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Authors: Jane Urquhart
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drunk, Austin, have a love affair. It would be atragedy to die and discover that you hadn’t completely used up your body.”
Robert H., on the other hand, spoke of states of being, long hours with materials and tools available and ordered, the hand ready to capture the image. To his mind, there was no experience more important than the art that was produced by it.
Robert Henri was my teacher; Rockwell Kent my friend. They both took their leave of me one way or another. No, I should be honest here. It is I who spend long hours in the studio trying to take my leave of them.
On our last walk to the pavilion that summer, George offered me a swallow from the flask he was carrying in his hip pocket. I accepted but pretended to drink more than the few drops I allowed into my mouth. I hadn’t had much experience with alcohol.
He was unusually talkative for a Saturday night with Vivian’s appearance imminent, asking many questions about The Art Students’ League in New York, since I had decided to spend my academic year in that city. At one point, I remember, he told me, half in jest, that I would be a great artist one day, and asked me to remember him when I was.
“I’ll still be painting on china,” he said, his tone flat, difficult to interpret.
“Because you want to,” I reminded him.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s what I want to do.”
The autumnal moon was beginning to rise over the lake, its orange shape distorted, as if pregnant. The BaltimoreRhythmaires were playing an upbeat melody as we walked towards the octagonal pavilion. By this time I knew so many of George’s friends that they called and waved to both of us as we approached. I had stopped moping weeks ago, was now aware that I was unhappy that the summer was ending.
Just before we were to enter the building, George pulled me aside and offered me a cigarette. When I refused, he lit one himself, inhaled, threw his head back and blew smoke towards the darkening sky. Then he looked around him warily before he spoke.
“Tonight I won’t dance with her at all,” he said. “Tonight I will dance with everyone else. I will not dance with her, even once.”
“She’ll ask you,” I said. “You know she always does.”
“I’ll refuse her.” He ground the cigarette into the dust with his foot. “I’ll refuse her,” he said again. “I won’t dance with her.” George looked towards the pavilion. “She talks … she talks about nothing.”
“She must say something if she talks.”
“No … nothing, she says a lot of nothing. I could be anyone. Anyone else at all.”
“But she is all you think about when you come down here.”
I was beginning to understand that he was drunk. The whisky, the emotion. It occurred to me that he didn’t resemble in any way the quiet, sanguine young man who stood behind the counter in the China Hall, as if when he had taken off his apron at six in the evening, he had removed a layer of his own skin, leaving him raw, edgy, vulnerable.
“It’s all I think about,” he said, “but I don’t want to see her, have her talk about nothing, dance with her.”
“I’m going in,” I said. “Are you coming?”
“In a minute,” he said and lit another cigarette. “By the way, I’ve always wondered — how did your father make all his money?”
I was a bit taken aback. “Something about mining stocks. Silver.”
“So you’ll be able to be an artist then, for as long as you want.”
“I don’t think my father’s too keen on it. But more than likely he doesn’t really care one way or the other.”
“She likes it that your father has got money. She told me that.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “She’s never had anything to do with me. She doesn’t even glance in my direction.”
But I was misinterpreting George. “No, listen,” he said. “That’s who she is, what she talks about. She thinks about status constantly — can’t wait to get away from here. She wants to be somewhere more
Robert H., on the other hand, spoke of states of being, long hours with materials and tools available and ordered, the hand ready to capture the image. To his mind, there was no experience more important than the art that was produced by it.
Robert Henri was my teacher; Rockwell Kent my friend. They both took their leave of me one way or another. No, I should be honest here. It is I who spend long hours in the studio trying to take my leave of them.
On our last walk to the pavilion that summer, George offered me a swallow from the flask he was carrying in his hip pocket. I accepted but pretended to drink more than the few drops I allowed into my mouth. I hadn’t had much experience with alcohol.
He was unusually talkative for a Saturday night with Vivian’s appearance imminent, asking many questions about The Art Students’ League in New York, since I had decided to spend my academic year in that city. At one point, I remember, he told me, half in jest, that I would be a great artist one day, and asked me to remember him when I was.
“I’ll still be painting on china,” he said, his tone flat, difficult to interpret.
“Because you want to,” I reminded him.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s what I want to do.”
The autumnal moon was beginning to rise over the lake, its orange shape distorted, as if pregnant. The BaltimoreRhythmaires were playing an upbeat melody as we walked towards the octagonal pavilion. By this time I knew so many of George’s friends that they called and waved to both of us as we approached. I had stopped moping weeks ago, was now aware that I was unhappy that the summer was ending.
Just before we were to enter the building, George pulled me aside and offered me a cigarette. When I refused, he lit one himself, inhaled, threw his head back and blew smoke towards the darkening sky. Then he looked around him warily before he spoke.
“Tonight I won’t dance with her at all,” he said. “Tonight I will dance with everyone else. I will not dance with her, even once.”
“She’ll ask you,” I said. “You know she always does.”
“I’ll refuse her.” He ground the cigarette into the dust with his foot. “I’ll refuse her,” he said again. “I won’t dance with her.” George looked towards the pavilion. “She talks … she talks about nothing.”
“She must say something if she talks.”
“No … nothing, she says a lot of nothing. I could be anyone. Anyone else at all.”
“But she is all you think about when you come down here.”
I was beginning to understand that he was drunk. The whisky, the emotion. It occurred to me that he didn’t resemble in any way the quiet, sanguine young man who stood behind the counter in the China Hall, as if when he had taken off his apron at six in the evening, he had removed a layer of his own skin, leaving him raw, edgy, vulnerable.
“It’s all I think about,” he said, “but I don’t want to see her, have her talk about nothing, dance with her.”
“I’m going in,” I said. “Are you coming?”
“In a minute,” he said and lit another cigarette. “By the way, I’ve always wondered — how did your father make all his money?”
I was a bit taken aback. “Something about mining stocks. Silver.”
“So you’ll be able to be an artist then, for as long as you want.”
“I don’t think my father’s too keen on it. But more than likely he doesn’t really care one way or the other.”
“She likes it that your father has got money. She told me that.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “She’s never had anything to do with me. She doesn’t even glance in my direction.”
But I was misinterpreting George. “No, listen,” he said. “That’s who she is, what she talks about. She thinks about status constantly — can’t wait to get away from here. She wants to be somewhere more
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