Chapter Ten
“We have to think about this as artists and businesspeople.” Mr. Beckwith is standing before us in his studio, having poured us each a cup of coffee.
“Go on,” Mamma says, her tone wooden.
“Evelyn, Mrs. Talbot, it’s a new century.”
I know it is—and I’m more determined than ever to soar, to be the most in-demand artists’ model in town. Mr. Beckwith seems to be thinking similarly: “Evelyn, you are the fresh face of our time. You’ve done everything from soap advertisements to stained glass.”
My cheeks grow warm at his approval, but there’s something new in Mr. Beckwith’s expression.
An intensity to his gaze. I know there’s more coming, and he confirms this as he continues: “I am an artist. You know I’ve painted portraits for all of my career.
” Mr. Beckwith turns and fixes Mamma with his gaze.
“You know I teach life classes to the artists in the Art Students League, yes?”
Mamma nods, but I’m having a hard time keeping up.
“As such,” he goes on, “I work with nudes all the time. As does Church. As does every artist of any renown, not only here, but in Paris, London, Rome.” Beckwith pauses, pulls in a long breath as if steeling himself, and then continues: “Evelyn, up until now, has done good work. Great work. But this would make her exceptional. Surely, since Evelyn is eighteen—or perhaps you’re nineteen now, have I missed a birthday? ”
He has missed a birthday, but I’ve turned fifteen, and my blood stills in my veins as I grasp for some response. But Mr. Beckwith does not linger on the point, carrying on as he says, “In any event, you are experienced enough. And I would make it perfectly tasteful, decent. Elegant, even.”
Mamma turns her coffee cup in a slow circle in its saucer but offers no reaction, her eyes expressionless. I say nothing, entirely overwhelmed.
When Mr. Beckwith fills the strained silence, his voice is quiet, even soft, as he says, “My dear, you know I also do landscapes. There is no more beautiful landscape than the natural form of a woman. And you are an exceptional woman.”
But I’m a girl! I wish to scream, my cheeks flaming.
Up until now the most revealing poses I’ve done have been in dressing gowns or with bare shoulders.
Mamma has always made it plain that she wouldn’t stand for anything improper.
But Mamma’s behavior now is confusing. It’s almost as if she’s not offended.
Perhaps she’s not even opposed. And Beckwith appears expectant as he says, “Are you ready to be truly great, Evelyn?”
I slide my gaze toward my mother, my voice thin as I manage only, “Mamma?”
She lets a long exhale slip out. “If it were done in such a way…decent…elegant. And it truly would mean an advancement in her career…”
I shift in my seat, feeling as though I could be knocked flat with a feather.
Are we truly talking about this? But Mr. Beckwith appears downright giddy, and he prattles on: “That’s exactly right!
If I were to paint Evelyn in the nude, it would be done with only the highest regard for decorum.
It would be sold privately. With her looks and her fame and the demand there is for anything bearing Evelyn’s image, why, such a piece could bring in hundreds of dollars. ”
Mamma threads her fingers together in her lap, staring straight ahead at the artist. “And we’d get a share.”
This causes Beckwith to falter ever so slightly. He tips his head to the side, saying, “It’s highly unusual for an artists’ model…or her mother—”
“Manager,” Mamma interjects.
“Manager, of course,” Mr. Beckwith parries with a slight frown, but he carries on. “Well, to ask for a share beyond the sitting fee is not generally how these things are done.”
Mamma unfolds her hands, takes her skirts in her grip as though preparing to rise from her seat. “As you said, Evelyn is not any ordinary artists’ model.”
“You are correct in that,” Beckwith quickly agrees.
“And this is no small thing for which you ask, Mr. Beckwith.”
“I understand.”
“And a great number of artists would jump through hoops of fire to be having this conversation right now about my daughter.”
“You are correct, Mrs. Talbot.”
“So we shall not do this in the usual way.”
Mr. Beckwith swallows, looks from Mamma to me, then back to Mamma, who repeats her demand, her voice like steel: “We would need a percentage of the high price which you have just mentioned.”
Mr. Beckwith exhales, and I see the fight seeping out of him. “All right. You have yourself a deal, Mrs. Talbot. I will share a portion of the proceeds of the sale with you.”
“Indeed,” Mamma says, leaning back into her seat. I can see her triumph as I look at her and then at Mr. Beckwith. And it’s in that moment that I realize: they’ve agreed to the terms of my nude posing, and I’ve not had the chance to speak a single word.
The day of the sitting dawns clear and sunny, and I step into Mr. Beckwith’s warm studio feeling as though I’ve swallowed an entire bowl of butterflies. Mamma, at my side, appears less hesitant; in fact, she seems rather chipper. “It’s a big day, dear. Are you ready for greatness?”
I pull in a long breath, wishing I could soften the coil of nerves in my stomach.
I find it all so confusing, Mamma’s reversal.
I asked her why she’d agreed as we first stepped out of Mr. Beckwith’s studio on the day he proposed the nude painting.
She’d offered only a shrug, eyes fixed firmly ahead as she said, “He made a compelling argument. I see his point.”
Was it the money? It had to be, at least in large part. “See here, if anyone can do it well, it’ll be Mr. Beckwith. He does everything with taste and style. It’s art,” Mamma added, her tone insistent. “And he sees greatness in you. It’s an honor. Did you hear what he said?”
I’ve thought over what Mr. Beckwith said—that it’s a fresh new century, and I am the face of this new era. But if I am the face of this new era, can’t I be just the face? Why do I have to be the figure, too?
I haven’t slept well for the past few days, knowing this sitting was approaching. I haven’t had much appetite, either, with my stomach in a tangle. In truth, this morning came as a sort of relief. At least now I can get it over with. Ready or not, I’m here.
Mr. Beckwith has positioned the raised wooden platform in the center of his studio a few feet before his easel, just as he’s done on countless other days.
He tells me that the elevation will allow him to see my figure from a variety of angles, and though this is said in an entirely matter-of-fact and professional manner, his words make my cheeks burn.
Then he presents me with a silk kimono of soft rose-petal pink, a line of small tropical flowers dancing along the neckline. I take the garment into my hands, studying it. “Where’s the belt?” I ask.
Mr. Beckwith throws a searching look toward Mamma, then looks back to me, before he answers, “No belt.” A moment later his features soften, and so does his voice. “I will only paint you from the navel up, not to fear. But we shall allow the front to fall open.”
He directs me to the dressing screen at the back of the room, and I walk slowly toward it, kimono in hand, wondering what the point is if the kimono will be slipping off in just a moment.
“You may keep your bloomers on, Evelyn,” he says.
That’s a relief. Such a relief, in fact, that I feel I could cry. He adds, “Hair down, please.”
I wince as I slip away behind the screen; it’s really happening. Mamma takes a seat on the far sofa, and I can hear her yanking her needles and yarn from her bag.
A moment later I step out, barefoot, clutching the wrap tight, and I pad my way toward the raised platform.
Once up there, I run my hands along the collar of the kimono.
Mr. Beckwith is positioned at his easel, attentive, even expectant.
My fingers trace the line of the seam down my chest, toward my waist. I pull in a slow breath, blink my eyes closed, and then open them.
Before I can think too much, I allow the kimono to slip down my shoulders.
I hear the click-clack of Mamma’s knitting needles.
I feel the whoosh of the fabric as it slides off my shoulders, and my eyes slant downward.
The air is cool on the skin of my bare neck and shoulders.
“Very well. More, please,” Mr. Beckwith says.
And so I manage a gentle tug, and the silk whispers farther down my upper arms, until the small mound of my left breast is exposed.
I look up for the first time and see Mamma facing the windows, her hands moving in their skilled stitching, eyes unavailable.
Closer by, Mr. Beckwith is all purposeful concentration as he approaches. He raises a tentative hand. “May I?”
I nod, feeling how shallow my breath has become.
I don’t wish to meet his eyes, this artist with whom I’ve worked so comfortably for countless sittings over innumerable hours.
Now he may as well be a stranger, so foreign is the territory we are charting.
Mr. Beckwith reaches toward me and with just two gentle fingers, he takes the silk in his grip, adjusting the kimono so that it slides off my arms and catches over my hips.
I hadn’t realized it was possible for my heart to hammer this rapidly.
Still I look away as he stares at me in silence.
“Hold right here,” he instructs, guiding my hands to my two hip bones. I’ve kept my bloomers on; that’s a mercy. But they won’t show on the canvas. He arranges my hair to fall down loosely over my right shoulder.
“Good. Now I want you to look directly at me.”
God, that’s hard to do. But when our eyes lock, I will myself to return his gaze. He narrows his own eyes, holding me in them. “Evelyn, you look as though you’ve stopped breathing. Can you please take a deep breath for me?”