Early on the day after his supplies arrived, he set out with his palette, box of paints and brushes, and his folding easel and chair. Seating himself firmly in front of the wedge, as far back as he could get, he quickly sketched out the building. Soon a small crowd had gathered around him. It amused him, for in Paris painters were so common that people paid them no more attention than if they were a mailbox or a signpost. Now he was constantly bombarded with opinions such as, “I think you ain’t makin’ it tall enough, mister,” or, “Look, you ain’t got enough windows in it. You want me to count the stories for you?”
Phil answered all their questions, rather enjoying the novel experience. It was a refreshing thing to be admired, and obviously those who gathered around felt he was doing something worthwhile.
One young man, no more than seventeen, stayed for a long time. Finally, Phil turned and smiled at him. “You ever do any painting?”
“Me? Oh, I used to try a little, but I never done stuff like that.”
“Here.” Phil handed him the brush. “Why don’t you give me a hand?”
The young man, who had large innocent blue eyes and a thatch of tow-colored hair, was astonished. “Why, I’d mess it up!”
“No you won’t. Just have a try at it.”
Phil stood back and watched, and the small gathering of onlookers egged the young man on until finally he stepped forward and began adding some of the pigment that formed the windows on one side of the wedge. “Why, you’re doing just fine,” Phil said as he watched the young man. “You’ve got a real touch for it.”
“Do you really think so, mister?”
“Sure. You ought to keep up with your painting.”
“I will! That’s just exactly what I’ll do!”
After his morning’s work, Phil picked up his supplies and headed back to his rooms, feeling he had been an encouragement to somebody. As he made his way through the crowds, he thought, Maybe I didn’t do that young fellow any favor. Most artists never make a dime off of what they do.
He slept well that night, and the next day he rose and dressed, his mind on the art institute. He wore a pair of Levi’s, faded through many washings and with the cuffs a little ragged, and a pale blue cotton shirt, also limp and loose fitting. He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. “I don’t know if I look eccentric enough for an artist.” But then, maybe artists in New York City were more uppercrust, he thought. He wondered if he should be wearing a top hat and tails instead. He had written a letter to the institute and had been invited to come for a “visit”—which Phil understood to mean that they would refuse to admit him if he had no talent.
He took four of his smaller paintings, wrapped them in brown paper, and tied a string around them. The sun was shining, but he felt some apprehension, despite the beautiful morning. When he arrived at the art institute, he stood for a moment outside and took a deep breath. Well, he thought, I can always punch cows if this doesn’t work out. He had felt exactly this way when he had arrived in London, but his determination had brought him through that, he reminded himself. So, squaring his shoulders, he moved ahead and entered the building. He stood and looked around at what was obviously a reception area. A heavyset man with rosy cheeks and hazel eyes was sitting behind a desk reading a book.
“My name’s Winslow,” Phil said to the man. “I’d like to see Mr. William Crumpler.”
“Right over there. Second floor. Take the stairs,” the man said, barely lifting his eyes.
“I don’t know Mr. Crumpler.”
“You see a man that looks like a bulldog, that’s him.” Grinning at the brief and amusing description, Phil ascended the stairs to a large studio filled with students sitting at their easels. After scanning the room, he had no trouble identifying Mr. Crumpler. His face indeed resembled that of a bulldog, with broad jowls that drooped, an undershot jaw, and a flushed complexion. The portly man was standing over a young woman seated at her canvas. He was gesticulating wildly, and his voice carried clearly across the room, where at least a dozen other students were busy working on their canvases.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, Miss Warwick. If you don’t practice, you’ll never become a painter!”
As Phil approached and stood to one side waiting, he heard the woman’s clear reply. “Why, Bill, I don’t care whether I ever make any money painting or not. I just do it because I like to irritate you.”
Crumpler glared at her, then shook his head. “You’re wasting your time here. Why don’t you go somewhere else? You can afford to.”
The woman was wearing a white smock and turned to examine the newcomer instead of answering her instructor. She had long blond hair tied up on her head with a green band, which matched her green eyes. She was quite stunning to look at, despite the austere whiteness of her smock, and she smiled at Phil in a pouting way that suggested an easy familiarity with men.
“Hello,” she said. “You’re new.”
Taken aback by her attention, Phil stammered, “Why, yes . . . yes, I am. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Turning toward the man standing beside her, he inquired, “Are you Mr. Crumpler?”
“I’m Crumpler. What’s your name?”
“Phil Winslow. I wrote some time ago and—”
“Yes. I have your letter. What makes you think you’re an artist?”
Phil was startled by the suddenness of Crumpler’s attack, but he met the man’s steady gaze and answered this time without hesitation. “The pictures I paint, sir.”
“Let me see them.”
“You mean here? Now?”
“You want a private audience? Maybe they’re no better than Miss Warwick’s pictures, but then you probably don’t have as much money as she does. I don’t need any more loafers here. I’ve seen too many come through here as it is. A waste of my time, they are. Just let me see the pictures!” he snapped.
Feeling intimidated by the man’s bluntness and the stares from the other students, Phil untied the string and lifted the first painting out.
“Put it on that easel right there!” Crumpler commanded.
When Phil had done so, Crumpler came and stood right in front of it. He stared at it as if it were an enemy, and Phil remained silent. He did turn to face the woman once, who winked merrily at him, and her lips curled upward in a smile.
The painting was of a fisherman on the docks of London. He was an old man with his face seamed and weather-beaten by years of toil at sea. He was sitting on a stool making repairs on his net, his eyes cast down. Phil had wanted to catch the impression of fading strength that comes to men who work hard for years. The strength was still there—at least he thought so—but he had been unhappy with the background.
“You think this is good?”
“It’s better than some I’ve done,” Phil answered.
“It’s adequate,” Crumpler said. “Let me see the rest.”
One by one Crumpler studied the pictures. One was a landscape, another a scene of an impoverished street in London’s East End. Phil had been appalled by the poverty he had seen there and had made the focal point of the painting some ragged children who were skinny and vacant eyed with hunger.
“Who do you think would buy a painting like this?” Crumpler demanded.
“I never thought about it. I saw something that intrigued me and I just wanted to paint it.”
“Oh, I assume you’ve got plenty of money, then! You’re not thinking of making a living. That’s good because you probably won’t.”
“I don’t have plenty of money, but I’ve got enough to pay the fees,” Phil said coolly.
Crumpler stared at Phil for a long moment, then grunted. “You can stay a week. After that we’ll see. Set up over there and start working.”
“Yes, sir,” Phil said, but as he turned his head, he winked at the blond woman, who giggled.
“I can give you some help,” she offered flirtatiously. “I know how to get next to all the instructors . . . especially Mr. Bill Crumpler here.”
&nb
sp; “Why don’t you go do something worthwhile!” Crumpler snarled. “You’re wasting your time here, Miss Warwick! You’ll never be an artist!”
“Is he always like that?” Phil asked as Crumpler walked over to observe the work of another student on the other side of the room.
“Always.”
Phil went to the side of the room with a window, set up his easel and the fresh canvas he had brought along, and began painting. As always, when he painted, he closed out the whole world and concentrated only on the canvas in front of him. He was painting a scene from memory—one that he had tucked away in his mind some time ago. It was of a street cafe in Paris where he had spent many hours talking with other aspiring young artists. He lost himself in bringing out the details as he put them onto the canvas. He could never understand the magic, or the miracle, as he thought of it, that occurred when he began to paint. Somehow out of his mind a memory would begin to take on a life of its own. It would go down his arm, and the brush in his hand would come alive, and soon the image he saw in his mind would begin to take shape on the canvas. It was not totally automatic, for he had to think and lay the strokes on according to the rules he had learned from the skilled painters with whom he had studied in Europe. It was the hardest work he had ever done yet at the same time an experience of sheer joy.
“I’ve been to that cafe. It’s on the Rue de la Pais.”
Startled, Phil turned around and saw Miss Warwick examining his work.
“That’s right. You’ve actually been there, Miss Warwick?”
“Sure. I spent two summers in Paris. When were you there?”
“I just got back from Europe,” Phil said. “I was in London for two years and Paris for a year.”
“Well then, we might have sat right next to each other at that little cafe.” Her eyes sparkling suggestively, she sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Too bad we didn’t run into each other, Mr. Winslow. We might have had a good time. You may call me Avis, if you like.”
“And you can call me Phil. Have you been studying here long?”
“Depends on what you mean. I’ve been dropping in for a couple of years, but I don’t stay with it. Come on. You’ve had enough work for one day. Let’s go have a drink.”
Phil stared at the woman. Her brashness startled him, and yet he had met many women, especially in Paris, with that same sensuous look about them. She was about thirty, he guessed, and apparently had seen as much of the world as he had—or more!
“I don’t drink, but I’ll buy you supper,” Phil offered.
“You don’t drink? Now, that’ll be a switch. Come on, then.” They left the art institute, and she led him to a cafe two blocks away. “This is a good place,” she said. “Not much to look at, but the food’s good.” As soon as they had ordered their meal, Avis began interrogating him. She sat back, observing him carefully, then finally said, “So you’re a cowboy fresh in from Montana? A good-looking fellow like you won’t have any trouble getting all the girls he wants.”
“I guess I’ve come to paint—not to chase girls.”
“Is that right?” The statement seemed to be a challenge to Avis, and she smiled slowly. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
In the week that followed, Phil found himself spending more and more time with Avis Warwick. It didn’t take long to see that she possessed only a very minor talent for art and that painting was not a serious matter with her. Some days she did not come to the institute at all. One time she came in and stayed all day but threw away the canvas she had worked on with a curse. She was outspoken and drank freely—not at all the kind of woman Phil Winslow needed or wanted in his life at that moment. Yet, despite his better judgment, he found himself going out with her after each day’s work for a meal together. He could not understand why she seemed so fascinated by him. Once she told him, “I’ve never met anybody like you, Phil. You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t run around with women. I thought cowboys were different.”
“Plenty of them are,” Phil shrugged. “I guess if it hadn’t been for my parents’ good upbringing, I would have been that way, too.”
Avis watched him for a moment, then asked, “You ever fall for a woman?”
“Once or twice.”
Avis reached over and put her hand on his, squeezing it. “Maybe you’ve been saving yourself for a real woman. We’ll find out about that, won’t we?”
Phil smiled at her but pulled back from her touch. “I don’t need any complications with women, Avis. If I’m going to be an artist, it’ll take everything I’ve got,” he murmured as he left her that evening.
The next morning was Saturday, and he decided to look up his cousin Peter Winslow. He had received a letter from Cass Winslow, who was an expert in the genealogy of the Winslow family. Cass evidently kept track of all of them, and the letter had read, “I don’t know if you’ve ever met my brother Peter Winslow, but he’s in New York. He wants to be a race car driver. We Winslows need to stick together, so go over and meet him, Phil. You’re about the same age, and all young fellows in a big city need a friend.”
Phil was feeling somewhat lonely and decided he would take Cass’s advice. He had no trouble finding the address. When the cabby stopped in front of a row of buildings, Phil walked up the steps to the brownstone and found the name Peter Winslow on one of the slips of paper under the mailboxes. Stepping inside the building, he found room number three and knocked on the door.
When no one answered he turned to leave, but a young woman stepped out of a room across the hall and studied him carefully. She was an attractive woman with enormous eyes, black hair, and a European look about her. He noticed a sizable scar on her left cheek that ran from her temple down to the corner of her lips.
“Are you looking for Peter Winslow?” she asked.
“Why, yes I am.”
“He’s out in the backyard working on a car. I’m going out that way.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m Phil Winslow.”
“Oh, you’re a relative of Peter’s?”
“A distant one.”
“I’m Jolie Devorak. Come along. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“Well, we’ve never met before.”
“That’s strange. You’re in the same family, but you’ve never met?”
“I guess there’re lots of Winslows.”
The two went out the back door at the end of the hall, and Phil saw two men working on a car painted a red so brilliant it almost hurt his eyes. On the side of it in fancy lettering was the name Jolie Blonde.
“Peter, a relative of yours is here to see you.”
Peter Winslow had been half under the car. He came out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, and gave Phil a curious look. “Family, you say?”
“I’m Phil Winslow. My father’s Zach Winslow. Your brother Cass, out in California, gave me your name and address. Said we Winslows ought to stick together.”
“Oh, sure! Cass knows every Winslow in the United States, I guess.” The two men shook hands. Peter was a very tall man, at least six two, about Phil’s age. He had hazel eyes, auburn hair, and a friendly grin. “This is Easy Devlin.” He gestured to an undersized man standing nearby with a wrench in his hand. He had a pale, thin face, sandy hair, and brown eyes.
“Glad to meet you, Phil,” Easy said. “Even if you are from the same family as this galoot!”
Jolie interrupted the introductions. “It’s time to go get something to eat. If we’re going to catch that auto show, we’ve got to go.”
“We’re all going to the National Auto Show at Madison Square Garden, Phil. Do you like cars?” Peter asked.
“Don’t know much about them, but I’d like to go. What’s the show all about?”
“Well, the automobile makers want to show off their new models in hopes of selling their cars. Other people just like to look around out of curiosity. There’ll be all kinds of makes,” Peter said. “Come on. I think it’ll be fun for you.”
Phil Winslow enjoyed the show
thoroughly. He had never seen so many cars in all of his life, and Peter Winslow seemed to know everything about every one of them. “This is a Winton, Phil. It’s got a gasoline-powered engine—seems to be the wave of the future. They can go a lot faster than the steamers and electric cars. The Winton’s giving that Oldsmobile over there a run for its money.”
“What about Henry Ford? I heard he was up to something new.”
“He certainly is. He’s in a big legal battle now over patents to the gasoline engine, but he’s talking about building a good basic car at a price that common folks can afford. If he succeeds, it may be something that outsells all these others. Say, look! That’s Mr. Ford standing right over there!”
Startled, Phil stared at the tall man wearing the plain black suit. Ford was a sharp-featured man with a sober expression, and suddenly Ford looked up and saw the three.
“Why, Peter!” Ford smiled slightly and came over to extend his hand. “I’ve been wondering about you.”
“Hello, Mr. Ford. Good to see you again. These are my friends Jolie Devorak, Easy Devlin, and Phil Winslow.”
Ford spoke to the three, then said, “I’ve expected you to come back asking for a job, Peter.”
“Well, I thought about it, and I may yet. I’d sure like to work for you again, Mr. Ford. I’m really excited about your plans, but you know me. I’m working on a race car.”
“Still at it, are you? Well, you’ve got the head for it and the hands. I hope you do well, Peter. If you want a job, I’ve always got one for you.” Nodding, Ford turned and walked away, speaking to those he passed.
The Shadow Portrait Page 5
