Read Online Clara and Mr. Tiffany by Susan Vreeland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Vreeland
Ads: Link
just that.”
“Then what?”
I took the hairbrush from his hand. “It’s that I want to go with you.”
A puff of air exploded from between his lips.
“Imagine what it would feel like to work on something six days a week and to care about it so intently that you spend the seventh day worrying about it—did I choose the right spot on that sheet of glass for the ultramarine shadow on the Virgin Mary’s white head scarf? Will Mr. Tiffany be pleased with the striated glass I used for the sky at dawn over the figures? Why won’t this chunk of glass chip sharply where I want it to? Imagine living it, breathing it, pouring into each piece of glass my grief at the Crucifixion, or my excitement at a dazzling bird of splendor, dreaming of it week after week for a year, loving it with every ounce of my being, and then not being able to see it all assembled. You’re an independent artist, George. You can paint what you want, take commissions or not, work at whatever speed you want, go wherever you want, whenever you want. You’re entirely free.”
“You’re free too. No one’s stopping you.”
“No, George. I’m not free. I have twenty-eight girls that I have to keep busy immediately after our fair projects are finished or the businessmanager will force me to choose which ones to fire. The wheel’s in motion. We’ll have to design on speculation to tide us over until some orders come from the fair. If they come.”
“They’ll come.”
“Your saying so doesn’t stop me wanting to watch people in the chapel as they look, to see what they take away from it—joy or awakening or upliftment or peace or reverence—and to say to someone, anyone, ‘That’s
my
work you’re looking at,’ and at least one person in a million will say to my face, ‘That’s beautiful,’ or ‘That’s an extraordinary achievement,’ or ‘That
helped
me.’ ” In my dressing-table mirror, I saw my face taut with yearning, eyes squinting into slits, lips pulled in. “I want to be in the pressing crowds so I can feel I’m part of this great world event, even if I’m not acknowledged.”
I swung around to face George and grasped his arm.
“You’ll tell me everything, won’t you? You’ll listen to what people say in front of my peacock wall, and watch to see if anyone is moved by
The Entombment
? You’ll remember and tell me, won’t you?”
He patted my cheek. “I’ll memorize every word, and I’ll take photographs for Hank’s articles.”
“I’ll see them here, won’t I? And I can borrow some to show the girls?”
“Of course.”
Two simple words but uttered with such kindness and understanding. I closed my eyes a moment to reconcile myself.
I had begged Hank and George to postpone their trip until all parts of Mr. Tiffany’s exhibit were in place—not just the chapel but the secular windows in the Dark and Light Rooms as well. Although postponement wasn’t in Hank’s best interest for his articles, George had prevailed on him, and that obliged me to be courteous to his brother.
“All right. Tell me about this Edwin fellow.”
“You’ll like him. He’s much smarter than I am. He reads constantly. He’s idealistic. He works for the University Settlement.”
“Whatever that is.”
“He’ll tell you. And he’s different than I am.”
“No one could be like you. Not even a brother.”
“I mean, he’s not a nellie.”
CHAPTER 8
LADY LIBERTY
W HEN WE GATHERED IN THE PARLOR THE SUNDAY MORNING that George and Hank were to leave, Edwin turned out to be taller than George, handsomer than George, and, thank goodness, quieter than George. Although they both had the same black hair and dark eyes, and the same clean-shaven, well-defined jaw, George was slender as a willow wand and as easily bendable, whereas Edwin was sturdier, more solid. Merry shooed the four of us out the door, saying to me, “You be sure that our George gets on the right train.”
A torrent of words poured out of George’s
“Then what?”
I took the hairbrush from his hand. “It’s that I want to go with you.”
A puff of air exploded from between his lips.
“Imagine what it would feel like to work on something six days a week and to care about it so intently that you spend the seventh day worrying about it—did I choose the right spot on that sheet of glass for the ultramarine shadow on the Virgin Mary’s white head scarf? Will Mr. Tiffany be pleased with the striated glass I used for the sky at dawn over the figures? Why won’t this chunk of glass chip sharply where I want it to? Imagine living it, breathing it, pouring into each piece of glass my grief at the Crucifixion, or my excitement at a dazzling bird of splendor, dreaming of it week after week for a year, loving it with every ounce of my being, and then not being able to see it all assembled. You’re an independent artist, George. You can paint what you want, take commissions or not, work at whatever speed you want, go wherever you want, whenever you want. You’re entirely free.”
“You’re free too. No one’s stopping you.”
“No, George. I’m not free. I have twenty-eight girls that I have to keep busy immediately after our fair projects are finished or the businessmanager will force me to choose which ones to fire. The wheel’s in motion. We’ll have to design on speculation to tide us over until some orders come from the fair. If they come.”
“They’ll come.”
“Your saying so doesn’t stop me wanting to watch people in the chapel as they look, to see what they take away from it—joy or awakening or upliftment or peace or reverence—and to say to someone, anyone, ‘That’s
my
work you’re looking at,’ and at least one person in a million will say to my face, ‘That’s beautiful,’ or ‘That’s an extraordinary achievement,’ or ‘That
helped
me.’ ” In my dressing-table mirror, I saw my face taut with yearning, eyes squinting into slits, lips pulled in. “I want to be in the pressing crowds so I can feel I’m part of this great world event, even if I’m not acknowledged.”
I swung around to face George and grasped his arm.
“You’ll tell me everything, won’t you? You’ll listen to what people say in front of my peacock wall, and watch to see if anyone is moved by
The Entombment
? You’ll remember and tell me, won’t you?”
He patted my cheek. “I’ll memorize every word, and I’ll take photographs for Hank’s articles.”
“I’ll see them here, won’t I? And I can borrow some to show the girls?”
“Of course.”
Two simple words but uttered with such kindness and understanding. I closed my eyes a moment to reconcile myself.
I had begged Hank and George to postpone their trip until all parts of Mr. Tiffany’s exhibit were in place—not just the chapel but the secular windows in the Dark and Light Rooms as well. Although postponement wasn’t in Hank’s best interest for his articles, George had prevailed on him, and that obliged me to be courteous to his brother.
“All right. Tell me about this Edwin fellow.”
“You’ll like him. He’s much smarter than I am. He reads constantly. He’s idealistic. He works for the University Settlement.”
“Whatever that is.”
“He’ll tell you. And he’s different than I am.”
“No one could be like you. Not even a brother.”
“I mean, he’s not a nellie.”
CHAPTER 8
LADY LIBERTY
W HEN WE GATHERED IN THE PARLOR THE SUNDAY MORNING that George and Hank were to leave, Edwin turned out to be taller than George, handsomer than George, and, thank goodness, quieter than George. Although they both had the same black hair and dark eyes, and the same clean-shaven, well-defined jaw, George was slender as a willow wand and as easily bendable, whereas Edwin was sturdier, more solid. Merry shooed the four of us out the door, saying to me, “You be sure that our George gets on the right train.”
A torrent of words poured out of George’s
Similar Books
