by Elise Hooper
He raised his hand to rub his beard. “I studied with Rimmer, too, before leaving for Europe.”
“You two have such similar backgrounds,” Helen Crownover said. “It seems a shame not to work together. Frederic, weren’t you just saying how you wanted to teach?”
He looked at his wife in bewilderment. “I need time to work on some commissions at the moment.”
“But it’s so rare to have people from home knocking on our door for help. It seems the least we can do, don’t you think?” Mrs. Crownover persisted, taking her husband’s arm and leading him to their back room. “Miss Alcott, please excuse us for a moment.”
May nodded, looking back and forth from husband to wife, grateful to find Mrs. Crownover to be such an advocate. While the baby continued to gurgle to himself next to Mr. Crownover’s sketchbook on the table, she took in the well-organized studio. The windows were polished and free of smudges, allowing daylight to flow in. Several easels rested in a far corner. Brushes stood in clean glass jars on a wooden shelf.
After several minutes, the Crownovers reappeared. “I suppose we can work out an arrangement for instruction,” he said slowly.
May brought her hands together gratefully, not pausing to wonder at his change of mind.
THE NEXT DAY, May returned to the Via Margutta to begin her studies with Mr. Crownover, but her new teacher steered her away from the easels in his studio and beckoned her outside.
“In Paris and London, art lives in the galleries and museums, but here, in Rome, it’s everywhere.” Outside his door, he pointed to a marble fountain with elaborate faces carved above the pool of water. “We can see the art where the artists meant for it to be. Rome is filled with constant intersections between art and daily life. And the sense of discovery and wonder that marks art from the Renaissance—I just love the energy of it.” He looked at May for agreement. She nodded. Finally, someone who spoke her language!
Crownover led her down Via Margutta toward the Piazza del Popolo. The easy manner in which he leaned in to point out the carvings on a wooden doorway gave May the sense he was aware of his charm, yet his unaffected manner made it hard to fault him for his confidence.
When they reached the twin churches of Santa Maria di Montesanto and Santa Maria dei Miracoli, they went in the one on the left. The calls of street vendors and racket of carriages disappeared once they entered the hush of the sanctuary. Crownover described the artwork on the altarpiece and pointed up to the fresco adorning the cupola. As he described the technique used by Gimignani to paint the ceiling, he ran his hands through his hair, making the dark blond hair disheveled, tousled, and boyish. He walked up close to a carved altarpiece and traced his fingers along the lines of the figures. His whole being exuded a sense of tactile exploration and energy, and May was drawn to the disarming joy he took in discussing art. Here was a man who loved beauty as she did.
Her head swam with the mixture of the cloying orange-blossom scent of frankincense and vertigo from looking up at the ceiling. Crownover led her from the church as quickly as they entered, and they strolled back to his studio. In all this time, May barely uttered a word, so swift was his commentary. He spoke as if thinking aloud and left no room for questions.
When they arrived back in his studio, he handed her back her art box and gave a small bow. “I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
May took it back slowly, making no movement toward the door. “Are we not sketching today? Or painting?”
“Not today. I want you to think about what we’ve seen. Take a long, scenic walk back to your rooms. Look around you. More than anything, we need to work on how we see our surroundings. Beauty is everywhere, and it’s up to us to find it and communicate it in our art so others may see it.”
“Will we sketch tomorrow?”
He gave her a mischievous grin. “Maybe.” Discouragement must have shown on her face, because he nodded. “I believe you have a good eye. We’ll be sketching soon, don’t worry.”
She nodded and took her leave with a small wave. Outside on the Via Margutta, a shaft of late-day sunlight cut a sliver of brightness along the stucco walls, giving the stucco a warm golden glow that masked the cracks and water stains. Ivy draped across the alley ahead connecting one side of the stucco walls to another, creating a dark curtain of graceful greenery. May paused for a moment, holding her art box to her chest, and looked at the patchwork of texture and tone created by the different planes of stucco walls facing into the alley and visible in the distance beyond. She could create several small landscape studies just in the space around her in front of Crownover’s studio without traveling any farther to see a chapel or fountain. She smiled to herself.
OVER THE NEXT month, May and Crownover traveled the sights of the Eternal City together, roaming the sprawling Colosseum and exploring Saint Peter’s Basilica. They also wandered down shopping avenues and sat next to markets, always on the watch for interesting subjects. They sketched studies of strings of garlic and crates filled with glistening piles of anchovies. May filled one sketchbook after another with scenes—both big and small—of Rome. Crownover seemed to know everyone, and they moved around the city with ease, singing out greetings in enthusiastic Italian to shopkeepers and café owners.
One warmish day in January, the two sat on their camp stools in the Borghese Gardens, overlooking the Temple of Asclepius. May peeled a Sicilian orange, and the sweet smell of citrus rose from the fruit as she split it in half and handed a portion to Crownover. He took it with a distracted nod and stared at his box of pastels as he put a slice into his mouth. They each chewed in silence.
May held up the final section of her orange and studied the light behind the fruit and how it made the veiny innards glow. “It’s a shame I’ve eaten this so quickly. The color of the fruit is so lovely. These slices could have been the subject of a quick still life.”
Crownover grunted as he reached up to adjust his hat.
May munched the last of her fruit, watching as Crownover slowly set up his materials.
“You’re unusually quiet. Are you feeling well?”
Crownover nodded morosely. “My brother Frank died of consumption a little over four years ago. Some mornings I wake up, and he is all I can think about. I’m afraid today is one of those days.”
May closed her eyes briefly and winced. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry for prying. We don’t need to work today.”
“No, no, you weren’t prying. How were you to know? And I actually feel better working. It’s good to be in motion.”
She thought of Lizzie and John Pratt as she looked toward the smooth water of the lagoon in front of them. The only sound around them was from a pair of gray gulls splashing in the water nearby. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I left Harvard before graduation to spend time with him before he passed, but the experience left me . . . well, I think about him every day.”
“Yes, I understand. One of my sisters died twelve years ago.”
The two drew in silence for several minutes before Crownover spoke again. “I feel closest to Frank when I’m creating art. Sometimes I can fall into a state of creation where the work just happens on its own, as if a spirit is guiding me. These moments can be quite rare, but when they happen, they feel sacred. It always seems as though Frank is with me when this happens.” He took off his hat and rubbed his hands through his hair. “Excuse me, you must think me maudlin. Don’t worry, I’m not about to suggest a séance.”
“No, I think I understand.” May had never heard it expressed like that, but she knew what he meant. She had experienced moments like those in Dr. Rimmer’s class and, most recently, a few afternoons in Dinan. Art simply flowed from her. She felt a heightened awareness of everything around her, while at the same time, she was distracted by nothing except for the work in front of her. “I try to find that feeling, too, but it’s been a while.”
“Yes, long spells can pass in between, but I persist. Sometimes I think I practice, not so much
to advance my skills—although obviously this is part of it—but really, because I want to be able to tap into the feeling more often and hold on to it for a little longer.” He shook his head. “I sound mad.”
May laughed. “We’re all a bit mad. You’re in good company.” The conversation comforted her, for now she was not the only one stumbling through the dark looking for an elusive sense of connection with the wider world.
Since Louisa was cooped up with her writing, May spent as much time as possible at Crownover’s studio, not just sketching, but also socializing. She played with his two small children and taught Suzette, the five-year-old, how to jump rope. She sat in the studio with Helen and discussed life back in Boston while munching on small dishes of dried figs, salted almonds, and slices of crusty, golden bread dipped in olive tapenade, never stopping to contemplate if their triangular arrangement was becoming too familiar. Both women gazed upon Crownover fondly, but May felt no competition with his wife. She watched Helen carefully, the way a small furrow creased between her eyes as she studied a new canvas of her husband’s and told him what she liked about it and the way she always brought her husband plates of food while he worked. May noticed how Crownover smiled when his wife threw back her head to laugh. If anything, spending time in the glow of the Crownovers gave her hope, and she allowed herself to believe that she could find a similar relationship if she just watched and learned from both of them.
She never was a devoted churchgoer. Her visits to the Unitarian Church in Concord were based more on being part of a community than an overwhelming preoccupation with dogma, but she understood the ecstasy pilgrims felt as they stood in front of Saint Peter’s Basilica. May found religion in the form of art, and Crownover was her leader. She followed him with a thrilling fervor that terrified her, because she was aware of a shadow lurking in the brightness of her excitement, though it slithered out of sight every time she tried to scrutinize it. Reluctance drew her back from examining the shadow closely for she feared what it might reveal.
Chapter 15
At the beginning of February, Crownover announced he needed to work on his life-drawing skills for a commission he hoped to win, so he hired a model. The prospect of working from a live model made May’s stomach flip in circles of anxiety, though it was an opportunity she had been waiting for since meeting Jane Gardner. When May arrived at the studio one cold morning at the end of January, she could hear Crownover talking in his small back room. The brazier burned brightly to heat up the room for the model. May’s hands trembled as she set up an easel and took out her sketching materials. She tried to remember all of Dr. Rimmer’s instructions on using basic shapes to create the human form.
Crownover emerged from the back room with a woman wrapped in loose drapery, snaking around her torso to reveal views of her décolletage and glimpses of her bare midriff before the fabric trailed off one hip and down her legs. May inhaled deeply, trying to still the apprehension she felt at seeing the woman’s long bare arms and legs. She had never been so close to an unclothed person who was not one of her sisters and could not bring herself to look into the woman’s eyes.
“Start with two trapezoids to depict the torso,” Crownover said from his easel beside May. The model looked classically Roman with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and a solid build; she fit the proportions May had learned in Boston. Dr. Rimmer’s system of basic shapes to delineate the head, shoulders, rib cage, waist, and hips all came back to her. May finished a rough sketch and nodded to herself as a sense of momentum unfurled inside of her. She could do this. Glancing toward the model, she sketched in the curve of the woman’s breasts and hips. She paused to get the weight distribution of the legs correct before standing back to check her basic lines. Her sketch looked convincing. The only sounds were the occasional shifting of the model, as she adjusted to Crownover’s commands, the occasional flap of paper moving, and the scrawl of pencil.
At the end of the session, the model stood on her toes and stretched her arms unselfconsciously toward the ceiling before walking back through the studio to dress. Crownover moved closer to May to study her work. She became all too aware of the rise and fall of his chest next to hers. She dared not look over at him and could feel her face flushing. With the model gone, she felt an awkward sense of intimacy arise between the two of them.
“You created convincing volume in these latter sketches,” he said. May leaned in closer to him, under the pretense of studying her work. She breathed in his scent of coffee and sweat.
“Pay attention to which line goes in front for a sense of which body parts are closer than others.” His finger landed on the intersection of where the figure’s rib cage met her hips, but he turned and looked at May. She became aware of every square inch of her body. The boning of her corset stays dug into her waist; the lace on her collar made her chin itch. Her legs trembled under the swathes of petticoats and skirts.
The door at the back of the room sighed as it opened, and the model sauntered back in. As Crownover busied himself with paying the woman, May let out a long breath—her shoulders collapsed in toward her chest with exhaustion. It felt like she had not breathed for hours.
She packed up her art box and fled the studio, mind racing. Nothing improper had occurred in the studio. They worked. They sketched. They talked. Nothing would have been different if Helen remained in the studio. But then why did May’s cheeks burn at the memory of Crownover looking at her sketches? Why was she imagining how it would feel to have his fingertips sliding along her bare waist, across her belly and downward? She walked the slick, rainy unfamiliar streets until an exhausted burning in her quadriceps replaced the nervous quivering she felt in them when she’d left the studio. Only once she felt steadied did she turn to retrace her way back to recognizable territory.
MAY BEGAN TO return empty-handed from shopping trips after forgetting what she had planned to buy. She would write a letter home but stop midway through, after losing track of what she wanted to report. Her new mentor consumed her thoughts. Each time they sketched from a model, May would feel the same charged energy between them that had occurred the first time, and the sessions ended with the same sense of ragged confusion. She told herself it was admiration for him, but she felt a little breathless when he pointed to the parts of models to explain how to pose a body. But her attraction was more all-encompassing than simply being enamored with her teacher; she felt certain they experienced a true meeting of the minds.
One afternoon he asked if he could sketch a portrait of her. He held her chin gently while turning her face from side to side to find the correct angle for his composition. He brushed some of her hair from her cheekbones, and her face felt branded from where he touched her. She felt sure he could see the questions burning through her eyes, but he merely tilted her head and spent an hour sketching her profile, while discussing a village near Albano he planned to visit that summer. May did not know what to think.
After countless invitations from Helen to visit the studio, Louisa finally stopped by the Via Margutta one afternoon to admire May’s work. Walking home, Louisa said, “It’s funny he’s the instructor. To be honest, your work’s quality is not far behind his. But I suppose it’s the typical arrangement: man as teacher, woman as student.”
May ignored her sister, but her fingers tapped the basket she carried impatiently. Louisa could complain all evening long, but May told herself Crownover represented everything she wanted: he created beauty and taught in a lively studio, surrounded by friends and family.
Louisa cut into her sister’s musings. “I see the way you watch him. Don’t let yourself be fooled into thinking he could ever be yours. He’s married.”
May stopped in her tracks. “I can’t believe you would say that.”
“Why? Because I’m wrong? Or because you thought no one noticed?”
May tightened her lips together and strode past her sister. “I know he’s married,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Good, don’t lo
se sight of this unmistakable fact.”
Louisa followed her down the sidewalk, but May whirled around to face her, seething. “Don’t you think I know he’s married? I envy him for it. I envy him for being able to be an artist with a spouse who supports him and encourages him. Don’t you think I would love to have what he has?” May choked through her tears. “I’m not like you. I want to marry—I just can’t find the right one.” She was glad for the darkness of evening because it hid her tears, though a weeping woman on the street was nothing unusual within the daily dramas unfolding in Rome.
“Come now, no need to be so dramatic. You’ve had plenty of compelling offers over the years from various suitors. I’m still surprised you didn’t accept any of them. And what of Joshua Bishop? He seemed to have everything you wanted.”
“How is it that you always think you know exactly what I want? You’ve made things simple for yourself. You’ve frowned off any prospect of marriage and you answer to no one, but here you are writing about imagined romances! Don’t you wish you had experienced any romance yourself?” Louisa began to speak, but May cut her off. “No, I will not end up as a cranky spinster like you, but I also don’t want to end up like Marmee, educated and ambitious yet toiling away like a beast of burden. And then there’s Lidian Emerson and Sophia Hawthorne. Think of all the intelligent women we know who seemed to think they had met their academic equal—we’ve watched them all end up frustrated and unhappy, relegated to domestic duties. By not marrying, you’ve taken the easy path of renouncing it all, yet you’re still frustrated and unhappy. I plan to be happy and find someone who loves me and loves my art.”
“You know it’s not really that easy.”
“Of course, I do. But I must hope. Or else . . .” May dropped her hands to her sides in resignation.
