Draft- Learning to be an Artist

Paris in 1939 was made for a young girl with artistic talent. Grace’s father had been against her going there, but the nuns and her mother had ganged up on him, and eventually convinced him that it was an opportunity that could not be missed.

When he had the cheque for the scholarship money in his hands, he agreed. It wouldn’t cost him a penny and it was good for a woman to have a hobby. If Grace had been a boy, she was sure her father would have refused his permission. She could hear him now.

“All this artsy-fartsy stuff won’t put money on your plate. Give it up. Do something serious with your life.” It was great being a girl.

The nuns had arranged for her to stay in a Hotel Dieu convent in the centre of Paris but at the last moment, everyone moved out of the building so it could be renovated and she was left with nowhere to live. Then her mother remembered a school-friend of hers who was living in Paris, married to well-known painter Georges Mercie. Her parents agreed to pay Mrs. Mercie a fixed amount every month for food and lodging, her mother travelling over with her to get her settled.

Once her mother had gone, the house let out a huge sigh of relief. Immense nude pictures were exposed from under the cover of curtains. Life models and aspiring artists made themselves at home. Meals were elaborate with guests of writers, intellectuals and artists. Grace found herself a bit lost at first. She spent all day at classes at the academy and then came home to what her father would describe as ‘chaos’. She sat quietly at dinner struggling to follow the conversation in French. Then she would excuse herself, exhausted, and go to her room.

Lisa Mercie began to take Grace under her wing, doing her hair, lending her some of her French clothes.

“I will always love Ireland,” she said, “ but I feel so free here.”

She explained to Grace who all the visitors were and at the dinner table made sure that she was included in the conversation in some small way. After a while Grace felt confident in contributing something without being asked and she could understand most of what was said even though the conversations were full of interruptions. Georges Mercier also had his selection of students, and Grace found herself learning a lot about art just by listening at the dinner table.

There were rumours about Georges Mercie and his models but Grace saw no evidence of this. His wife did not appear to be unhappy and he was always polite to Grace. However, the whispering added a bit of excitement to her life in the house, something naughty and risqué.

Most of the art students in her class and at the Mercie house were male. Grace was shy to talk to them at first but as she started working on her own projects, she found herself discussing what she was trying to do. It took her fellow students a while to take her seriously. While recognising her talent, they considered her a dabbler. She didn’t argue with them but when the time came to prepare for an exhibition, she made it clear that she wanted to make money from her art. The scholarship paid for her classes and lodging but she needed paints and supplies.

“Paint flowers,” said Georges Mercie. “They always sell, and you are a woman. You can get away with it.”

“Flowers it is!” Grace decided. She went down to the flower market every morning before the light came up, selected flowers, set up her easel and waited for enough light to sketch and paint by. The blooms were immense, embellished with lush colours that created a rich velvety texture. After a while, the flower sellers came to know her and would bring her their best flowers.

“Take mine, Rose-Marie.” They competed not only in selling, but in getting her to paint their wares.

The academy exhibition took place in January. Most of the flower sellers appeared at the launch and pointed out paintings of their particular flowers. Grace’s paintings were well-received and she sold several of them. Her parents were unable to attend the exhibition but sent word that they wished her well and looked forward to seeing her back in Galway during the summer break.

Grace felt that Ireland was a long way away and did not particularly want to go home for the summer so when she saw a notice looking for an artist’s assistant, she applied immediately. It was for Emile Chenier, a student from a wealthy family, one year ahead of her in the academy, who wanted to travel to North Africa to do a series of paintings to capture life there.

He wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about having a woman as an assistant. “I plan to travel,” he said, brushing down his moustach with his fingers. He had a boyish face that was trying to look sophisticated.

“I had expected my assistant to share a room with me,” he added. “Then there’s the problem of a woman inn a Muslin country.”

Without thinking, Grace said she’d dress like a man. She longed for adventure and freedom and knew if she went back to Ireland, she would fall back under the same restrictions of family and a small community. Amused, because he enjoyed talking with her, admired her paintings and her technical mastery, Emile agreed.

It was George Mercie who wrote to her parents explaining what a great opportunity this was for Grace. Her parents felt so removed from Grace’s world that they took his word for it and granted her permission to work in Paris. They didn’t know about any plans to travel.

Grace did well in her end of term projects and was enjoying preparing for the trip with Emile by trying on different clothes and creating different looks. They tried the young boy look, the debonair young man, the effeminate young man and finally went for the sporty look because the clothes were baggy and could hide more. Emile was having fun with the masquerade.
“You are like my art work too,” he said.

Grace wasn’t sure she liked that idea but she let him drape her with clothes until he had the look he liked. She absolutely refused to cut her hair. They were forced to settle on a hat.

“You will still have to take it off to a lady,” Emile laughed.

But Grace said she would be a rather rude and ignorant young man.

“You can’t be English, then. The English are so polite,” he argued.

“But I am not English. I’m Irish,” she said.

“Ah, I should have known. The red hair!”

“It’s not red. It is auburn,” she protested.

“It’s red to me. Now I have it.” He flicked back his silky black hair and looked her up and down with his black eyes. “You can be an eccentric Irish poet!”

“Why can’t I be an eccentric Irish painter?” she asked.

“Because I’m going to be the painter,” he said.

“And I’m you’re helper. I should be a painter not a poet.”

“Agreed then, and you can also be my model.”

A blush crept up Grace’s cheeks but she couldn’t help letting out a giggle.

The next month was spent preparing their trunks for the journey. Grace was hoping to do some artwork of her own so she spent the last of her money on art supplies. Emile was paying for her clothes and toiletries. They were counting the days. However, the travel company contacted Emile to say there was an outbreak of cholera in Morocco, and it would be unwise to travel there.

Because someone else was taking Grace’s room at the Mercies for the summer, she was going to write to her parents to send her some money so that she could go home. However, Emile said that he still had to work, and although the subject would be different, he needed her. He would pay her the same and throw in a room and meals just as he had agreed to do in Morocco.
Emile’s family had a large estate outside the city but Emile stayed in a walk-up apartment between Sacre Coeur and La Place des Abbesses. His

studio took up most of the space but there were two small bedrooms, a kitchen and a toilet. Baths had to be taken at the public baths down the street; food was either brought in ready-made in the local café or they went out. A woman came to pick up the washing once a week and delivered it the next day carefully pressed and folded.

Emile decided that it was not necessary to keep up the charade that Grace was a man. They decided on another story so that Grace could keep her reputation. She would be Emile’s cousin from England. They chose England because they thought it gave them a proper seal of approval. Grace was a bit disappointed that she would not be working for Emile as a man because she had acquired so many interesting clothes. She had spent the last of her money on painting supplies, thinking she would no longer need feminine dresses.

“ We can still go back to the eccentric character,” said Emile. “This time it can be a girl who likes to dress up in men’s clothing.” He smiled. “I know. A horsy English lady.

Grace reluctantly agreed but went into hysterics with excitement when he bought her a new dress

“For special occasions.” he said. “I don’t want you to look too good. There would be a scandal.”

Grace moved into the back bedroom and filled her days preparing canvasses, mixing paints, arranging compositions and sometimes inviting guests or writing letters. Her day began before first light because she still went to the flower market to keep up her own work. Emile always prepared meticulously before the actual painting. Grace’s days were busy. At night she retired early when they ate in, excusing herself even if there were guests. When they dined at a café, she was quiet but stayed seated until Emile walked her home. Sometimes he would go on to one of the clubs for a drink and she would stay at home. Grace did not clean the apartment. A woman came in every two weeks, always careful not to disturb the studio.

With her hair always tied back and dressed in men’s clothing, Emile’s fellow artists hardly gave her a second glance. However, one day Grace stopped off at the bath on her way back from the flower market. She wrapped her hair up until she got home and then, sitting in a sunbeam, started combing her long golden red hair. Emile entered the studio and was almost blinded by the river of fire that was her hair.

“My God, don’t move. I must paint you,” he said. The transition to model came smoothly. Every morning after the flower market, Grace sat by the window and let down her hair. She did what she was told and put on the loose blouses Emile bought for her, which she wore down off her shoulders. As soon as one painting of her was finished, another one was begun.
“Don’t ever tell who you model was!” she implored. “I will never be taken seriously as an artist.”

“It is not really your face, but a universal face. Don’t worry!” he assured her.

Grace’s profile could be seen in front of the rain-splattered window. Emile wanted to paint her in all different light and weather conditions.

The painting he was working on was called Fire and Rain. He was poised to create a raindrop when he remembered he was supposed to meet his friend Bertrand at a café. About a half hour after Emile ran out of the house, Bertrand arrived at the apartment with a bottle of absinthe. Grace had put away the canvasses and cleaned up the paint. The unfinished painting stood on an easel in the centre of the room.

“I waited for him for ages. I may as well wait here,” he said. “Or we’ll miss each other again.

Grace was about to escape to her bedroom when Bertrand asked her to stay and have a drink with him.

“I hate to drink alone,” he said.

Grace protested that she didn’t really drink, but he said this particular drink was like a tonic and that she would like it.
After several glasses, Grace was telling funny stories and they were both rolling over with laughter. The rain stopped and the sun came out catching the colour of her hair.

“I must paint you,” he told Grace.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I am working for Emile. He may not like it.”

Bertrand insisted that Emile was his best friend and that he would love him to paint Grace. He told her how they often went on painting trips together and painted the same subject.

“I always thought you were one of those masculine English types. You are really quite beautiful,” he said.

Grace had often seen the affects of alcohol in her own country and was wise enough to know when it was the drink talking.

Yet she had covered up her femininity for so long that it was refreshing to be admired and to be flirtatious back. Bertrand got her to recline on the lounge, lying on her side looking at him. She cringed when she saw him help himself to Emile’s supplies.
“We’ll just loosen this ribbon a bit,” Bertrand said and he stood back to look. Her rounded breasts, jutted above the fallen cloth, nipples hard. Bertrand went to adjust her position to better exhibit the exquisite fleshy pair when Emile walked in the door.

“What in hell do you think you are doing?” he cried.

Grace sat up, her chest still exposed. Emile could not take his eyes off her.

“I thought I’d do a little practise while I was waiting for you,” Bertrand said.

“ Waiting for me!” Emile repeated. “ I waited in the café for you for two hours. And look what I come home to.”
Emile was a good-natured man. Grace had only seen him argue about art or politics, more discussions than arguments. He never showed anger.

“Get out Bertrand. This is my work. This is my model. Why do you always try to take what I have?”

Bertrand looked at him in surprise, walked past him to the door.

Emile walked towards Grace as if in a trance. He placed his hands on her breasts and felt her tremble. This time the fire was not only in her hair but coursing throughout her body. When Emile bent over to kiss her, it was running through him as well. Later, lying on the floor exhausted next to Emile, Grace saw that Bertrand had not left but was standing by the door watching them.

Emile and Grace did not leave the apartment for a week. No painting was done. The cleaning woman was sent away and food was delivered from the café downstairs on Emile’s orders.

After a week, Emile started painting her again, this time as a nude model. She could stare for hours at Emile’s delicate fingers as they held the brush, his fleshy lips or the way he twisted his hair when he was concentrating. Grace no longer went to the flower market as she was not feeling well, not having recovered from drinking so much absinthe. The heat wave in August sapped her energy. No one could do any work; they just lay about.

September meant classes again and a return to the Mercies house for Grace. Emile was in his last year at the academy, Grace in her second. They both found it hard to stay away from each other.

“I’ll meet you every Wednesday,” he promised. “We will paint together”. Grace wanted Emile to think of her as a fellow painter, not only as his assistant or lover. They never did, however, paint together.

Everyone in her class was fascinated by the city of Paris and what it offered in terms as a subject to paint. Churches, outdoor cafés, elegant buildings, the Seine and various characters came to life on canvas. Grace stayed with the flower market but branched out to paint people, the stalls and buildings.

At home, Lisa Mercie noticed a difference in Grace. She was not as shy, joined in easily in conversations while at the same time she was distracted and stared into space at times. There was a change in her dress as well. She wore the baggy shirts she had worn during the summer over loose skirts. Madame Mercie felt sorry for her and, knocking at her bedroom door one day, brought her a pile of clothes that she no longer wore.

“I thought you could use these,” she said.

Grace was flustered. “Thanks,” she said. “French cuisine hasn’t been kind to me.”

Lisa Mercie looked at her. “You know, your mother and I went to the convent together. We were best friends but so different,” she said.

Lisa said that she was always looking for the exotic while Grace’s mother was happy with her lot, having a real sense of who she was; growing with her roots rather than struggling against them. Lisa couldn’t stop rebelling, searching and questioning.
“Neither one of us was right,” she said. “It was just a different path for each of us.”

Lisa went on to say that when Georges Mercie came to lecture at the university in Galway, she fell instantly in love and followed him to Paris. They were married soon after she arrived in France but nothing could wipe out the stain of scandal from her reputation. She dealt with it by cutting herself off from her family and country and starting a new life with her new husband. It wasn’t easy. Georges’ artistic temperament led him to have a number of affairs. The one with Noelle was particularly difficult for Lisa abut she stood by him throughout it all, and would still have not chosen any other life for herself.

Lisa waited for Grace to speak, and when she didn’t, continued talking. She said that she didn’t think that Grace was like her mother as she had discovered art, passion and a love of life. Grace agreed but was not any more forthcoming. Lisa had to be direct.

“I think you are pregnant,” she said.

Grace’s hand flew up to her mouth in horror. Nothing like that had ever occurred to her. It all made sense though, her nausea, her weight gain.

The next Wednesday, when they were lying on the floor of Emile’s studio, Grace hinted to him.

“Do you think I’m getting fat?” she asked him.

“You’re perfect,” he responded.

She said nothing more about that but asked him about his childhood and his family.

Later they were walking in the park kicking up piles of leaves when the wind caught her coat and blew it close against her.

“You are getting fat,” he said.

She swallowed and closed her eyes.

‘Not fat, pregnant,” she said.

His sensual lips turned down and locked so he couldn’t utter a word. He pulled his coat around him and started to walk away.

“Emile, where are you going?” she called.

He kept on walking.

“Emile, we have to talk about this.”

He turned around slowly and asked her not to make a scene. He said he would talk to her quietly in the café.

They chose a corner table in a busy bar. Grace explained that she had not planned for this to happen but that she loved him, and it shouldn’t change anything.

Emile became cold.

“I am an artist,” he said.

“So am I,’ said Grace.

“I have no wish to marry. I do not want to have to raise a family. I want to be free to create without the shackles of a wife and children.”

Grace let out a sob.

“You consider me a shackle?” she asked.

He pulled himself up straight in his chair.

“Now, yes,” he replied. “ When you get over this situation, come back to me. I will miss you.”

Lisa didn’t have to be told to know that things had not gone well with Emile. She told Grace that she was welcome to stay with them and have the baby but that it might be better to go away. Since the next term consisted of doing a ‘stage’ or a placement with an established artist, Georges could find her one in the country or perhaps in England. She could have her child and return to Paris for her last year.

****

William Bucks met Grace in London and drove her down to his home in Kent. He was not the kind of artist she would have normally chosen for her placement; he was noted for a particular shade of green in his landscapes. However, George and Lisa had assured her that he was understanding, liberal and would be happy to have the company. Better still, he had Irish connections, a farm, and knew of a pleasant couple that would take good care of the child.

Grace took to him immediately. He was an old man but had a young outlook on life. His painting day still stretched long into the afternoon. He would then go for a walk in the countryside or on a wet day, read by the fire. Grace was invited in his studio from the first day.

The O’Coins arrived when the baby was three weeks old.

“Her name is Kathleen, Kate for short,” Grace told them. “I will send you some more money as soon as I can. I know you will take good care of her,” she said.

When it was time for the couple to take the child away with them, she was not sad for she knew they could give her a good life. They owned a small but prosperous farm in Mayo, in Ireland. She kissed the baby lightly on the forehead and handed the bundle over to Mrs. O'Coin. The baby would always be part of her even if she were living with someone else.

Bucks asked her to stay on and move to his summer-house to help him with his work. As she had no money and Paris would be too hot to work in, she accepted. While in Kent, she became friendly with a young medical student called Henry Forrest who found Grace exotic, not because she studied art in Paris but because she was from Ireland.

On long walks in woods, across streams and though meadows of long grass he asked her to tell him about Ireland.
“I would love to live there someday,” he said.

Grace shrugged. She didn’t see the attraction. For her, it was important to be happy where she was. The man could not be less alike Emile. However, she enjoyed talking to this serious English boy with his social conscious as much as she did with Bucks who raved on about art, politics and life.

It was a difficult decision to go back to Paris. Henry had gone back to University but Buck wanted to keep her.

“You can learn as much from me than from any school,” he said.

He told her that if she stayed she would be able to see Henry on holidays. When she expressed concern that Henry would not want anything to do with her if he knew why she had come to England, Bucks said that Henry would have to have a screw loose to let trivialities stand in the way of getting closer to Grace,

“Nonsense child, we’re not in the dark ages!” he said. “However, what happened at my house will remain a secret. He will not find out.”

Grace laughed and said that Henry and herself were just friends, but they had agreed to correspond. Back in Paris, she threw herself into work. Emile had finished at the academy and had finally gone to Morocco with his new assistant, male this time. Nothing had changed much at the Mercies, the flower market or the academy.

Letters arrived from Kent every week. It was Henry who suggested that she search for the essence of colour and of shape and so she made her flowers bigger until they filled the canvasses. Her parents, not having seen her for over two years, wanted her to go home for Christmas. Grace’s father was still working too much. Her mother was alone a lot in the house.

“I’ve missed you,” she told Grace. “I thought you’d be home for all the holidays. I’ve enjoyed your letters but it was such a long time.”

Grace hugged her mother. “I’ve missed you too,” she said.

“I know that it’s important for you to be independent, but I was hoping you would have met someone,” her mother said.
“Perhaps I have,” Grace said. Being back in Ireland made her think more about Henry, how he had wanted to live in the wild beauty of the island. More and more she was thinking that Henry was the sort of man she could be happy with.

“I hope you don’t end up to far away from us,” her mother said.

“I’m coming home after I finish at the academy. Perhaps, I’ll go painting in Connemara.

The last term at the academy flew. Her results would be sent to her parents in Galway but Grace was confident she had done well. Bucks had written inviting her to his summer place but Grace was determined to go home. She wanted to stay connected to her roots. Water. She braved the summer drizzle to walk by the sea taking in the greys, greens and pales blues that were so different from Paris.

“It’s no shame to be an art teacher,” her father told her. “You don’t have to lounge around to be a good artist.”

Grace agreed with him and told the nuns she would be happy to take on a class. Not many women could find a job as easily. She felt fortunate.

Henry Forrest came to visit a few weeks before school began and he was as enchanted with Ireland as he thought he would be. Henry and Grace were almost always together although they did not talk about their feelings to one another. All Henry would say is that when he finished his last year at Medical College, he was going to open a practise in Galway. He even had his house picked out. Grace listened without saying anything as her father accepted him.

“I just thank goodness he isn’t a God-damned Frenchman,” he said.

To be Continued