Page 32 of Portrait of a Lady
“Show him your work,” Crosby whispered, giving him a little nudge.
Hugh fumbled with his satchel, producing one of several sketchbooks inside—taking care not to retrieve the one with today’s work inside. The last thing he needed was for Russell to see just how distracted he’d been during his lesson. The drawings weren’t even half as good as what he was capable of.
Crosby glanced over Russell’s shoulder, observing the pages as the architect flipped through them. The book represented some of his best work, from landscape drawings, to his studies of the various live subjects he’d gotten to work with in class. There was a particularly good sketch of a nude woman sitting upon a pedestal in the style of a goddess, and half a dozen sketches of Evelyn—the one of her lying in bed, one of her holding a bouquet of roses, another of her sitting near a window reading a book, three of her hands holding various objects such as a mirror, a flower, a quill pen. He’d drawn all but the first one from memory, finding that it was easy to conjure every detail of her appearance when he sat alone thinking of her. It was almost embarrassing, how perfectly he could sketch her face and form after such a short time together, but there you had it. When she was before him, he couldn’t help studying her every feature, finding them as perfect for execution in art as he ever had.
“These are quite extraordinary,” Russell murmured, pausing on a sketch depicting a view of a row of townhouses from the garden in Berkeley square, the buildings perfectly framed by looming trees in the foreground, the paths dotted with pedestrians walking here and there. “You have a clear knack for geometry and scale, as is evidenced in your landscapes. Tell me, have you ever given thought to the study of architecture? At least, the speculative if not the physical execution.”
Hugh glanced down at the sketch Russell studied with clear interest. “I cannot say that I have. When I do draw or paint landscapes or buildings, it is simply because it’s a subject that appeals to me in the moment. But, as Crosby said, my primary interest is portraits.”
Russell nodded. “Yes, I can see that portraiture is your strength, but a well-rounded artist ought to consider ways in which all his skills may be employed, and I can see the untapped potential in you in an architectural sense. Simply put, Mr. Radcliffe, I am an artist of sorts myself...one who takes a client’s vision for their home and turns it into reality. But, before I do that, I am obligated to produce a perspective drawing of the work to be done, in order to show dimension and shape. This, I have done for years with much success. However, it has recently become quite the thing for clients to request perspective elevations—paintings that offer an illusion of a three-dimensional shape in relation to the surroundings of whatever grounds the house will be built upon. In short, I now find myself faced with supplying clients with full color paintings of what’s already shown in the perspective drawing, but with the plans pertaining to the lawns and gardens added in. The technique allows the client to not only imagine what their home will come to look like, but to truly see the finished product before I’ve ever laid a single brick.”
“As you said, you’re an artist yourself,” Hugh replied. “I’d imagine such a task would not be too difficult for you.”
“On the contrary,” Russell said with a chuckle. “My skills are more of a technical sort due to the nature of my work, and I find I am merely adequate at best with oils and watercolors. For this reason, I have asked Crosby and the other instructors to introduce me to their best students—young men who might be able to take my prospectives and place them on the canvas. You already have the right foundation of knowledge for it. Based on what I can see of your work, you’d need nothing more than a bit of additional instruction in measurements and scale, and you’d be perfect for such an endeavor. Might I add, the pay would make the effort more than worth your while, and could help to distinguish you from other up and coming artists. Many of these perspective paintings end up adorning the homes of those who commission them. What better way to draw the notice of the very people who will someday commission you to paint them?”
Russell reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a square trade card, which he presented to Hugh. The thick paper had been printed with a collection of the architect’s past works in Palladian and Neoclassical styles. In the middle of the depictions read “Russell and Co, Builders & Architects, Leicester Sq., London.”
Hugh studied the card with a heavy measure of awe, the untapped potential it offered occurring to him in a way it never had before. He was still counting on the Summer Exhibition to open a few doors for him, but Mr. Russell’s offer also had its merits. He would need all the help he could get making a name for himself.
“Perhaps you might give it some thought, then call upon me if the venture is of any interest to you.”
“I will,” he replied while tucking the card into his sketchbook, then sliding both back into his satchel. “Thank you, Mr. Russell.”
The man donned his hat and tipped it at him before shaking both his and Crosby’s hands. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Radcliffe. Crosby, I shall see you tomorrow morning.”
The architect left them, pushing open one of the doors leading out to the courtyard. Crosby turned to him then, a concerned expression overtaking his face.
“You aren’t yourself today. Is everything all right?”
Hugh sighed as he fell in step with Crosby, who was heading to his afternoon lecture. “Everything is fine. I just...I encountered Marcus at the theater last night. It has been so long I’d forgotten what it feels like, being shunned and ignored.”
Crosby gave him a sympathetic look before motioning for Hugh to follow him into the empty classroom. “Ah...I’m so sorry to hear that. But, you aren’t the first of my students to find themselves ostracized for their pursuits, and you will not be the last.”
Perching on the edge of a desk, Hugh lay his satchel on the surface. “I thought I’d come to accept it. I told myself I didn’t care anymore, that I didn’t need them to accept me.”
Crosby began arranging a scene in the midst of the room—pillars surrounding a pedestal draped with white silk. “The existential crisis of humanity...the need to belong somewhere. Try as we might, we can never quite rid ourselves of it.”
“I’ve found where I belong,” Hugh argued, arms crossed over his chest. “Here, among other artists like you.”
The instructor paused in the middle of rearranging his silk, arching one gray eyebrow at Hugh. “While that is true, there is nothing wrong with wanting more. Outside these walls, we become very solitary creatures. For some of us—namely, myself—that solitude is a blessing. Our artistry does not allow room for attachments. For others, the attachments are a necessity; they enhance our view of the world and thus they affect the way we execute our art. The key, Hugh, is to decide which of these applies to you and act accordingly. Perhaps you will never make amends with your family, but...well, I did notice a particular inclination in your work as of late. Who is she?”
Hugh stiffened, his gaze dropping to his satchel. Inside lay sketchbooks filled with various drawings, many of which depicted his latest artistic obsession. Crosby chuckled when he hesitated, then straightened with a groan and a creaking sound emanating from his joints.
“You should have your apprentices do this,” Hugh chided, noticing how the other man winced and pressed a hand against his offending back.
Crosby waved him off. “I keep them far too busy to waste their talents on such nonsense. I’m old, not crippled. Now, you haven’t answered the question. Who’s the woman?”
Hugh took his time answering, taking great care with his words. Crosby knew nothing of his secret profession, and Hugh didn’t think he could ever live down the shame he would feel for his mentor to learn what he got up to when he wasn’t painting.
“Her name is Evelyn,” he replied. “I’ve been...courting her, I suppose.”
Crosby nodded in the direction of his satchel. “I’d say you’ve been doing more than courting her; you’ve made her into your muse.”
Hugh frowned, realizing he’d never thought of it that way. Crosby was right, of course. Evelyn had been inspiring all of his latest work—his drawings, his practices in class, evenVirtue and Vice.When he wasn’t with her, he was thinking of her, contemplating the lines and planes of her face, the depth and warmth of her eyes.
“She has inspired me, yes,” he admitted. “Our acquaintance is still new, but…”
I want her...she makes me smile...I miss her when she is not near.
