Chapter 118, CHOICES
Art Students League
Early the next evening
Bates juggled Old Ram, his portfolio, and his case as he climbed the school stairs, pressing himself to the right so the more able-bodied could pass. He was early, so he stopped at the third floor and took refuge in the lunchroom where he could nurse a cup of coffee without feeling conspicuous. As he sipped the hot brew, his eyes skimmed the room's occupants over the cup's brim and came to rest on a gangling youth who sat slumped over a sketchbook. The young man was in need of a haircut, and unruly blond strands fell across his eyes as he fought for command of his pencil. Bates supposed him to be a fellow student and smiled to himself. Perhaps I should let my hair grow, so I can be a Bohemian. He realized it was his own face that was the subject of the student's contrary pencil, and he raised his cup in salute. The young man scowled, slammed shut his sketchbook, and left.
Realizing the time, Bates gathered his belongings and mounted the stairs yet again. When he reached the top floor, he realized he did not know his instructor's studio number. He chose studio 9 at random and glanced inside. There sat the young man from the lunchroom.
"Is this Mr Sloan's class?" Bates asked in a hushed voice.
The man glared as though deciding whether to answer or punch. "This is Benton's class," he grumbled. "Why waste your time with Sloan?"
"Honestly, Pollock," reproached an older student sitting nearby. He left his easel and came to the door. "You'll have to forgive him. He's from California." The man gestured to another door. "That's Sloan's studio. He's good, but he'll critique your work for the benefit of everyone in the class, so you can't be sensitive."
Bates thanked the man and hurried to the designated studio, where he stood awkwardly at the door. The students showed little interest in his timidity until one took pity and invited him to sit at an unoccupied easel. Bates could see they were preparing to sketch, so he opened his case and found the tin that held his charcoals.
"You're new."
Bates looked up to find a slender, bespectacled man who was graying at the temples. Bates was relieved to see someone at least as old as himself.
"I'm John Sloan, and you are ... ?"
"John Bates."
"We're all named John here," joked Sloan. "You're aware that the others began in September?"
"Yes, I ... "
"No matter." Sloan moved to the front of the room, and it was only then that Bates saw the woman. She stepped onto a broad wooden crate, tossed aside the plaid robe she had been wearing, and draped her naked self over a chair. Sloan stood a respectful distance apart and asked her to raise her chin a tad and bend her left arm at a more acute angle. As Sloan made these adjustments, Bates glanced surreptitiously at the other students who were watching the proceedings without shame. Some were already sketching.
"We'll stick with one pose tonight," announced Sloan. "Find what interests you. Have an opinion. Have the courage of your convictions."
The woman's chair sat sideways to Bates, and she was perched on the seat diagonally, nearly facing him. Her bent arm was resting on the chair's back leaving her pale breasts exposed. Her navel seemed to wink at him as though saying, I know what you're thinking, and a dark, curly triangle pointed to the hidden portal between her legs.
See the model, not the woman, Bates cautioned himself. You know how to do this. Find her middle. He quickly organized the model's figure on paper with a centered line to mark her midpoint and two lines to mark the top of her head and the bottom of her feet. He was working quickly now ... light, easy strokes to find the rhythm of her pose ... a gravity line from the pit of her neck to the floor ... lines to set the angles of her shoulders and pelvis. As he shaped her torso and head, he lost his sense of sitting in a classroom and was surprised when time was called for the model's first break.
Sloan began a tour of easels. Some followed, and others continued to work. Bates watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. She had slipped into her robe and was leaning against a cabinet, facing the wall. She showed no interest in the students' various interpretations of her anatomy.
While the woman was posing, Bates had been calmed by her air of serenity. Now, he felt unsettled by her isolation. He wiped the charcoal from his hands with the rag he kept in his case for that purpose. Is there no other career for her than this? He wanted to speak to the woman, to ask her, but he had been told the rules when he enrolled, and he knew he was not permitted to speak to a model.
Sloan had worked his way across the room and now approached Bates's sketch. "The artist has a facile hand," he observed loudly. "Facile ... is that the word, Cliff?"
"That's the word, John," replied a tall, angular student over Sloan's shoulder.
"What a shame," continued Sloan. "Technique has made the artist glib."
Bates did not know how to respond, but he quickly learned that a response was not expected.
"He should begin again," advised Sloan, "but use the opposite hand. That'll keep him honest."
"But I ... "
"The artist is drawing a human being," Sloan continued, "not a mass of shadows and shapes. He must be intimate with his subject. Has she come from a long day of work or a long bath? Is she sweaty or perfumed? Is her skin coarse or silky? Is she sated or hungry, singing or cursing? If the artist can't illuminate a piece of her soul, then why should he bother?" Sloan leaned closer to Bates and lowered his voice. "Use the other hand. It doesn't matter if you finish."
Hotel Bartholomew
The Staff Dining Room
Later that night
Jake, the sous chef, was in the habit of fixing a proper breakfast for the night staff. Thomas carried a tray from the kitchen loaded with grapefruit, codfish cakes, American bacon (another reason for Thomas to love his new country), two muffins, and a pot of coffee. No Sanka tonight.
During the day, the staff dining room was bustling and brightly lit. At night, electricity was conserved, and footsteps echoed in the lonely room. Thomas was early, but he knew the overnight staff would straggle in soon enough. He was content to have a few moments to himself before tackling the midnight shift.
Thomas was anxious to know if Bates had kept his promise and enrolled in a class. By the time he had showered and dressed that night, the door to Bates and Anna's bedroom was shut. He thought perhaps the two were enjoying a romantic dalliance, so he tiptoed out as quietly as he could. He would have to wait until morning to discover if Bates had kept his word.
The swinging door to the kitchen banged open, and Thomas looked up to see Bates struggling to push through. He was holding his portfolio with one hand and balancing a tray with the other. His case was tucked under his arm, and Old Ram was hanging from his coat pocket and dragging on the floor. Thomas popped up and relieved him of the tray.
"I thought you were upstairs in bed. Have you been out painting at this hour?"
Bates let out an exasperated huff. "You told me to enroll, so I enrolled! I've just come from my first class."
"Already?"
"Yes, already. Don't you believe me?" Bates bellowed.
"I'm sorry, John. I honestly thought you'd like the class."
Bates threw down his case. "Who says I didn't like it?"
Thomas was at a loss. The two men ate in silence, Thomas his cod cakes and Bates a ham sandwich.
Before long, Bates touched Thomas's arm. "I didn't mean to bark, Pooh. I'm not as active as I was at Downton, and I've lost my ... how do they say it now? ... my get-up-and-go. I barely managed to get myself to the school with this stuff, let alone to my class. The studio's on the fifth floor."
"There's no shame in getting older, John. You should go to the Y more often if you want to keep yourself fit."
Bates slammed the table. "I wasn't asking for advice!"
"No, you weren't. You're usually the one who gives it."
Bates stared at Thomas a moment and set down his sandwich. "Crikey, is that how I sound?"
Thomas shrugged and scooped out the last of his grapefruit.
"I'm sorry, Pooh. You don't deserve that."
"I certainly do. Your advice has always been sound. I deserve it, and I count on receiving it." Thomas picked up a piece of bacon.
Bates smiled. "What would I do without you, Pooh. You keep me honest." He suddenly laughed out loud. "You're like drawing with my left hand."
"What?"
"I'll show you." Bates wiped his hands, opened his portfolio, and withdrew a sketch.
"My hands are greasy, John. You'd better hold it."
Bates stood and picked up the sketch by its corners. "Well?"
Thomas chuckled, "So you had a nude model your very first night?"
"I thought you'd enjoy that."
Thomas studied the image. "This is yours? It seems a bit ... "
"Clumsy?"
"No, not clumsy. It's ... raw. It doesn't have your usual finesse."
"Finesse is superficial, or so I was told. The instructor had me draw with my left hand."
"Interesting." Thomas leaned back so he could take in the entire sketch at once. "There's something in the woman's face that disturbs me. She's exposing herself to me, and yet ... "
"What?"
"There's something underneath. She's mocking me. She's allowing me to see, but I'm not supposed to look."
Thomas sipped his coffee as he watched Bates return the sketch to his portfolio. He could not quite grasp Bates's mood. "What did your instructor say?"
"He said I might be on the right track."
"He's unlocking something in you, John. Even I can see it."
"That man forced me to be intimate with a woman I'd never met!"
Thomas almost choked on his coffee. "And I thought the children's school was progressive," he replied in a measured tone to mask his amusement.
"I was speaking metaphorically."
"I would hope so." Thomas selected the larger of his muffins and set it on Bates's plate. "Do you plan to continue?"
"What choice do I have? Books aren't enough. I need that other, objective voice."
The pair continued to eat as the overnight crew plodded in, exchanged greetings, and spread out among the tables.
Bates waited until the string of arrivals slowed. "Pooh," he began in a low voice, "why do you suppose a woman chooses to do that sort of thing?"
"What, modeling?"
"Nude modeling."
Thomas shrugged. "Aren't artists and models often lovers?"
"I wouldn't say often."
"No? Perhaps some women do it out of vanity. It's a chance for immortality, after all."
"That could be."
"I should be a model."
"What?"
"Why not? I could be the next David."
"I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you, little brother."
"I am serious. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't do it. I'd get paid, wouldn't I?"
"For one thing, you promised Anna you were done with outside jobs."
Thomas was enjoying this new game. "Anna would never stand in the way of my immortality, John."
"Uh-huh. And for another thing, you'd have to take off your glove."
"My glove? Why?"
"Because learning to draw hands is part of a life class."
"Oh."
"Sorry to disappoint you."
Thomas shrugged. "Easy come, easy go."
Bates cut his pickle in two and placed half on his little brother's plate. "I'll make it up to you. When I think I'm ready, I'll be the one to immortalize you. And you won't have to take off your clothes."
Thomas swept his hand the length of his torso. "And deprive the world of all this?"
Bates lifted his glass of White Rock. "That would be cruel."
Thomas chomped the pickle. He liked pickles, and New York pickles were the best. "What were we talking about?"
"Why women choose to ... "
"I remember. I imagine some models wish they were artists but don't believe they have the talent or aren't willing to do the work. They think modeling will give them a back door into that life."
"That may be." Bates finished his sandwich and set the muffin on top of his case. "I'll have this upstairs." He set the empty plate on his tray. "What about models at an art school. Most students are amateurs. Why would a woman want to pose for a class full of amateurs?"
"Desperation."
Bates sighed. "If a woman truly wants to model, that's her business, but I don't like the thought of a woman undressing for me because she's desperate."
"I know." Thomas placed Bates's tray over his own and set his empty dishes on top. "These are hard times, John. Would you rather these women turn to prostitution?"
"Good god, don't make me out to be their savior."
"It's the school that's the savior, John. If posing nude keeps even one woman safe 'til her luck turns around, isn't that worthwhile? What would she do if the school stopped hiring?"
Bates drained his glass and turned to Thomas. "Listen, Pooh, when we begin hiring, I want to offer that woman a job."
"You don't even know her name ... do you?"
"No."
"You're being sentimental."
"I don't care. I know what it is to have no options. If Lord Grantham hadn't offered me a position when he did, I dread to think where I'd be now."
Thomas checked his watch. "I have to go, John." He leaned close to Bates. "I promise, when the time comes to hire, we'll do what we can to give a hand up. You're not the only one who knows what it is to run out of options. I was out of luck and out of friends once ... or have you forgotten?"
