Читать книгу Sarah M. Peale America's First Woman Artist - Joan Ph.D. King - Страница 8

In the third floor studio Rembrandt lectured Sarah on composition, stressing the need to make dozens of pencil sketches before beginning. Sarah listened politely, waiting for him to tell her something new. Ten minutes passed with Rembrandt speaking in a dull voice, hands clasped behind his back, words coming in jerky phrases with frequent pauses. He cleared his throat and seemed to be searching the ceiling for what to say next. Sarah hoped it was just beginning badly, that soon he would discuss something she hadn't heard before. His pause became a silence as his gaze extended into a dreamy stare.

"Why don't you show me the glazing techniques you showed Anna," Sarah suggested.

Rembrandt's head swung around. He seemed preoccupied, but went to a cupboard and brought back a box of materials. Sarah sat opposite him at the long narrow work table, her elbows propped on the tabletop, her chin rested on the heels of her hand. Rembrandt carefully spread out swatches of silk. Laying one piece over another, he demonstrated how the first color affected the next, and the next. When they had looked at dozens of combinations, Rembrandt swept the silk aside. "The effect is much richer using paint because you can vary the transparency and thickness of the layers over different parts of the painting." She already understood simple glazing, but now she would delve into the art of making rich lustrous depth. Rembrandt gave Sarah a painting to copy with many intricately glazed passages. This was more like it, Sarah thought. Here the colors did glow; even the black was alive and rich.

"You must be patient," he warned. "One layer must dry before the next can be applied. You can't hurry the process."

Sarah worked hard, but she was amazed at the time-consuming pains Rembrandt took to gain even a small effect: Nineteen layers of paint just to create a violet shadow under a sitter's chin. Oh dear, Sarah thought. Did she have the patience for that?

As the days passed Sarah thought about Anna in the capital, painting the great men in government. How much more exciting it must be there! Though she worked hard learning Rembrandt's techniques, she was tired of copying his work as she had copied Papa's.

One afternoon Rembrandt's oldest daughter Rosa came running into the studio looking flushed and happy. "What brings you all the way up to the third floor, Rosa?"

"A grand ball. The event of the season. And we are invited. Cousin Charlotte will be there, too. She's been awfully nice when I have seen her socially. Really a dear."

"So you like your Robinson cousins—even after everything?" Sarah asked.

"Why shouldn't I? None of the unpleasantness is Charlotte's fault. Mother says we shouldn't let Alexander poison our minds against Angelica and our cousins."

"And does your father agree?" Sarah asked, dipping her brush into a jar of mineral spirits and wiping it clean.

"Of course he does. He wants nothing but to mend the rift."

"Perhaps." Sarah said, raising her brows.

"What do you mean?" Rosa asked.

Sarah shrugged when she saw Rosa's defensive glare. "It's nothing, I suppose. But I overheard Raphaelle tell Papa that 'ever since that day Rembrandt has been determined to prove he could do it. He'll never rest until he does.'"

"Prove what?" Rosa asked.

Sarah shook her head. "Raphaelle wouldn't say, but it had some thing to do with this museum."

Rosa looked into Sarah's eyes. "Father doesn't like Alexander, but that's because he thinks himself so far above the Peales and treats Grandfather so shabbily."

"He's hateful," Sarah said. "Poor cousin Angelica."

"And he's stubborn," Rosa said. "Father tried to let Aunt Angelica know how highly he regarded her when he insisted on naming my sister after her. He even asked Angelica and Alexander to be her godparents. But they refused, sent a silver cup and a note saying they regretted not being able to be at the christening. Father still hopes Alexander will forget the past..."

"But what happened?" Sarah asked.

Rosa shrugged. "Whatever it was it happened long ago."

"True," Sarah sighed. "I'm glad I met Charlotte and Alverda. The ball sounds wonderful. Tell me all about it."

"Can't you put away your brushes for a while? Angelica and I are planning what to wear. Come join us."

"I can't," Sarah said. "Not this minute."

"Oh bother, picture-copying. I want you to help me decide what to wear."

"Rosa," Sarah scolded. "I'll come in half an hour." She continued with her work, but after a few minutes was impatient to finish. Rosa waited, looking over Sarah's shoulder, chattering about the ball, about her own drawing which she said she found exhausting.

"It's different for me, Rosa. I must assist Papa. His eyes are failing, and my work must measure up."

"But isn't it awfully tiring?"

"Not for me," Sarah said. "I'm strong and used to working."

Rosa shook her head. "Has Father shown you how to draw the little snake curls? I call them Byron curls."

Sarah nodded. She didn't think the people who came to her Father's painting room would care for the style. It was a European mannerism. But she had practiced it.

"I do hair well—and profiles," Rosa said, "but eyes are difficult for me." She sighed. "I work on my music more now—it's not as tiring."

Sarah knew what Rosa was really saying. Marriage was coming, and a home and children, and what did drawing have to do with that? Rosa was pretty, and maybe she was right—for her.

The evening of the ball arrived and Rosa, Angelica, and Sarah each wore their finest gowns. Sarah crinkled and shushed in Margaretta's blue taffeta. Rosa gushed about the desirable men Sarah would meet. She hoped she would meet someone like Ben Blakely.

Charlotte Robinson arrived with a large party after the ballroom was filled. Sarah saw her immediately and noticed she looked pale and nervous. Rosa, who had been dancing, broke away and greeted her cousin at once. Rosa's eyes shone with pleasure. Her face was pink with excitement as she brought Charlotte to Sarah for a few words. They were soon joined by some of Charlotte's party. They chatted and danced and sipped punch. Sarah danced with Thomas, one of the men who came with Charlotte. He was a tobacco planter who danced with energy, dashing about the floor like a fox in the woods. Sarah teased him until she saw Charlotte's eyes following them.

Rosa led the conversation at intermission over cakes and punch. "My cousin Sally has the Peale talent for portrait painting."

"Is it easy to capture a likeness?" someone asked Sarah.

"No, it's never easy."

"Then why would you spend so much time doing it?" Charlotte asked. "There are so many men devoting their lives to it."

"Why?" Sarah looked wonderingly into Charlotte's eyes. She glanced at the faces of the others who politely waited for her reply. "I do it because I want to excel." Her answer was instinctive, but it brought smiles and giggles. Charlotte's eyes showed sympathy mingled with amusement. Hurt, Sarah was speechless, but the moment passed. The conversation moved on. To these people her struggle could not possibly succeed or make any difference anyway. They believed she was wasting her time. She longed to explain, to tell them they were wrong. It was possible to do what she wanted to do. She would excel.

The music began again, and Thomas asked Charlotte to dance. Sarah watched them, seeing the scene as a painting: light touched their foreheads, shadows revealed bone structure under the surface of their skin. She saw proportion, composition. Though she participated, she also observed, very carefully.

Perhaps Ben would understand. Or did he think she was wasting her time just as the others did? Her head whirled with images of the smiling faces around her, then of Ben.

She was glad to leave when the evening ended, but when she reached her room she was not ready to sleep. Ben had written her a letter she hadn't answered. Even before she took off her party dress she picked up her pen and poured out her thoughts to him:

Your letter came several days ago and since you did write, I must assume you have given some thought to me at least. You are an honest hard-working person and not of our family; therefore, I am writing to ask you a vital question. You have been to medical school, which I have heard is very demanding, so you understand sacrifice and working hard for "what you want. But if I am not mistaken about you, Ben, you are also practical and a man of sensibilities.

As you must know, I take my painting seriously. My father expects me to help in his painting room. When people come to my father for their portraits, they expect a painting that will give them pleasure for the rest of their lives and remain as a testament after their deaths. To prepare myself for this work, I am studying very hard to become an excellent artist, not simply a painter of drapery and ruffles. I want to become an artist as competent as my father. Yet some people think it is a waste for me to spend so much time learning to paint when s many men are devoting their lives to it. My burning question is this, Ben. Do you understand why I want to devote myself to it? Does it seem reasonable that I should give up the little pleasures in a young woman's life to exhaust myself thus?

Respectfully yours,

Sarah

The next morning in the studio, Rembrandt paced and lectured about ways of constructing a face to make the painting worthy to live on through time. As he described paintings he had seen in London and Paris, Sarah saw that Rembrandt's purpose in painting was not to provide a likeness or to earn a living or even to describe an event in history. His art was grandly conceived and executed so people born centuries in the future would admire it.

She began to understand Rembrandt's Napoleon. The horse was magnificent, the rider a worthy-looking hero. She doubted if she would ever paint such pictures. She thought of the patrons that came to her father's shop. There would be no Napoleons there.

At the end of the lecture, Rembrandt asked if she had any questions. Sarah smiled. "Do you think Raphaelle does still-life that could last through the ages?"

Rembrandt looked startled, but clenched his jaw and gazed over the top of her head. "Raphaelle should be doing more with his talent." "He does a few miniatures when he is well enough."

Rembrandt waved the miniatures out of consideration. "He has no conception of pleasing a sitter. It's as though he wishes to insult them. I don't understand him. Why does he turn his talent and wit against himself? Is it because he resents the fact that his work isn't recognized? If so, why does he pretend it doesn't matter? His advertisements are degrading to everyone. 'No likeness, no pay. It's not hard to imagine what inspired that. Worse still, one advertisement read, 'Still Life, including both fruit pieces and portraits of the deceased!'"Why should he hang up a sign like that?"

"To be noticed," Sarah suggested.

"Yes. And such cheap prices! Why must he drag his humiliation out for all to see?" Rembrandt shook his head and lowered his voice. "He's too tender a soul to survive. His sense of his own frustrations won't give him any peace."

Rembrandt's words left Sarah with a cold prickling sensation. "I've known Raphaelle was unhappy and that was why he wasn't successful. But I still don't understand how it happens."

"None of us understands Raphaelle, not even Raphaelle."

Sarah thought about that. Her father might be the one person who understood him. "When I see his still-life paintings," Sarah said, "I can believe everything in his life is in perfect order."

"When he is painting for himself, it is." Rembrandt strode across the room. "There is nothing we can do for him." He lowered his head and looked at the floor.

In the days that followed, Sarah redoubled her efforts to make the best of her opportunity in Baltimore, but even as she worked intensely, her thoughts were often with Anna. She asked Anna to write her everything that was happening. One evening she was rewarded with a fat envelope addressed to her in Anna's handwriting. She carelessly threw her cape down on the sofa beside her in her haste to read Anna's letter.

Dear Sarah, I am glad to hear you are working diligently. If you ever come to Washington City to paint, you will wish you had worked even harder. You asked too many questions in your letter, but I will try to tell you everything. The city itself was a great disappointment. Four years of rebuilding after the burning of the public buildings in the war has not accomplished nearly as much here as in Baltimore. Here there is no elegance. My first impression was of entering a hodgepodge of buildings on an unattractive bit of pasture. But perhaps I was too hasty. We arrived in a cold driving rain and were turned away from three inns before Uncle Charles asked a friend to intercede for us. That is how we got rooms in the home of Mr. Stills on Pennsylvania Avenue for ten dollars and eight dollars each for board. The rooms are upstairs, but we are grateful to have it, even though Uncle Charles had to fix the fireplace which smoked awfully. Then he repainted the studio room with a mixture of yellow ochre, red ochre and Spanish white, which makes a fine background for portraits .But I must not fill my letter up with unimportant details. What you will want to hear ' about is our painting of President Monroe. Uncle Charles arranged the sitting through the same friend who found us the rooms. You can't imagine how nervous I was when we set off for the presidential mansion. Uncle Charles took charge of loading the easel and paint boxes into a hack. I trembled during the entire ride. Hannah was the only calm one. Calling on the President of the United States did nothing to ruffle her. I was sick with worry, but Uncle Charles noticed my trembling and took my hand. "Never doubt yourself," he said. "You have won critical awards, not undeserved. You will do what needs doing." While we waited for the President, coffee was served in an airy room with walls and carpeting all in green. The linen table cloth blindingly reflected the light. Mrs. Monroe, who looked every dignified inch the President's lady, surprised us by complaining bitterly the whole time about the dismal weather they were having. It was so ordinary, Sarah, I quite forgot to be nervous. Then the President walked into the room. "Mr. Peale, I presume," he said, offering his hand to Uncle Charles. His stature was noble, his features refined and spiritual. And when I thought of having to capture all that on my ivory, I trembled again. We were led to an adjoining room, where Hannah and Mrs. Monroe did needlework while Uncle Charles and I painted our portraits. We had hardly begun when a clerk came in for a word with the President. They whispered. The President signed papers. But when he assumed the pose again, his expression had changed, the angles were different. This happened again and again with clerks coming and going. Sometimes the President had to leave the room for long periods. Mrs. Monroe explained how busy he was. "Early in the morning is best. Come for breakfast at seven-thirty tomorrow. There will be fewer interruptions then," she said. I moaned when I looked at my ivory that evening. I remembered his small gray eyes, the cleft in the chin, the high cheekbones. But my drawing was spotty. It did not even approach what I remembered, and a mediocre likeness of the President just wouldn't do. I was even more anxious when we got to the mansion the next morning for breakfast. Mrs. Monroe greeted us again, but the President was absent. "James could not rise as early as usual this morning," she told us. "A pain in his head." We expressed our sympathies, but she fluttered her hand and whispered that last evening's festivities had gotten out of hand, and the President put too much wine in his stomach. We waited two hours before he arrived, and when he did appear, he did not wish to talk and did not smile. A more somber expression I have never seen. He was interrupted as often as before. Through it all, I learned how to suspend my concentration and to come back to the work without losing ground. But still my progress was slower than Uncle Charles's. His was masterful; wait until you see it. He noticed that I needed another sitting, so he told the President he was almost finished and would appreciate one more session. That evening we were invited to dine at the mansion. I hesitated telling you this, Sarah, because I know you will be miserable with envy. Don't be. We rushed home to change and make ourselves presentable, rushed back, arriving promptly on the hour, but we waited and waited and waited before the meal was served. Uncle Charles took advantage of the time to talk with the President and some of his advisors about government support for the Museum. But the President warned him not to expect help because "In Washington City, there is never enough money to go around." At the next sitting Sarah M. Peale we finished our paintings, and the President and Mrs. Monroe were very complimentary to Uncle Charles. Then Mrs. Monroe looked at my miniature, smiled and said, "Oh yes, it's so very like the James 1 know." You will see it soon enough and may judge for yourself how well I captured our President.

Sarah felt her chest fill with envy. Oh, how miserable it was not to be there with Anna. Why was she struggling with shadows and curls while Anna was painting in the presidential mansion? Sarah's temples throbbed with impatience. How long would it be before she could do what Anna was doing?

I am trying to do as you asked and not leave anything out, but many things will have to wait until I see you. As soon as the Monroe portraits were finished, Uncle Charles arranged for sittings with Henry Clay, and Mr. Calhoun, the Secretary of War. Calhoun is the man Uncle Charles is speaking to about Papa's war pension. These people trust Uncle Charles at once. They know of his collection of portraits of illustrious Americans. To be hung alongside his portraits of Franklin, Washington, and Jefferson is an honor. But I mustn't ramble when there is so much to tell you. Our first sitter was Colonel Johnson, a man said to be of great promise and a hero of the battle of the Thames. I had expected an older man, but Col. Johnson swept in wearing his red coat and looking more like a genuine hero than I could have imagined. He has a white smile, a ruddy complexion, curly black hair, and a more congenial man you'll never meet. He offered to make arrangements with other Congressmen and talked about Jackson with fervor. He sat for his portrait with military poise that made his features easy to draw. After giving us a good sitting, he extended his kindness to many other matters such as driving us all over Washington City in his handsome barouche. When I see you, I will tell you all about painting Mr. Clay and Mr. Calhoun, both men of tremendous energy and charm. I have never seen more expressive eyes than Clay's. In the meantime, learn all you can for some day you may be painting a Mr. Clay, too

Affectionately, Anna

P. S. Uncle Charles and Aunt Hannah want you to join us in Washington City over the Christmas holidays. Bring clothes suitable to the season of gaiety.