by Maggie Humm
This was her new home, and she had a sense of something beginning, of a weight dislodged, the mourning for her mother, and she was moving in a new kind of direction. She wouldn’t feel any homesickness. Lily unpacked her favourite brushes, planning to lay out paints on a cut of canvas if Mrs. Trevelyan didn’t object. Through the window the sky had the unchanging gold of a late summer evening, and she pushed the window open and leaned out. A salty breeze streamed into the room. The attic faced away from the sea, but the briny smell was piquant, and the cries of seagulls calling to each other all over the town filled the air like a seashell held to her ear. The street below was a pandemonium of fish sellers’ shouts, pigs’ grunts, horses’ hooves ringing out on the cobbles, and foreign Cornish tongues she’d need to understand. She pictured the zigzag roofs of the grander houses higher up the town at the top of her window as the border of a sampler, with embroidered edges and a space in the middle as if she could sew her age with the date: “Twenty. 1900.”
The jug’s water was warm with a new bar of soap in a dish on the basin. Washing her face and neck, drying drops from her forehead, she read her acceptance letter for the hundredth time. “You will be taught in Porthmeor Studios, which overlook the beach near the harbour.” Painting every day by the water would have made the few months of study into a sea-side holiday if she’d been able to come in early summer instead of the beginning of autumn. Paris had also once felt daunting; it had taken her a long time to make friends, but she’d spoken French like a native by the end of the year. She heard a gentle knock, and Mrs. Trevelyan poked her head round the door.
“Will you be having hot chocolate with some buttered toast, Miss?”
Lily slept well, but the room was colder in the morning air and the house silent. Outside on the landing was a tray holding a pot of tea and two rolls on a flowery plate with jam and butter. Should she tell Mrs. Trevelyan she’d developed a Parisian taste for coffee with breakfast? No. It would be best to fit in—at least for the first few weeks. She was already late.
Leaving the house, she rushed breathlessly down Fore Street’s steep slope to the harbour. The streets were narrow and crooked, almost medieval, and St Ives resembled a Mediterranean fishing village, like one of those French paintings in Cork Street galleries. Salted fish dangled in windows, and several cottages had hogsheads marked “pilchards” inside their open doors—a grand version of the doll’s fish shop she loved to play with in the afternoons while her mother sewed. Lily smiled. Everything was so quaint and vibrant. Surveying the scene, trying to fix it in her mind, she felt drawn towards the brightness of the sand, exposed by the low tide, shining precious silver with boats dotted here and there, and she was struck with a sudden contentment at the picture.
Porthmeor Studios were ahead at last, hard on the beach, and she felt inside her bag to check the letter was safe and her brushes ready. Climbing up the external staircase, she hesitated for a moment at the entrance. So much depended on these three months: her meager savings, Father’s matching gift, the urgency to learn more, to exhibit, to be admired, to do something her mother would have been proud of. She cleared her throat and pushed down the butterflies in her stomach. Anxious to make a good impression, thinking Paris and London were far away, and she couldn’t live forever with Father, she took a deep breath and grasped the door handle.
Behind her, the shut door shuddered under her hand, echoing around the empty room. The easels were all vacant. Where were the students?
“You’re late!” a tall man shouted from the other end of the long studio. “I don’t tolerate students who can’t keep to time.”
He seemed a giant under the ceiling’s low beams. The broad face, ruddy cheeks, a tieless shirt with sleeves pushed up over the elbows—all signaled activity—he looked like a farmer or an outdoor workman, not an artist. Parisian artists were short and thin and wore black velvet jackets with knotted silk cravats. They called her “Mademoiselle” and never shouted.
He stamped over, his boots echoing on the wooden floor.
“Mr. Olsson?’ she asked with an apologetic half-smile. “I’m Miss Lily Briscoe. There was no precise arrival time in my letter. It simply said Monday morning, with your name and details about the studio.” Scrabbling in her satchel for the document, she continued, “I assumed nine o’clock would be …”
“Never assume.” He stared hard at her. “We start promptly at eight every day except for Sundays. They’re all painting on the quayside, you should be there.”
Adjusting the cuffs on her wrists, she could hear a pulse in her ears and took another deep breath to speak calmly. “I’m certainly not afraid of hard work. I studied at Heatherley’s and in Paris.”
She had a sudden compulsion to look down and shine her shoes, as if gleaming shoes would impress him. She’d had this kind of impulse all her life, telling herself to do odd things, pretending to herself—she could do this, do that—but Olsson steered her to the door and walked her towards the harbour at such a fast pace she barely managed to stay alongside, holding down her skirt, with the brisk sea air cooling her hot face. A dozen students were spaced unevenly along the quayside, falling silent with Olsson’s sudden appearance. Three women wore aprons over their dresses, and the men, jacketless and with sleeves pushed above their elbows in imitation of their master, braved the grey clouds sweeping low.
“Emily, you look after Miss Briscoe. I told you about her,” Olsson said.
Lily smiled at Emily, whose clothes were invisible under a heavy plain serge overall.
“Happy to meet you, Miss Briscoe,” Emily said without much of a glance, focusing on a canvas. Lily, noticing a mongrel dog asleep by her easel, its nose under a paw, thought Emily might be kindly, at least to animals.
“Is that an American accent?” Lily asked, smiling at her.
“I’m Canadian,” Emily replied curtly, but before Lily could speak, Olsson interrupted.
“Gentlemen and ladies, there’s barely an hour left before the rain, I fear, but we won’t be deterred.”
From their expressions, the students didn’t seem convinced, but they kept working. It must have been a familiar instruction. Emily was painting highlights, dragging tints over the canvas, with swift, strong sweeps of the brush. Her hands were square, almost mannish, with bluntly cut nails.
“This morning’s exercise is particularly difficult,” she whispered to Lily. “We’re to paint the white boat with its white sails docked below the Sloop Inn, and the whitewashed buildings above, but make all the tints completely distinct from each other.”
“I’ve never tried so many whites,” Lily replied, remembering her training at Heatherley’s.
“Well,” Emily said, “Olsson does favour sea scenes, but I’m not even sure which brush to use. Anything’s better than pretty English pictures.”
Glad Emily had confided in her, Lily gave a quick laugh, wanting to know more about this older woman who sounded so certain about art. Before she could speak, Emily put an arm over her canvas to protect it from the raindrops.
“The rain’s too heavy even for us. Anyway, it’s time now for lunch in the studio.” Olsson’s voice echoed against the harbour wall. Fisherwomen, mending nets below them on the beach, stared up startled.
Emily neatly folded her easel, glancing at Lily’s thin satchel. “We often bring our own food, so we can keep painting through the day. If you haven’t any, you can share mine. My landlady always gives me far too much.”
“Thank you. I’ll bring enough for us both tomorrow, Emily,” Lily smiled, “now I know the rituals.”
Lily was only to spend three months in St Ives, but Olsson was such a famous artist, she knew she’d be on her way to becoming a professional artist at last.
Later, gazing out of her attic window, Lily tried to hold onto the day. The vivacious talk, Emily’s generosity, the mixture of accents from all over the world, the silver sand of the beach, the white tips of the waves—it all milled around in her mind, and she didn’t want to con
tain it. It would grow and grow; her life would be as expansive as she could make it. As she stared up at the grand houses, the line of uneven gables at the top of the town became the set of an exciting silent film rather than the Victorian sampler she’d imagined yesterday, and she leaned as far as possible out of the open window while raindrops sprinkled her hair.
The heavy rain lasted into the next day.
“Worst summer I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Trevelyan said with a sniffle, handing her the breakfast tray.
When Lily reached the studio on time, students were gathered in a semicircle, with raindrops from open windows skittering along the windowsills and dripping in sharp notes onto the polished floor. Gazing along a wall whose white-washed background gave the students’ paintings a grey, almost dingy appearance, she wanted to tell them how different Paris was, how their colours were out of date, but she pursed her lips, stepping over to join a silent Emily as Olsson explained they needed to plan their submissions to the next Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.
His back was straight and his head seemed even larger than before with its halo of fair bristly hair. As he spoke, the door handle banged hard against the back wall, and a short, dark-haired man entered. His shiny black waders reminded her of highwaymen. Nodding at Olsson, he gazed around. His was a handsome face with smooth skin and large brown eyes, his beard sleek and neatly trimmed. No longer quite herself, Lily felt her mouth curve upwards. She glanced over at Emily to see her reaction, but Emily was expressionless.
“So here you all are,” he said. “No quayside painting today?”
The atmosphere in the room lifted, like the minutes immediately after a storm when ions rush into the air, as the man flicked back his plaid cape and took off his hat, twirling it high on a finger before tossing it at some hooks. He sauntered straight towards her, his brow furrowed as if thinking of clever remarks.
“And our newcomer? Who is this young woman, Olsson?” he asked, surprising Lily with his directness.
“Grier, this is our latest student—Miss Lily Briscoe, who joins us from Paris.”
They all stared at her. For a moment she was stunned, feeling awkwardly pinned on the wall like a photograph: Paris 1900. She wanted to keep the new French ideas and techniques all to herself for a while, and the pressure of what she wouldn’t say stopped her breath.
“You’ve survived Paris and chosen St Ives!” Grier’s voice seemed to take control of the studio and the students and the whole of the morning. He beamed, looking squarely at Lily, as if willing her to hold his gaze, with a smile ending in two dimples on tanned cheeks. His eyes travelled down to the blouse edging her neck and her tight-waisted blue serge pinafore, and she straightened her collar, flustered. The room smelled fresh with sea air.
“I’m Louis Grier, the other tutor, Miss Briscoe,” he said, smiling. “I paint by the mile and cut off by the yard. It’s what they say about me.”
Taking her hand, he bent over and gently kissed the back. His skin was dry from paints and turpentine, but the gesture was so French, so charming.
“I’m glad you’ve joined our cheery group,” he said, “we happy few on St. Crispin’s Eve.”
It wasn’t St. Crispin’s Eve, or even St. Crispin’s Day, but his theatrical voice—Australian perhaps—was warm, matching his eyes, with the promise of a livelier time beyond Olsson’s stern face.
“Oh, I’m so delighted to be here, Mr. Grier.”
Her voice sounded too high-pitched, and she glanced down for a second at his hand, now by her side. There seemed to be no space between her hand and his.
As quickly as he’d lavished attention on her, he was wandering over to other students who welcomed him with smiles as they filled up mugs with tea from a high steaming urn near the door. Standing next to Emily, Lily listened to their small talk, wondering what all the new terms could mean.
“Surely Olsson will praise a little first, before criticising?” she whispered to Emily.
“It’s Mr. Grier who usually praises.”
A short, tight-jacketed man and a slim woman with glossy red hair watched Olsson layering thick daubs of paint with a hog-hair brush. Not sure if she was meant to join them, Lily felt a hum of connection, drawn to the little group, and walked over. The two students smiled as if pleased she’d joined their world and they were all part of something significant.
“I’m Richard,” the short man said. “Tell us about Paris.”
But as she puzzled over something to say which wouldn’t sound too clever, a louder conversation in a corner of the studio had turned into a lecture by Louis, whose rich voice was telling them about French modern painting, and the whole room hushed.
“One day in late summer while climbing Mont Sainte-Victoire, Cézanne said to Zola, ‘Treat nature in terms of the cylinder, the sphere, the cone.’” Louis dramatized the moment as if he were right alongside the great artist and his writer friend in some lavender field in the south of France. “Think of your shapes, ladies and gentlemen, in relation to your textures.”
As Lily stood at her canvas, Louis seemed to her in a light of his own, distinct from the day, as if he’d strung brilliant bons mots on a line in the air across the room and his words touched the students as they walked back and forth. Why did Cézanne ignore triangles and pyramids? Lily wondered, before pushing the thought away. For now she felt too nervous, too inexperienced to think of questioning such a gifted artist, but she hoped to by the end of the months ahead.
At the same time, she was mulling over how to answer Richard about Paris. Would she seem too conceited praising Paris? It was best to work hard first so they’d admire her commitment, and gradually, as she sketched on throughout the afternoon, she felt the conversations, their brushstrokes across their canvases, all became tied to her like a stretched piece of elastic.
At the end of the day Emily smoothed down her overall, packed away her brushes, and turned to Lily.
“You will come to Mr. Grier’s studio this coming Saturday evening?” Emily asked. “It’s a relief after a week of work, although sometimes the students are too raucous. I could call at Mrs. Trevelyan’s at nine o’clock if that suits you?”
“Perfect,” Lily said. It was astonishing to her that with the simplest of gestures she was launched into another artistic group with no passwords, simply the shared joy of painting. Glancing around, she felt glad to be in St Ives and to be friends with Emily, whose mannish outfit and intent expression didn’t hide her kindness, her willingness to confide.
“What should I wear, and what exactly happens at Mr. Grier’s?”
“Oh, I never worry about clothes,” Emily said. “There are more important things in life.”
Lily was going to say Parisian ladies always wore silk at evening soirées, but she held back and, reluctantly, agreed.
“Place your easels in a line,” Olsson called out, “so I can examine your work quickly.”
The students’ weekly critique took priority on Fridays, Emily had said, as they entered the studio together. Richard had pushed his sleeves up and swooshed a brush over his painting, hurriedly remedying a poor outline, and one or two others stood cleaning their frames next to an open window, but the raw breeze made Lily’s hands stiff, so she placed her easel far away from where Olsson would start inspecting.
She’d painted one of his favourite sea scenes without straying too far from Parisian techniques. The absence of boats and the traditional picturesque moonlight might irritate him. Surely, he’d see the waves called out for a swimmer, asking a spectator to be the first beach visitor of the year. At least he’d praise her bright colours—fresh from Paris. Unable to think clearly, she went back to her old habit of picking at loose threads in her overall. Her back was tired with the strain of standing as tall as possible, hoping Louis would take over the crit.
Olsson was close by and tapped Richard firmly on his arm, stopping his last-minute brushstrokes. “This isn’t Varnishing Day at the Academy!” he said. “All your work should be finished
before the crit.”
Richard tried to grin, but his smile was too fixed over his teeth. Olsson nodded next at the redheaded woman. At least he wasn’t stern to every student, Lily thought, and smoothed down her dress, feeling a slippage of relief, her anxiety easing. A student nearby immediately stood more erect, but Olsson patted his shoulder, nodding approvingly at his picture, saying, “Your figures contrast well with the sky.”
Lily stared. The technique wasn’t subtle; it could have been painted in the 1880s, and it looked like a hundred she’d seen before, making her wonder if Olsson would be a good teacher. Then he was right in front of her, his face as large as the clock on the opposite wall, his eyebrows meeting like two thick black hands. He towered over her with narrowed eyes, his big hands flat on his hips.
“Miss Briscoe, you have learned nothing from my lectures this week,” he said, staring at her canvas. “No nocturnal effect. No moonlight. Not even fisherfolk on your beach. I cannot hang the work on the wall with the others.” He continued, scarcely pausing for breath, “Why are you in my studio if not to learn?”
He turned briskly to the next in line, his bright blue eyes searching for another victim. Lily held her breath, feeling two-dimensional, as though she were flatter as well as shorter, less there for being so severely scolded, and the faces of the other students seemed far away. Not knowing where to look, she stood silent, glancing away from her painting, in case Olsson’s words were somehow branded across its surface.
She wanted to say, “Nocturnes were Mr. Whistler’s style, not what artists in Paris paint now,” but the words felt too big for her throat, and all she could do was to hold back the tears. She wouldn’t cry; she wouldn’t give him any satisfaction. Why had she come to St Ives at all to suffer such rudeness?
Glancing up, she noticed some students in a corner smirking at her, seemingly relishing the spectacle. They’d evaded Olsson’s anger while his giant fingers had picked her up and deposited her on the outskirts of the group. A sense of failure threatened to overwhelm her anger, and she could feel hot tears on her cheeks. He was intently inspecting the last of the students, so she saw her opportunity to escape. With a huge effort, Lily glided behind the row of easels to the door, trying not to be noticed, never wanting to see her painting ever again.
