by Echo Heron
December 8, 1903
The Gertrude Käsebier Studio
273 Fifth Avenue
Work on the Garden of Paradise mosaic panel was not going well. The gold tiles chipped easily in the cutting, so that only one in three could be used. Clara had been forced to take all her cutters and selectors off lamp production and put them on the panel, which, as a result, left them behind schedule on both projects.
The grippe hit next, claiming Frank as its first victim, and then within the hour, three of the women. No sooner had they left, than Miss Hawthorne got a piece of glass in her thumb, which couldn’t be removed without considerable difficulty and much blood. The Palmié twins, sensitive to the sight of blood, grew faint and were forced to lie down.
It wasn’t the best day to have her photograph made, but the appointment with Madam Käsebier had been arranged three months in advance. Since she didn’t intend on having another photograph taken until she was seventy, and as Mrs. Käsebier was much in demand, she had no choice but to go.
She hurried toward Fifth Avenue, stopping by Miss Owens‘s only long enough to change into her black evening dress that displayed her arms and upper chest to advantage.
Inside the Käsebier studio, she found the usual frightening paraphernalia of a photographer’s gallery replaced with tasteful drapes, a fireplace, full bookcases, and vases of exotic flowers. She was inspecting a display of avant-garde photographs of women and children, when a middle-aged woman in a mauve kimono and funny black-rimmed spectacles entered the room with a flourish. Clara liked her on sight.
Madam Käsebier squinted behind her spectacles, while using Clara’s chin to move her head in every direction. “Your face is most interesting, Mrs. Driscoll—a perfect study for an artist.” She examined Clara’s hands. “What is it you do for work?”
Clara told her.
“I knew it!” Mrs. Käsebier snapped her fingers. “I can always tell an artist by their hands and the sensuousness of the mouth. Come with me, dear. Let me immortalize your beauty for all time.”
Leading her to a model stand mounted on rollers, the photographer ordered her to relax and ‘be herself.’ Clara was thinking of what ‘being herself’ might look like when Mrs. Käsebier commenced to rolling the stand about the room, moving her in all directions, gauging the effects of different light on her face. When she found the light she liked best, she rolled the camera and scrim over and placed them where she wanted them.
“The rollers are a great help in getting different effects,” Mrs. Käsebier said, ducking under the focus cloth. “I once had a piano in here, but I sent it away because I couldn’t keep from moving it around. I was afraid I was going to injure myself.”
Clara laughed, and the first photograph was taken.
“Do you see that piece of thirteenth century Italian pottery on the mantel?” Mrs. Käsebier asked, still under the cloth. “Have you ever seen anything more charming in color and form?”
Clara was searching for the piece when Mrs. Käsebier shouted, “There! Keep your head that way and don’t change your expression.”
A dozen or so photographs later, Mrs. Käsebier handed her a wide-brimmed hat. “Put this on, but don’t pull down the veil, let me do that.”
Clara politely handed the hat back to her. “I don’t like hats in photographs. They went out of style long ago. It would look absurd.”
“Ordinary hats, yes,” Mrs. Käsebier pinned the hat to Clara’s head at a provocative angle. “But not picture hats like this one. I don’t treat a hat as a hat, Mrs. Driscoll, but as an art object.” Squinting, the photographer tilted her head, set the hat at the opposite angle, and pulled the black veil part way over her face.
“I never wear veils,” Clara protested. “They’re passé.”
“This isn’t veils,” Mrs. Käsebier sighed. “This is lines and shadows. You should never allow the conventions of your sex and the times you live in to inhibit you in anything. There will be plenty of other women who will do that. As an artist, you must learn to live without confines.”
“But I—”
Head thrown back, eyes nearly squinted shut, Mrs. Käsebier clasped her hands. “Stunning! Stunning! It’s a regular Rembrandt! It will be more or less solid black and may not look anything like you, but I don’t care. It’s a work of art.”
“But my poor family,” Clara mewled. “These photographs are for those who care more about me than they do Rembrandt.”
“These are for me, dear. I want them for my window display. You’ll have plenty more to choose from that your family will want.” Mrs. Käsebier disappeared under the focus cloth and then reappeared. “Now tell me—how do you like working for Louis Tiffany?” She readjusted the hat and veil.
“I like the designing, but I’d rather not manage.”
“Or be managed?” Mrs. Käsebier gave her a sly wink. “I expect Mr. Tiffany is a hard taskmaster. When I photographed his wife and daughters, they could not relax if he were in the room. Only when he left us to ourselves was I able to get them to unclench.
“Mrs. Tiffany was quite progressive in her thinking. She gave me permission to photograph the youngest girl, Dorothy, in a pose no etiquette book would have advised: sitting sideways in an old ladderback chair, facing the camera, her chin pressed against the head of her dolly. I liked it so well, I’ve made it part of my regular collection.” She paused, and then added, “Mr. Tiffany didn’t care for it. He thought it too simple—not enough grandeur.”
“Consider yourself fortunate your photographs aren’t made of glass,” Clara said. “He’s in the habit of destroying what he doesn’t like.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Mrs. Käsebier said. “One of the things that makes my work superior is that I try to be sensitive to my subjects’ inner workings—who they are as sentient beings. I’m good at detecting what a subject’s deepest feelings are.
“The Tiffany family was exceptionally interesting in that way. Those children’s eyes held such sorrow.” Mrs. Käsebier’s voice softened. “I believe Mr. Tiffany’s darker nature is reflected in every one of their faces.”
It was too late to return to Tiffany’s by the time she left Madam Käsebier’s. The photographer’s vitality and honesty made her the most interesting woman Clara had met in some time. To have been so clever and sensible as to have found a way to apply her art in the manner she chose, and, at the same time make an ample living and a name for herself, was no less than genius. The woman was living proof that starting her own company with the backing of those who believed in her might be possible.
She was crossing Fifth Avenue, when Philip Allen suddenly appeared at her shoulder. In his Chesterfield coat, he was so handsome that for a moment she was too stunned to move.
He tipped his hat and tucked her arm under his. “What a stroke of luck. Not only have I received good news from my publisher, I have the fortune of running into the woman of my dreams. Let me take you to dinner. I can’t think of anyone with whom I’d rather celebrate.”
She started to give him one of her standard excuses as to why it was impossible, but hesitated. It was time to stop thinking in terms of the impossible and believe as Mrs. Käsebier did—that everything is possible.
They went to Child’s, where, without asking, he ordered her favorite meal of boiled cod and baked potatoes. When coffee was served, he held her hand under the table, and she let him. In his eyes she saw excitement and something that made her want to crawl inside him and stay forever.
“What are we celebrating, exactly?”
“My publisher has decided to publish the book I’ve been writing, America’s Awakening, about the moral awakening of the American populace in opposition to the corrupt bosses who run this country. I’m highlighting Roosevelt as one of our guiding lights in all this mess we’re living in now.”
“Have you ever thought of running for office?”
“Of course not,” he huffed, looking genuinely offended. “I consider myself an honest man.”
&nb
sp; Later, strolling leisurely toward Irving Place, they passed a drugstore, where an ad for an elixir claiming to grow luxurious hair caught their attention. In the photograph, a young woman in the bloom of health ran her brush through a mane of wavy hair that reached to the floor. The caption under her dainty young feet read: ‘Danderine grew this hair and we can prove it!’
Philip looked at Clara’s wispy tresses, and then raised his hat to show off his own slightly receding hairline. “We should have ourselves photographed and then change the words to read: ‘Danderine grew this hair, too, and we can prove it!’”
They broke into laugher. Without quite knowing how it came about, she was in his arms, his mouth fully on hers. Her desire for him was so powerful she feared it might kill her on the spot.
They didn’t hear the approaching steps until the last second. Philip disengaged himself first, though he never took his eyes off hers. Surprised by the abrupt loss of him, she pressed her fingers to her chest, feeling the lingering heat from his body.
Alice and Edward, each carrying several small cartons of ice cream, stood staring at them. “Have you been running?” Alice’ asked, her gaze settling on Clara’s hat, which had been knocked crooked.
Breathless, Clara pointed to the drugstore window. “We were just having a laugh over the Danderine advertisement.”
Edward looked blankly at the ad, then back to them. “Well then, since you both seem so easily entertained, you might want to come back to the house. We’re having ice cream and getting up a game of Whist. Hopefully the hilarity of that won’t prove so overwhelming.”
She stood before the mirror trying to see if she were changed. Other than a lingering glow, she was still the Clara she had been yesterday, but changed in some essential, though invisible way. She remained whole and pure … well, perhaps not so pure, but what did that matter in a city like New York and in times like these?
Lightly touching her lips, she marveled over her desire for him, and her blatant lack of shame. Apparently, Mrs. Käsebier’s words about not allowing the conventions of her sex and the times she lived in to inhibit her had made more of an impression than she thought. The only damper to her exuberance came when she recalled Edward’s forlorn expression, and the way he kept sneaking glances at her and Philip all night—as if he knew what she was feeling.
“Impossible,” she said, climbing into bed. Edward hadn’t shown the least bit of that sort of interest in her. Dismissing the thought, she rolled over and tried to sleep.
~ 22 ~
44 Irving Place
January 31, 1904
Dear Family,
I meant to write earlier, but Philip took me out for breakfast at the Ashland House on 24th St. and 4th, where we gorged ourselves on milk and new onions, eel with cream dressing and creamed potatoes. We waddled back to my room, where I found George lying in wait.
He was talking in his usual torrent of words and pacing like a tiger until I made him sit down. Next, in came Mr. Yorke, looking lonely and despondent. To get him out of himself, I made him explain the Marconi System to George. Ten minutes later, Alice came in with her face all swollen with neuralgia and looking for solace.
No sooner was the word solace uttered, than Philip, Edward and Dudley all piled in on a mad search for diversion. Alice being my main concern, I darkened the room and made everyone remain quiet. One by one, they all left except Edward, who is now quietly massaging Alice’s hands while telling her Sherlock Holmes stories from memory.
Love to all, Clara
P.S. Emily: I’m sorry you’re feeling so low. I haven’t heard of Dr. Herdman or his electric shock treatments, but it sounds painful, and you don’t know what effect it will have on your superior brain in the future. Come spend this summer at Point Pleasant with us instead. We’ll shock you without charge—no pun intended.
April 17, 1904
44 Irving Place
MISS OWENS HANDED Clara the New York Daily News. “Did you see this?”
Staring up at her was a detailed sketch of her dragonfly lamp. The caption read: ‘Mrs. Driscoll’s Paris Prize Dragon Fly Lamp.’
She dropped her fork, her eyes going over words several times. There was no mistake—it was her name on her work. Trembling with excitement, she came out of her seat, and, unsure of where she was going, sat back down.
Miss Nye snatched the paper from her hands and waved it over her head. “Look everyone! It’s a picture of Clara’s lamp.”
The boarders crowded around, as the paper was passed from hand to hand.
Incredulous, Philip took the paper from Miss Nye. “How, in God’s name did you manage that? I thought Tiffany had everyone in his pocket. He’ll be fit to be tied when he sees this!”
Clara swiveled in her chair, wearing a puzzled smile. “In his pocket? What do you mean?”
Philip colored, fumbling for words. “I only meant that I’ve never seen any name other than his and his board of directors mentioned in association with his merchandise before, and certainly not in print.”
“But what did you mean about having everyone in his pocket?”
Before he could answer, Alice rushed into the room with another copy of the paper. “Clara, you’re famous! We’ll have to buy a dozen copies and send them to everyone in Tallmadge.”
“Better famous than infamous,” Edward said, finishing off the last of his poached eggs. “We must be careful Mrs. Driscoll doesn’t get a swelled head, or she’ll be wanting a framed copy hung in the parlor.”
“Actually, I was thinking of hanging it on the front door,” Clara said. “More people would see it that way.”
Alice took the last of the toast from the platter. “You mean more than the five hundred thousand who will see it today?”
Laughing, Clara turned back to question Philip again about his comment, just in time to see him slip out the front door. She started after him, but was stopped by the boarders’ rousing chorus of For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.
May 7, 1904
Manhattan
Clara was more than halfway home, when someone called her name. In the voice was a tone of desperation. She swiveled around and was startled to see Mr. Tiffany running to catch up with her.
When he finally caught up to her, he hesitated, as if he’d forgotten why he’d run after her. “I was wondering if you would accompany me?”
Her first thought was that she’d missed a meeting, and he’d come to escort her back to his office, but on closer inspection, the lined face and red-rimmed eyes gave evidence of some deep torment. “Of course,” she said, “where are we going?”
He shrugged, and, without looking at her, began walking toward Madison Square. “Talk to me, Clara. Talk to me as if I were one of your friends at the boardinghouse. Tell me about your life there.”
It was a peculiar request, but she recognized it at once as a desperate need for distraction from pain. “The Irving Place group is like my family,” she began, in the tone of a storyteller. “If we aren’t out and about on our bicycles or at the theater, you might find us at home playing Whist or discussing literature, politics, and art. Of course, you already know about our parlor plays.”
“I remember,” he said, “Alice in Wonderland. You were dressed as Alice.”
Both flattered and embarrassed that he’d remembered, she blushed. “Yes, well, we’ve expanded our territory and now, each spring, we all chip in and rent a cabin at Point Pleasant Seashore. One of our borders, Mr. Yorke, is teaching me how to sail, and Mr. Booth, our naturalist, taught us how to survive in the woods with nothing more than a pocketknife.”
He stopped abruptly and faced her. “How do you go on when a terrible circumstance is thrust upon you? I’ve seen you pull yourself out of grief and go on. How do you manage the pain?”
She didn’t think that explaining her theories about the uncertainty of life and death and personal introspection would help him much—his pain was too new. “You may recall that my sister Kate died last year. Her death knocked me as lo
w as I’ve ever been. I don’t know what I would have done without hearing the Tiffany Girls’ everyday chatter. I let myself be absorbed by it, so I wouldn’t have to swallow the pain in such large doses.
“I think talking about it helps. I’m a good and willing ear, and you know you can rely on my discretion. Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”
He shook his head. “The only thing that can help me now is the comfort I find in your company and hearing you speak of your everyday affairs.”
“If it’s simple talk that soothes you, Mr. Tiffany, sit in a corner of my workroom with my girls for a few hours, and I promise you your mind will be rendered numb with silliness.”
Louis laughed, and then looked startled. “My god, I was sure nothing could make me smile today.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “I thought for sure I was going to have to tell you the story of how I once put on King Lear for my family, using the barn cats in the roles of Lear’s daughters and the goat as King Lear.”
When she’d worn him out with her talk, some of it bordering on the inane, she accompanied him to his car. Although she refused his offer of a lift to Irving Place, it did occur to her that she should have asked him to let her try her hand at driving. That, she was sure, would have been more than enough to take his mind off any troubles he thought he was having.
May 8, 1904
Miss Owens leaned close to Clara’s ear and whispered, “A young lady wishes to speak to you in the parlor. She’s quite upset.”
Young Miss Barnes immediately jumped to mind. The girl had gotten herself mixed up in a tempestuous romance with a French sailor, whom she foolishly intended on marrying—a union that could only end badly. All her girls came to her for advice or a comforting word when their romances went astray. She was becoming so proficient at providing guidance, she was sorry there wasn’t some sort of salaried position where all she had to do was to look understanding while she listened to people’s sad tales about their entanglements.
She was barely into the room when the girl launched off the settee and threw herself into her arms, sobbing.
