increasingly withdrawn brother, who was still staying primarily with relatives, supposedly because of his delicate health. One could speculate that even though Howard was her favorite, Mamma Nesbit also found it more economical to have her son stay with family (to whom she sent no money), and that Howard’s mental health was more likely at risk than his physical well-being.
The romantic notion that artists live on a higher plane than mere mortals was also soon dissolved for the much-in-demand studio girl. As the weeks and months went by, she learned that they were as concerned with money and the grasping mundane arena of materialism as was her mother. And as much as she enjoyed conversation with those painters and sculptors who, to her surprise, talked to her while working, Florence Evelyn wanted to find someone to talk to who wasn’t “a dreary adult, always blah, blahing about making ends meet.”
Whenever she could, she read on her own. Growing into an omnivorous if perhaps too indiscriminate a reader, particularly of novels, she made a concerted effort to master the classics she had taken out of the library when she could and would hold them reverently in her hands, at times even pressing the books to her chest as she slept. At the time, she had in her possession a copy of Zola’s Nana, left in a closet at the boardinghouse “by an innocuous-looking old woman.” She had heard something about scandalous French novels, and this particular one was “somewhat beyond” her comprehension. Nevertheless, she understood well enough that she could never get into college without first attending high school, and so late one afternoon, while posing, Florence Evelyn revived the idea of someday going to Vassar. She believed that if she worked hard enough, she would be able to save funds sufficient to fulfill what had been her father’s dream for her. Ultimately, she would come to the conclusion that reading secured for her “a sense of proportion, the one sense that spells salvation to a girl upon whom is lavished the subtle [and not-so-subtle] flattery” of premature attention.
With a child’s heart bound by adult responsibilities, as more time passed, the child-woman found herself in the unenviable and paradoxical position of literally inhabiting both worlds simultaneously. She was acutely aware that the money she earned was the sole support of her family—her mother constantly reminded her of the fact in case she had any ideas about quitting when she complained, however infrequently, that she was bored or tired. The image of her hysterical mother came back to Florence Evelyn again and again while she sat for hours on end, and during the night, her own inexpressible fear of sudden poverty often came more sharply into focus. Doing what she would throughout her life, however, Florence Evelyn decided to ignore adversity or try if possible to alter whatever bitter reality confronted her. Or shape it into something positive, chipping away wherever possible.
As an increasing number of eager painters and illustrators dropped by the studios where “the little Miss Nesbit” worked steadily in the “skylight world” week after week, several commented on the girl’s potential as a professional photographer’s model. The possibility for such a change appealed to the teenager immediately, since she believed that one had to hold a pose only for several minutes for a photograph (she was wrong). And, her mother offered, she could sit for any number of photographers in the same time that she now sat for one artist (she was not wrong).
Not long after the suggestion was made, Ryland Phillips, a Philadelphia photographer who had heard from John Storm about the fetching fifteen-year-old, arranged for her to sit for some photographic studies. Or rather stand. Throughout the session, Phillips had Florence Evelyn lean casually against a wall, clad in a floor-length milky white satin gown, with her hair falling softly to one side.
The romantic notion that artists live on a higher plane than mere mortals was also soon dissolved for the much-in-demand studio girl. As the weeks and months went by, she learned that they were as concerned with money and the grasping mundane arena of materialism as was her mother. And as much as she enjoyed conversation with those painters and sculptors who, to her surprise, talked to her while working, Florence Evelyn wanted to find someone to talk to who wasn’t “a dreary adult, always blah, blahing about making ends meet.”
Whenever she could, she read on her own. Growing into an omnivorous if perhaps too indiscriminate a reader, particularly of novels, she made a concerted effort to master the classics she had taken out of the library when she could and would hold them reverently in her hands, at times even pressing the books to her chest as she slept. At the time, she had in her possession a copy of Zola’s Nana, left in a closet at the boardinghouse “by an innocuous-looking old woman.” She had heard something about scandalous French novels, and this particular one was “somewhat beyond” her comprehension. Nevertheless, she understood well enough that she could never get into college without first attending high school, and so late one afternoon, while posing, Florence Evelyn revived the idea of someday going to Vassar. She believed that if she worked hard enough, she would be able to save funds sufficient to fulfill what had been her father’s dream for her. Ultimately, she would come to the conclusion that reading secured for her “a sense of proportion, the one sense that spells salvation to a girl upon whom is lavished the subtle [and not-so-subtle] flattery” of premature attention.
With a child’s heart bound by adult responsibilities, as more time passed, the child-woman found herself in the unenviable and paradoxical position of literally inhabiting both worlds simultaneously. She was acutely aware that the money she earned was the sole support of her family—her mother constantly reminded her of the fact in case she had any ideas about quitting when she complained, however infrequently, that she was bored or tired. The image of her hysterical mother came back to Florence Evelyn again and again while she sat for hours on end, and during the night, her own inexpressible fear of sudden poverty often came more sharply into focus. Doing what she would throughout her life, however, Florence Evelyn decided to ignore adversity or try if possible to alter whatever bitter reality confronted her. Or shape it into something positive, chipping away wherever possible.
As an increasing number of eager painters and illustrators dropped by the studios where “the little Miss Nesbit” worked steadily in the “skylight world” week after week, several commented on the girl’s potential as a professional photographer’s model. The possibility for such a change appealed to the teenager immediately, since she believed that one had to hold a pose only for several minutes for a photograph (she was wrong). And, her mother offered, she could sit for any number of photographers in the same time that she now sat for one artist (she was not wrong).
Not long after the suggestion was made, Ryland Phillips, a Philadelphia photographer who had heard from John Storm about the fetching fifteen-year-old, arranged for her to sit for some photographic studies. Or rather stand. Throughout the session, Phillips had Florence Evelyn lean casually against a wall, clad in a floor-length milky white satin gown, with her hair falling softly to one side.
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