anyone who doesn’t think Picasso is a genius will be left behind, sketching and resketching four-hundred-year-old nudes until their pencils wear down to a nub as the rest of us move on to cubism, modernism.”

The Armory Show. Where the work of avant-garde artists like Duchamp, Matisse, and Picasso had graced America’s shores for the first time. Among a certain faction of the art world, the exhibit had caused a seismic shift in theories and approaches.

Mr. Standish bristled. He had at least twenty years on Mr. Zakarian, and his Newport plaid suit stood in marked contrast to the other teacher’s shabby lumberjack shirt. “The Armory Show was fifteen years ago, Levon. If the curators intended to shock those of us who believe that a realistic drawing of peasants working in a field is a truer work of art as compared to a mishmash of shapes and colors signifying nothing, they have failed. I’m in no fear of being left behind.”

“If a student has talent, they need inspiration, not rigid rules: ‘Draw the finger like this and the torso like this.’” Mr. Zakarian’s mimicry drew laughter.

“You must admit that classical techniques ought to be mastered first. Can you at least admit that?”

Mr. Zakarian relented. “We agree on that point. But if my student wants to draw a fish on the head of his figure, why shouldn’t he?”

As they railed back and forth, the students breaking out into smaller arguments among themselves, Clara leaned against the wall. She had nothing to add. The hierarchy in the art world had been established hundreds of years ago: Oil painting trumped watercolors, portraits trumped landscapes. And all of that, summed up as “fine” art, trumped commercial art. Illustrators lay at the very bottom of the totem pole.

Mr. Zakarian had probably invited her along to show her how little her tantrum mattered in the rarefied world of high art.

“You must declare your affiliation and stand by it,” said Mr. Standish. “Academic art has been around for far longer than your cubist goulash. In a hundred years, it will still be the standard-bearer for great art.”

One of Mr. Zakarian’s students chimed in. “You don’t understand how fast the world is changing. Pretty pictures are no longer of interest, except to stodgy collectors.”

Back in Arizona, taking classes at her provincial art school, Clara dreamed of meeting other artists. No one in her family understood her passion for drawing. How sometimes at night she’d lie awake, thinking about the line of a cheekbone on a portrait she’d been struggling with, imagining the exact brushstroke she’d use the next day.

But this discussion, if you could call it that, was far beyond anything she’d been taught. She didn’t have the vocabulary to join in, even if she wanted to. A part of her knew this was why she’d kept to herself this past year. Everyone else in New York was so polished. She was not, her family hailing from hardscrabble stock who endured the blistering heat of desert summers.

But even if she didn’t speak like they did, her confidence and passion in her own work were unwavering. When she drew or painted, it was as if an unseen hand guided her own. She’d never been able to explain that to anyone. To her, painting was an internal expression, not a political or social one. She didn’t have a manifesto or an affiliation, other than to please herself doing what she loved to do and make money doing it. The first part was easy—the second, more elusive.

“Picabia is no better than an illustrator.” The speaker was Nadine. Her friendly smile from earlier that evening had disappeared.

Mr. Zakarian’s gaze swung Clara’s way like a lighthouse beacon. “An interesting supposition, Nadine. Luckily, we have a distinguished illustrator here. Perhaps Miss Darden has something to say in her own defense?”

Clara was only vaguely familiar with Picabia’s early drawings of machines, which resembled instruction manuals and were of no interest to her. But that wasn’t the point here, and Levon knew it. He was challenging her to prove herself.

Her heart pounding at the attention, she went on the attack. “I assume you rarely have illustrators join in your cozy after-hours gatherings, but my guess is that’s because illustration requires both talent and discipline. Which in turn requires honing your craft instead of staying up all night talking about it.”

Mr. Zakarian grinned; her audacity seemed to please him. “You can only work so many hours in a day. If you don’t know why you’re working, what’s the point?”

“I know exactly why I’m working. To please the client. Illustrators have to be malleable experts at all styles and subjects.” The silence that followed only fed her disdain. She wouldn’t be working at the school much longer, anyway, so what did it matter? “I’d like to see you get a commission, figure out the approach and execution, then do it all over again the next day, with a different client with a different set of expectations. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“Fine, it’s a tough field,” said the student sitting to Mr. Zakarian’s right. “But you can’t call it art. It’s a magazine cover or an ad, and then it’s trash.”

She stood firm. “One day, illustrations will be as venerated as the works of Matisse.”

Mr. Zakarian laughed. “So you’re saying that one day, an ad for pea soup will be framed and hanging on the wall of a museum?”

“Maybe. What I’m saying is that many illustrators are more proficient, more skilled, than fine artists.”

“Let’s prove it. I dare you to come to my life drawing and painting class. Tomorrow.” Mr. Zakarian’s words had an edge that belied the smile on his face.

Mr. Zakarian had no idea whom he was dealing with. Clara had been born into a family of great wealth and indulgence in Phoenix, and she vividly remembered screaming as a child of three when her mother refused her a sweet. Her father had adored her ferocity, encouraged it. When his embezzlement scheme—selling shares in a copper mine that never existed—finally unraveled, it had only made Clara more demanding. For fifteen years, the world had revolved around her, and then suddenly she was an afterthought, her tyrannical ways no longer effective at getting attention or a pleasing response. But she could summon up the familiar fury at a moment’s notice, if necessary. “I’d be delighted.”

The students cheered. Or, more accurately, jeered.

She’d show them. “In return, you can come to my class and spend a day as an illustrator.”

Mr. Zakarian rubbed his mustache with his hand in what she suspected was an effort to hide his amused surprise. “Very well. We’ll see who is the better artist then.”

“We certainly will.”

“What will be the wager?”

The answer came to her in a flash: a way to make up for the dismal evening, even if it meant laying bare her vulnerability before everyone. “If I win, you must speak with Mr. Lorette and convince him to keep me on next term.”

“Do you think I have that kind of pull?”

“I do.”

“Very well, then.” He paused. “And if I win, I get the opportunity to paint you.”

Someone let out a low whistle. She ignored it, as well as the insinuation of his wanting her to be his model. Everyone knew what he meant, and she noticed the muscles in Nadine’s neck twitch.

She nodded. “Very well.”

Out on the sidewalk, Clara took a moment to get her bearings. Even this late at night, the narrow Greenwich Village street was punctuated with people who seemed to be in no rush to get home. A couple linked at the arms brushed by her as if she wasn’t even there, the woman laughing loudly at something the man said. She watched them walk away, their movements slightly off, as if they were walking on a ship’s deck, a sure sign that they’d visited one of the many speakeasies tucked under stoops and in back courtyards.

The door to the restaurant opened, and Mr. Zakarian flew out, followed closely by Nadine.

“You’re leaving?” Nadine’s voice was short and sharp, a recrimination.

Mr. Zakarian threw Clara an apologetic look and held up one finger before turning back to the girl.

If God created a woman who was the exact opposite of Clara, Nadine would be the result. Short, with a stocky build, full bosom, and thick black hair, she was of the ground, of the earth, in spite of her fashionable clothes and well-bred airs.

Nadine put her hands on her hips and glowered up at Mr. Zakarian. “You’re going with her?”

“I’m planning on discussing the school with another faculty member. You don’t need to be jealous.”

Clara had no desire to get involved in the drama of a lecherous teacher and his needy student. “I don’t need an escort home, thank you very much.”

She headed east at a good clip.

Only ten seconds passed before she heard Mr. Zakarian’s footsteps. He pulled up beside her as she reached the next intersection. “Sorry about that. But I did want to speak with you further. First, I want to apologize for putting you on the spot like that.”

“I rather enjoy watching spoiled young artists declare their manifestos. If only we could all meet again in three years when they realize what a pointless enterprise it was and that the time would have been better spent in the studio, Mr. Zakarian.”

“Please, call me Levon.” His dark eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “I agree. Although I admit that I do my share of declaring. Isn’t it a good idea to have a sense of what you want to accomplish?”

She stopped walking. “I have had a very long day, and the last thing I wish to do is continue on with that ridiculous conversation. We have drawn our lines in the sand, and I look forward to taking your class. But for now, I must get home and finish up my commissions so that I can afford to buy more paint.”

He joined her again, loping along like a Saint Bernard. “Just take it from the teachers’ supply closet. They’ll never know. I do it all the time.”

She could only imagine the glee in Mr. Lorette’s eyes, catching her with a satchel full of purloined paints. “Mr. Lorette may give you that liberty, but he wouldn’t do the same for me. You really ought to go back to your audience.”

“Nah, they’re probably still torturing Sebastian.” They fell into step together. Like her, he took long strides. “I have students who love me and those who hate me, but the past few years teaching, I’ve earned my audience. I suspect you’ll have your own group of fawning students before the semester is out. Part of the job.”

“Speaking of fawns, how old is Nadine?”

He had the decency to look abashed. “Just turned nineteen.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

She’d figured he was over thirty. “Oh. So am I.” Her assessment of his talents reordered themselves. At twenty-five, he was still new on the scene. The show earlier this evening was probably as important to him as it was to her. “Did you get any interest tonight?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” His voice rose, the questions quivering in the cold night air. He did care.

She refused to soften. “What are your ambitions, then, if you don’t care?”

“To change the way people look at the world.”

She tried not to laugh, but he caught her smirking.

“Don’t make fun of me. I bet you feel the same way.” He carried on. “But your idea of changing the world is to have someone buy a product. A dress or a hat or a can of soup, no?”

His naivety rankled her. “You’d like them to buy your painting. Is that any different?”

“Of course it is. Because they will buy their soup and take it home and eat it, while my work will hang on their walls and give them joy for years.”

“Or no one will buy it, and it’ll languish in your studio. Because there are a hundred other artists who are trying to do what you do.”

He stopped walking. “What is it that I do?”

“Draw like Picasso.” She couldn’t help herself. The works she’d seen on the walls of the Grand Central Art Galleries signed by Levon Zakarian were far too similar to those of the Spanish genius.

“Why not? He’s the greatest painter of our time. What is wrong with paying homage to him?”

“Nothing at all. But if someone wants a Picasso, they can buy one.” She waited for a retort, but none came.

“I want to show you something.”

“Now?”

“Yes. My studio isn’t far from here. Right off Union Square. Will you come with me?”

She studied him. Levon was almost giddy, like a child on Christmas Eve, but he wasn’t attracted to her; she was sure of that. Aside from her brief frisson with Oliver earlier that evening, most men weren’t, and it didn’t bother her much now that she was away from her mother’s heaving sighs of disappointment. In this case, it was a relief, as she was curious to see his studio, and the wager to paint her, while bold, was probably the best he could come up with under the circumstances.

Levon led her into a building on the north side of Sixteenth Street. They trudged up several sets of stairs and down a long, dark hallway to the door at the very end. Levon’s studio, to her shock, was as clean as a hospital. The parquet floor had been newly scrubbed. Two massive easels stood in the middle of the floor, the center of attention, while jars of brushes and paint cans lined a windowsill like a row of inert spectators. A bank of leaded windows slanted down on the north side, where a daybed and a large dining room table had been shoved aside, the furniture merely an afterthought.

Clara shrugged off her coat and wandered over to a bookshelf near the fireplace, trying not to appear too impressed. Levon had obviously done well to be able to afford such a massive studio. He was probably subsidizing his salary from the art school with private lessons. How easy it was for him, to have come to New York and found respect, a steady income, and an enormous place to work.

Levon lit the burner under a kettle on the small kitchen stove. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.” She paged through a volume on Matisse before placing it back on a different shelf. Levon opened his mouth to say something but busied himself with his tea preparations instead. He was so easily provoked, for a moment she regretted teasing him. Any artist who so tightly controlled his studio—the alphabetized books, carefully spaced jars, and scrubbed floors—was trying to keep something else in check, and she wondered what it could be.

Eventually, he approached one of the easels and gently lifted the dustcloth from it. “I’d like you to see this, Miss Darden.”

She waved one hand at him. “Please, call me Clara.”

He gave her a solemn nod and stepped back, offering her the prime spot in front of it.

She’d expected another wild, Picasso-like flight of fancy, not a portrait. Two figures looked out from the canvas, a boy holding something in one hand, standing beside a seated woman whose gaze was as dark as death. A boy and his mother. The boy had a dark mess of hair and the same pointed widow’s peak as Levon’s. He wore a yellow overcoat and a funny set of slipper-like shoes, his feet turned slightly away, as if he hoped to escape as soon as possible.

The woman, though, was solid, unmoving, going nowhere. Her hands rested on her knees but appeared unfinished, as if she were wearing mittens. The lack of detail existed only from the neck down, however, as her face had been drawn in with an elegant line from eyebrow to nose, heavily lidded eyes, encircled by an ocean-blue headscarf.

The boy, unsure and self-conscious, was turned in on himself, while the woman’s energy was directed outward at the viewer: accusatory yet hopeful.

“This is you and your mother?”

He nodded.

“It’s beautiful, heartbreaking, Levon. Why didn’t you show this tonight?”

He pulled the cloth back over it. “It’s not finished.”

On a table nearby, she spotted a photograph. “Is that what you’re working from?”

He snatched it up and stared hard at it for a couple of seconds before reluctantly passing it over. Clara held it carefully at the very edges. The same figures, but filled with details. The woman’s hands had thick, working-class fingers. The boy held a small bouquet of flowers. The boy looked more certain and the woman less so. “Tell me the story behind this.”

Levon prowled away from her, then back. “My father was a cobbler; he came to the United States from the shores of Lake Van, in Turkish Armenia. He was going to send for my mother, sister, and me once he was settled. While we waited, my mother had this photo taken in the hopes that he wouldn’t forget us.”

“Why wasn’t your sister in the photograph?”

“Girls were not as important. I was the boy, his son. My mother hoped it would remind him of his duties.”

“I see.”

“But before we could send it to him, we were forced out by the threat of a civil war, and headed east. My sister wore boy’s clothes, for safety’s sake, and together we made it to a city called Yerevan, where we lived in an abandoned building. If it rained we got wet, and we tried to make do, but it was very difficult to find food.” As he spoke, he circled the entire room several times. Clara stayed still as he grew more and more agitated.

“My mother became ill, and one day she died. She’d given all her food to us, and we’d eaten it. Taken her life. We were selfish.”

The day’s complaints and petty jealousies fell away. “She would have wanted to feed you first. Any mother would have. When did you come to the States?”

“Soon after. As orphans, we were bumped up to the top of the list. We lived with relatives in Providence, and I never did find my father. Never cared to. Our relatives said he’d taken up with another woman and moved away. I drew, went to art school there, and then came here. I studied at the Grand Central School of Art and became a teacher within months.”

The return of his bravado cheered Clara. “Of course you did. This painting is remarkable. You must continue.”

“You must as well.”

“How can you say that, when you’ve never even seen my work?”

“I can see in you that you are like me. Strong. I must give you my advice, though.”

“Okay.”

“Get out more. Don’t sit in your studio all day; it’s not good for the soul. Also, don’t let your students come first. Your work comes first, always.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And when you come to my class, don’t worry if you don’t do very well. These students, my students, are trained by the very best. Me.”

And the pomposity was back with a vengeance. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

As she left, she saw him reach for the mop leaning against the wall. His voice, singing some kind of folk song in a foreign tongue, rang down the stairwell. She imagined him mopping away their footprints, scrubbing away his sad tale, well into the night.