Paint the Wind, page 32
“Will you forgive me for not seeking you out sooner? I was so frayed by the time I returned to the States after the war that I could not absorb any more loss.”
“All is forgiven. I didn’t try to find you either. Part of my reasoning was selfish. I didn’t want to know if you had lived when Sophie had not. But having you here now has brought a piece of her back to me.”
After the meal, the trio strolled slowly through the Jardin des Plantes, Maya and Wanona leaning on their canes and Valerie snapping photos of them. A few hours later, Valerie and Wanona escorted Maya home, and then returned to their hotel and collapsed on their beds, sated with both food and stories.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The next day, while Maya and Wanona spent some quiet time together, Valerie met with curators at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay, thanks to introductions from both Catherine and the Gardner Museum. Her hope was to track down works by the other seven artists from the Salon Pisko exhibition, but she was frustrated by the lack of interest as well as the lack of information. It was suggested her search might be more fruitful in Vienna, despite the fact several of the women had spent time working in Paris.
After a long day, Valerie looked forward to joining Wanona and Maya at Maya’s apartment for a light supper. She had been given a list of cheeses, paté, and bread to pick up on the way. Over wine and victuals, Valerie expressed her disappointment.
“Why is this so important to you?” Maya asked.
“It was your self-portrait. It spoke to me in powerful ways, far more so than the portrait Brenner painted of you. I believe you capture women’s experience in a visceral way, and yet so many art lovers don’t even know you exist. Art scholars for generations have focused only on male artists. But at the museum where I consult in Boston, we’re beginning to see a trickle of newly rediscovered art by women from eras like the Renaissance, for example. There’s been a movement stirring, at least in America, to acknowledge the hidden contributions of women in all fields. If I can bring this small group of artists into the light, I’ll feel I’ve contributed as well.”
“Let me know how I can help you.”
“Thank you, Maya. Letters of introduction would help. If others from the Pisko exhibition are still alive, can you help me find them?”
“I can introduce you to one tomorrow—Elise Goldberg, my closest friend. She and her brother miraculously hid out in the Pyrenees during the war and survived. She’s frail, but her mind is sharp. She’s what you Americans call a force of nature.”
The three women visited Elise the next day. Her lodgings were larger and more elegant than Maya’s bohemian flat, but the warmth with which she greeted them matched Maya’s.
“Please forgive me for not greeting you on the landing, as I know Maya does, because she’s always so excited to welcome people to her home. I’m equally delighted. But I have a few years on Maya, and these fragile bones scold me if I make them do too much. Now tell me, Valerie, about this burning desire you have to tell the world that women have been creating art for centuries.”
Over tea and pastries, Elise and Maya tossed names, places, and paintings back and forth as Valerie furiously took notes. The conversation built in layers as one memory inevitably triggered another.
“It sounds like I should go to Vienna to hunt down some of these galleries and question them on where the art might have ended up.”
“Absolutely. Let’s make a list for you.”
Wanona elected to stay in Paris. Maya had insisted she give up the hotel and move in with her for the rest of her stay. Valerie took the train to Vienna, armed with names and addresses and introductions to galleries and museums. She had bought a notebook at Le Bon Marché and was beginning to see her ideas taking form. She just needed to fill in some missing pieces: Where was the art? What was known about the women who had died?
Valerie’s week in Vienna was exhausting and almost as unfulfilling as her time in Paris had been, until she achieved a breakthrough with a representative at Salon Pisko, which still had a record of addresses that had been kept up to date. She was able to meet with relatives of two of the original artists, and through them obtained the locations of several paintings. One family had a written biography, the other several catalogs from exhibitions. She took photos and penned notes. By the time she left Vienna, her notebook was nearly full.
When she arrived back in Paris, she had formulated a proposal that she thought she could present to the three Massachusetts museums that had been kind enough to offer her at least a start in her search. She was bubbling with excitement by the time she reached Maya’s apartment. The women were eager to hear of her progress, and Valerie sensed a softening of Maya’s initial resistance to talk about the canvases she’d hidden during the Nazi occupation.
“I want to take you to my studio. It’s not far.”
Together, they walked a few short blocks to an industrial building near the Sorbonne. Maya unlocked the outer door and led Valerie down a long corridor. The building seemed to hum with activity—muffled voices behind brightly painted doors; the whir of a potter’s wheel punctuated by the slap of clay; the sound of a flute somewhere above them. Maya stopped at a door and led Valerie inside to a high-ceilinged space with a wall of northern-facing windows. A number of easels set up around the room held works in various stages of completion that had clearly been created by different hands.
“I teach here a few days a week. Those are my students’ projects. My own work is over here.”
She directed Valerie to a corner of the room where a single easel with a small canvas contained a nearly completed portrait of Wanona.
“Oh, it’s wonderful! I read in the Pisko catalog that you had exhibited a series of portraits called Faces of Vienna. Unfortunately, I could not find any of them, not even photos, but seeing Nonie’s face, I’m reminded again how compelling your portraits are.”
Maya stood aside and pointed to the wall behind her.
“These are the paintings I hid during the war. I eventually re-stretched and framed them, but never sold any of them. Tastes had changed, and galleries weren’t interested in handling them.”
Valerie walked along the wall. There were two more of the maternal nudes, some portraits, and a few seascapes that were so complex and colorful she could almost hear the sea.
“Where is this?”
“The island of Skiathos in Greece. I spent my childhood summers there, and also a year in exile after the scandal broke of Andreas’s Sexual Awakening exhibition at the Secession Building. The island is where I began to paint after meeting Elise.”
“May I photograph them? I want to show the museums in Boston what they have been ignoring.”
“Of course. I did the same to promote Andreas’s work when he was being sidestepped for exhibitions. We think alike, you and I.”
There was also a striking portrait of an intense, dark-haired man who resembled Elise.
“Who is this?”
Maya hesitated for a moment.
“Oscar Goldberg, Elise’s twin brother.”
“He bears a remarkable resemblance to Elise, but the portrait is also incredibly compelling, even without the comparison. His eyes burn, not only with intelligence but with witness to the world’s pain. Is he also a painter?”
“No, a novelist. As a young man, he was a major voice of our generation.”
“Did he write later in life?”
“Up until the war; then, after he returned from hiding in the Pyrenees, he penned one more book, a searing indictment of greed and venality. He was still the voice of a generation that had lived through not one but two wars.”
“Is he one of the ones you lost?” Valerie’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Something about the way Maya spoke of Oscar suggested he was more to her than she was letting on.
Maya put her hand up and stroked the face of Oscar Goldberg.
“He was my soulmate and the only father Sophie ever knew, because Andreas was dead before she was two. When Oscar reappeared in Paris, he mourned with me, held me together when I didn’t think I had the strength to endure Sophie’s death.”
“When did he die?”
“The twenty-fifth of October, 1973. A brain tumor. I lay with him in his bed and held him in my arms until his last breath. From the moment I met him, when I was only twenty, he brought me happiness and peace.”
“I am so sorry.” Valerie put her arm around Maya’s shoulders.
“I was lucky to have had him in my life for so long.” She patted Valerie’s hand. “Come, it’s time to get back to Wanona. I hope you have what you came for.”
“Far more than I had hoped.”
The next night, they were invited to dinner at Elise’s. Elise had managed to gather two more artists from the Pisko exhibit, as well as descendants of the final two. Over aperitifs and hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room, Elise announced Valerie’s project and encouraged all the guests to share what they could of their own or their mother’s history. Although a few were skeptical at first, by the fish course they were murmuring their approval.
“It seems like a monumental undertaking, fraught with the risk that no one will care about us or our art,” said Freya Nadler, one of the reluctant artists. “But Valerie, you have impressed me with your diligence, your experience in art research, and your ability to mine connections. If you think you can resurrect our reputations and our art, you have my support.”
Maya raised her glass in a toast, which was seconded by Elise. One of the women joked that Valerie would have to work quickly if something substantive—a book or an exhibit—were to materialize before they were all gone.
“On the contrary,” interjected Maya, “this has given me the will to live until I see Valerie’s project through to fruition.”
In their checked baggage the next day was the portrait Maya had painted of Wanona. After they landed, Valerie drove Wanona back to Birch Cottage and helped her to hang the portrait.
When she returned to Boston, Valerie was on fire with the project. She had a couple of days to herself before Malcolm returned from the Chautauqua Institution, and she used them to spread out her work on the floor of her studio in the apartment, just as she did when she conducted research for Malcolm or approached a restoration. She had a pile for each artist, a pile of photos of the artwork she had found, a list of who owned the art that still existed, and the start of an inventory list. She was so absorbed in the work that she barely stopped to cook, grabbing takeout from the Chinese restaurant in Harvard Square and eating on the floor while she made more notes. The second night, she was too tired to undress and go to the bedroom, so she pulled one of her grandmother’s quilts over her and slept on the couch in the studio.
As she sorted and organized, she was absorbing the lives of these women, much as she did when restoring a piece of artwork. She had the advantage of having met and spoken with Maya and Elise, as well as Freya and Anna, the other two women who had attended Elise’s dinner and who had been gracious enough to promise to write with answers to the questions she had. As also was her practice, she wanted to place the art in context, and had drawn up a bibliography to educate herself on what Vienna was like at the time these artists were flourishing. Soon, she had an outline to begin writing the proposal. Her intention was to convince one or more of the museums to mount an exhibition and produce a major book on the women. She was at the dining table with her Smith Corona humming as she pounded out the introduction to what she was calling “Lost Vienna.”
When Malcolm arrived home, dropping his bags in the hall, he kissed her and then took in the stacks of paper and the open notebook next to the typewriter.
“What’s this? Did Maude get back already about the changes Houghton Mifflin wants on the book?”
“I haven’t heard a word from Maude. I only got back on Tuesday, and there was nothing in the mail I picked up at the post office.”
“What is this, then?”
“It’s from my trip with Wanona. We met with some remarkable women artists who exhibited together at the turn of the century. Unfortunately, two world wars and the destruction of most of their art by the Nazis led to their work—and them—being largely forgotten. I’m putting together a proposal for the major museums to do a retrospective on their art.”
Malcolm flipped through the notebook.
“Do you really think this is worth your time? We should be hearing any day from Maude, and you know how much work that can entail.”
“I’ll worry about that when Maude calls. Until then, I’m pursuing this.”
He shrugged. “What’s for dinner?”
“Curry from the Indian place. I’ll order it if you’ll pick it up.”
Several days passed, and Maude did not call. Valerie was relieved, but Malcolm was anxious; eventually, he called Maude.
“Malcolm, every publisher is heading either to Nantucket or the Hamptons for August. I don’t expect to hear from Houghton Mifflin until after Labor Day. So cool your engines. Go to the beach yourself.”
The breathing room was what Valerie needed. The finished proposal included photos and was neatly bound with a clear cover. Fortunately, not every curator followed in the footsteps of editors at major publishing houses in taking the month of August off, so she was able to get appointments through the kindness of the same people who had opened doors for her at the Paris museums. However, neither the Clark nor the MFA was interested. They had booked programs for the next eighteen months. But even if they had had room, they told her, the idea wasn’t relevant to their mission.
“There’s a reason these women artists have disappeared, Mrs. Langdon. Their work no longer has meaning in the modern world.”
Discouraged and disgusted, but not surprised, Valerie crossed those museums off her list. She wondered if their answers would have been different if the curators were women or if she had presented a cohort of male artists. Valerie knew, from her contacts in the art world, that women scholars were beginning the arduous work of identifying women who had been forgotten or deliberately written out of history. Women’s studies courses were starting to show up in college curricula, but only after persistent efforts to overcome the dismissive attitudes of academic leadership. Apparently, museums were just as resistant to entertaining the idea of accomplished women.
Undaunted, Valerie skirted the Back Bay Fens as she crossed from the MFA to her meeting at the Gardner. Despite her lack of success so far, she remained hopeful about her chances at the Gardner because it had been founded by a woman whose eclectic collection had provided the basis for the museum’s renown. It was small, and its collection was unique. Perhaps she could appeal to its reputation for mounting what other, larger museums considered too minor in terms of their importance. Valerie believed fervently that these artists had produced work that was neither small nor unimportant.
She took a deep breath, held her portfolio close to her heart, and opened the door to the museum.
Rather than meeting with the director, a man, she instead was introduced to his assistant, a knowledgeable woman in her fifties. At first, Valerie was dismayed that the appointment wasn’t deemed serious enough to warrant the ultimate decision maker’s attention. But as the meeting progressed, it was clear that presenting to Marjorie Whittaker was a stroke of good fortune. Unlike the director at the MFA, who had considered Valerie merely a conservator out of her depth, Marjorie knew of and respected Valerie. In fact, it was Marjorie who had read Valerie’s assessment of the Michelangelo La Pietà drawing. She probed Valerie’s interest in the Viennese artists and listened attentively to the story of how Valerie had discovered Maya’s self-portrait and how it had spoken to her as a woman.
Marjorie studied the photo of the painting Valerie had provided in her proposal.
“Even in this photo, I see what you mean. I can only imagine what effect the actual painting can have on the viewer. As I’m sure you know, the majority of our visitors and patrons are women. I could see an exhibition of this kind appealing to them. I’d like to take this to our committee. If they agree, we might have a slot open next fall. I know something we had previously planned has slipped through our fingers. I’ll be in touch either way in a few weeks.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
While Valerie waited for the Gardner to make a decision about the exhibition and Malcolm paced in his office, anxious to hear from Maude about his book, the summer wound down. To distract themselves from the agony of waiting, they took a short trip to the Berkshires to attend a couple of concerts at Tanglewood, followed by a few days of hiking. While they were out in the western part of the state, Valerie treated Catherine to lunch in Williamstown to thank her for her help, and then visited the Clark’s library herself to explore in person.
The library had bound copies of the Secession art magazine Ver Sacrum, and Valerie was excited to find lithographs and block prints by one of the Salon Pisko artists. Every time she came across another fragment of information about them, she experienced a shiver of excitement, reinforcing her belief that she was on the verge of producing something important and truly her own, as Wanona had urged her to do.
When Valerie and Malcolm returned to Cambridge, it was Maude’s call that came first. She let Malcolm know that Paul Thompson, the Houghton Mifflin art history editor, would be sending a memo with developmental editing changes. This was typical in book publishing, but Valerie had hoped for a reprieve from Malcolm’s work. If she got the go-ahead from the Gardner, she’d be faced with navigating a precarious balancing act that would also limit her ability to take on any restoration work that could pay the bills.
She tried to shift her focus away from the details of “Lost Vienna” and concentrated on getting Malcolm’s revisions done as quickly as possible. In the past, she had been keenly interested in and proud of the work she did on Malcolm’s books. She loved art history and the window it opened to the hearts and minds of artists from the past. But recalling her conversation with Wanona from a few months earlier, she now found herself resentful of the energy she was expending as Malcolm’s fixer.
