Queen of the Owls Page 16

  “It might be useful, who knows?” Marion dropped her hand and eyed Elizabeth sternly. “So what do you think, now that you’re deep into your research? Georgia O’Keeffe, matriarch of American Modernism, or Georgia O’Keeffe, matriarch of female artists?”

  It was the same question Elizabeth had posed to her students. “We know what O’Keeffe herself would have said. There’s this story about how she had a request for an interview about women artists, and she said, ‘A silly topic. Write about women. Or write about artists. I don’t see how they’re connected.’”

  “Maybe she was just being ornery. She had to know it was a legitimate question.”

  “I don’t know. She stood her ground about that, over the years.”

  “Phooey. She used her identity as a woman in her art. She used it to get noticed, for heaven’s sake.”

  “At last, a woman on paper.” Elizabeth hoped Marion would recognize the quote.

  She did. “Exactly. Stieglitz was desperate to be the first person to showcase a woman artist—an American woman artist, in particular.” Marion gave a disdainful sniff. “Even if it meant showcasing her as the subject of his own art. Showing off, I should say.”

  “You think it was self-serving? A way to promote himself, not her?”

  “I think it was for their mutual benefit.” Marion brushed her fingertips across the amber figurine. It was a glossy curved mound, like a sleeping cat. “They knew perfectly well what they were doing with that photography show. He wanted to create a demand for her art, which would benefit them both—it was his gallery, after all, and his reputation for spotting artists who were ahead of their time. Plus, they needed money. If generating public fascination with O’Keeffe as a woman—a scandalous woman— was the best way to achieve that, it was fine with him. And her.” Marion gave a grimace of distaste. “There was no way he could have pulled it off without her collusion. She knew precisely what kind of attention those nude photos would get her. It’s disingenuous to claim that she didn’t.”

  The amber figurine cast an oval shadow across Marion’s desk. Elizabeth watched as Marion moved it an inch to the right.

  “It’s true,” she conceded. “Stieglitz told everyone that her art was the first truly female art—you know, drawing its energy and expression from her secret female essence. But the idea was already out there in the public consciousness, long before he showed her work. For sure, it shaped the critics’ response. They’d already decided what her paintings meant, before they’d even seen them. The exotic well-spring of repressed female sexuality, never before revealed in art. It came from what Stieglitz wrote about her, not from her art itself.”

  “What he wrote with her permission.”

  “Maybe.”

  Marion shook her head. “O’Keeffe posed nude for an ambitious man whose mission in life was to promote work he believed in, including his own. You don’t think she deluded herself about that, do you? No matter how upset she claimed to be, she had to have known what he was doing. What they were doing.”

  Elizabeth stared at her. Was Marion implying that Richard was ambitious, with his own agenda? That she was colluding with him, the way Marion thought O’Keeffe had colluded with Stieglitz?

  No, that was crazy. There was no way Marion could know about Richard. Her remarks were academic, not personal.

  The blue eyes flashed, electricity glinting on snow. “What do you think, Elizabeth? Wasn’t O’Keeffe trying to have it both ways?”

  “You mean, disavowing how she presented herself in those photos, while also benefitting from it?”

  “Exactly.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. Marion was interested in her; that’s what Harold had told her. A formidable ally. Someone who could help her vault right to the top of the academic ladder. A hasty response, challenging or offending Marion, could jeopardize that alliance.

  “It’s hard to say,” she answered. “A lot of people gave Stieglitz all the credit, as if he’d created her. He did have the status, the connections. At the same time, O’Keeffe was pretty tough and independent.”

  “Later. Not when she was starting out.” Marion shrugged. “We’ll never really know, of course. But that’s why I don’t like O’Keeffe, genius that she was. I can’t stand hypocrisy.”

  Elizabeth straightened her back. Marion’s words were a warning. “Well, I’m focusing on Hawaii, as you know. It’s a pretty specific aspect of her life.”

  “Indeed.” Marion reached across the desk and switched two of the figurines, moving the smaller one behind the larger. “She was already a major figure in American art by the time she went to Hawaii.”

  “True. But she went there in 1939, just when she was starting to break free from Stieglitz.”

  Marion looked up with interest. “Personally or artistically?”

  “I think they were the same thing.”

  Marion smiled. “I imagine that’s right.”

  Elizabeth dared to return her smile. “Just a couple of years earlier, Elizabeth Arden—you know, the cosmetics entrepreneur and, really, one of the few women with that kind of stature in the business world—commissioned O’Keeffe to do a huge flower painting for her New York salon. It was O’Keeffe’s first commercial commission. Stieglitz didn’t like it because she took the job without consulting him. She’d never done that before, but it was a big success. A giant composition of four jimson weed flowers.”

  “He’d always managed her career.”

  “Always. There was even a big four-page story in Life Magazine, less than a year before she went to Hawaii, that gave Stieglitz all the credit for her fame—as if, without him, she’d still be a schoolteacher in some backwater town in the middle of nowhere. I think O’Keeffe was sick of it. Then she got the Dole offer. A free trip to an island paradise five thousand miles from Stieglitz, in exchange for a picture of a pineapple.”

  “So the Dole job was well-timed?”

  “That’s part of my argument.”

  Marion nodded. “I think you have a good topic. It hasn’t been studied much, which works in your favor. Originality plus good scholarship makes an unbeatable combination. It’s what departments look for, when they hire.”

  Elizabeth understood the reference but didn’t think she was supposed to know about the opening at Marion’s former university. Better to assume that she wasn’t.

  Yet she couldn’t keep the image from rising up and filling her mind. Her own office, with a framed print of Georgia’s Abstraction, White Rose on the wall. A brass nameplate, like Harold’s. Sitting on the dais at university events in her academic robe.

  Marion switched the figurines back the way they had been. When she returned her attention to Elizabeth, her face was composed. “One thing at a time. For now, let me know how I can help with your research.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “I’ll send you that Arthur Dove paper.”

  Elizabeth remembered what Harold Lindstrom had told her. Don’t disappoint Marion Mackenzie. Marion doesn’t like it when people let her down. “Hearing you read aloud would have been wonderful,” she said, “but I’m excited to read it, in any form.”

  Marion extended her hand. “Always glad to help another woman scholar. The world needs more of us.”

  “O’Keeffe would have said, ‘The world needs more scholars. Not more women. I don’t see how they’re connected.’”

  Marion laughed. “I like you, Elizabeth Crawford. I’ll see you soon.”

  Elizabeth practically danced down the stairs of the Humanities building. Having the great Mackenzie like you was a phenomenal piece of luck. She’d read that Arthur Dove thing, and then she’d prove to Marion Mackenzie that she was someone worth liking. She’d write an immaculate and impressive dissertation, a work of scholarship that Marion would respect.

  Re-enacting Georgia’s poses had nothing to do with it, not any more. Maybe she had really believed, at first, that doing what she did would open the portal to a truer understanding of O’Keeffe’s art. Maybe
it even had. But she was past that now.

  She had her thesis, her central idea. That was for Marion, and Harold.

  And she had the stack of photos on the table in Richard’s studio. That was for him.

  And for herself.

  Two hours later, Daniel had a colossal episode of impossible-ness at pickup time, refusing to leave the Lego spaceship he had built because he didn’t want anyone to touch it. There were other children—shadowy, malevolent aliens—who came to Lucy’s house on days that he didn’t and played with the Legos behind his back. They would ruin his masterpiece.

  Lucy tried to remind him that the Legos, like all the toys, were for everyone to enjoy, returning to the bins at the end of the day. Not hidden, as Daniel had suggested, and definitely not taken home.

  Elizabeth was well aware of Lucy’s rule. Racetracks, battlegrounds, villages, everything had to be dismantled. And she understood Lucy’s logic. Without it, there would soon be nothing to play with, just a museum of private untouchable creations. Part of her was mortified by Daniel’s behavior. She wanted her children to be generous and easy-going; surely all the other children Lucy watched were like that. Yet another part of her thought Daniel was right. Didn’t the fact that he’d created the spaceship—his vision, his work—count for something?

  Daniel was gripping the spaceship, his face growing redder and redder. The seconds ticked past. Think, Elizabeth told herself. Use that big IQ of yours.

  With a swift decisive movement, she unzipped her messenger bag and pulled out her cell phone. “Let’s take pictures of the ship. That way, if anything breaks or gets moved, which it won’t, you’ll know exactly how to fix it.” She handed him the phone.

  Daniel’s mouth dropped open. She was offering him her iPhone? “Can I take the pictures myself?”

  “Of course. I’ll show you how.”

  He was tapping away, his misery forgotten in the thrill of taking pictures with his mother’s magical iPhone, when Phoebe burst through Lucy’s door. “Yikes, what a day,” she announced. Then she spotted Elizabeth. “Goodness, we are the Bobbsey Twins. Same schedule, once again.” She dipped her chin in Daniel’s direction, indicating the iPhone that he was pointing at the spaceship. “You’re brave.”

  “Desperate,” Elizabeth said. “He needed a diversion. Nothing like a bit of photography to take your mind off the world’s injustice.”

  As soon as she said the word photography, her mind leapt to Richard. An irresistible need grabbed her in its talons. To say his name aloud. To hear it said.

  She made her tone as casual as she could. “I met a terrific photographer, by the way, in case you ever need one. In my Tai Chi class.”

  Ruthie came running into the foyer. “Mommy, Mommy.”

  Elizabeth kept talking. “His name’s Richard Ferris. I’m not sure if he does kids, although he does do portraits.” Ruthie was trying to explain something, but Elizabeth raised her voice and talked over her. “Richard Ferris,” she repeated. “You should look him up.”

  Phoebe gave Ruthie a just a second signal. “Okay. Let me write it down.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a notebook. “Ferris? Like the wheel?”

  Elizabeth gave a start. “Right. Like the wheel.”

  “Okay.” Phoebe scribbled a few words. “It’s true, you never know. I try to keep a file. Someone who fixes shower doors, someone who knows about gutters.”

  “This isn’t like that. He’s more of an artist than a repairman.”

  “Down girl. It was just an example.” Phoebe gave her an amused grin. “I got it, okay? Ferris.”

  Ruthie pulled on her mother’s arm. “I want to take pictures, like Daniel. Why can’t I take pictures too?”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes as she dropped the notebook into her purse and searched for her phone. “Stay in here, please. Don’t take it outside.”

  Elizabeth shuddered. The need to talk about Richard pounded against her temples. And yet, as much as she needed to, another part of her wanted to keep their time in the studio away from foreign eyes and ears. It was private, a language only the two of them knew.

  She turned to Daniel. “I think you’ve got it, buddy. A perfect documentary.” She extended her hand for the iPhone. “Let’s get Katie and scoot on home.”

  “She’s not going to get a doctor-mennery too, is she?”

  “Documentary. It’s like a movie. And no, she’s too little.” Daniel gave a satisfied grunt and handed her the phone.

  A wave of exhaustion swept over her. Having to tread so carefully with Marion, and with Ben. Her sister’s crisis. The children, the dissertation. How was she supposed to keep all those plates spinning at the same time?

  She had to, that was all. “Come, Tiger,” she said, putting a hand on top of Daniel’s head.

  “Can I show Daddy my doctor-mennery?”

  “Of course you can. Daddy will love it.”

  He would. Ben was a good father; he had embraced fatherhood with dedication and joy. If he hadn’t brought the same effortless delight to their marriage—well, neither had she.

  “Do I still have to leave my ship here, like Lucy said?” To Elizabeth’s amazement, Daniel’s words held a glimmer of hope.

  She wanted to tell him, No, you don’t. It’s yours, and you take it if you need it. Screw Lucy’s rules. She couldn’t say that, obviously. Not if she wanted to be a responsible mother.

  But she was more than a mother. She was a woman, and she was tired of being so responsible.

  The next time Elizabeth entered Richard’s studio—Saturday, when she told Ben she was holding a student tutorial—she saw that the shades had been pulled down. Instead of natural light from the windows, there were two complicated lamps on movable poles. The dark screen was still there at the back of the room, and a gauzy curtain had been draped across a paler screen in the opposite corner. “I didn’t want you to worry that someone might look in,” Richard told her. The corners of his mouth curved in a smile that seemed, to Elizabeth, both assuring and amused. “Not that anyone could. We’re on the second floor. The only thing out there is sky.”

  Elizabeth hung her jacket on a hook and walked to the wooden table. The stack of photos, shorter now, was waiting for her. She knew which ones they were. She had studied Stieglitz’s portraits of O’Keeffe until she knew them like pictures of her own children. Georgia’s face, cropped or whole, hair pulled back or wearing that ridiculous hat. Georgia clothed in black or seated by the leaves in a white skirt, turning to the camera. Beautiful headless torsos, close-ups of her stomach and breasts.

  Elizabeth wanted the face and body together. The woman, claiming her whole self.

  She met Richard’s eyes, locking them to hers, before she looked down to examine the pictures he had chosen. Her heart was a jackhammer.

  Yes. He’d understood. Georgia, naked except for a thin white shawl, holding her left breast. Georgia, silhouetted against a window.

  Could she do this? She had to.

  She picked up the first photo. Georgia was caressing her breast, her face inward and mysterious, letting the viewer watch. Not like Weston’s nudes, their faces hidden. “This one,” she said.

  Richard dipped his head in acknowledgement. “We’ll use the light backdrop. I can blur the background when I make the print.”

  A tiny bell, like the tap of a spoon against a cup, sounded in Elizabeth’s mind at the word print. She didn’t need a print, a physical reminder that today had happened. All she needed was for it to happen.

  She handed him the photo and strode across the room, stopping in front of the screen. Then she faced him and pulled off her sweater. No bra this time. Only herself, the air against her skin. He tossed her a white cloth. It was sheer, like the filmy curtain he’d spread across the backdrop. “Use this.” She draped it over her arms and opened her jeans, pulling them an inch below her navel, baring her stomach the way O’Keeffe had. The long plane of skin disappearing below the bottom of the frame. She took her breast in her hand.

>   The surge of arousal shocked her. Richard reached for his camera, his eyes hooded. “Like that,” he said. “Hold your breast as if you want me to understand exactly how it feels to you.”

  Elizabeth was dizzy, weak with the desire that flooded her body, but she did what he told her. Open your fingers. Raise your chin. The shutter clicked twice, then a third time, and a fourth.

  “Let’s do this one now.” He went to retrieve another photo from the stack on the table. Barely breathing, Elizabeth bent her head to look. The shawl had fallen. Georgia, against the window, lifting both her breasts with her right arm. Again, the photo was cropped just below the navel.

  He adjusted the lamp, selected a different camera. Then he reached out and tilted her face to the right. “There. Good.”

  She looked at him, not trusting herself to speak. His voice was soft. “Enjoy it.”

  Elizabeth held still, inside her body, as he took shot after shot. He hadn’t asked her how she felt this time. He knew.

  She ached for him to touch her; surely he saw that. Instead, he rolled the lamp behind the screen. “The next one needs to be lit from behind.” Elizabeth watched him adjust the light, experiment with the illumination, then lower the curtain so it covered the bottom portion of the screen. “You’ll see it in the print,” he told her. “He has Georgia framed in front of the window, as if she’s about to pull the curtain aside.”

  “And be revealed.”

  “Stieglitz was very deliberate. There’s nothing accidental in his compositions.”

  He met her eyes, then crossed the room to get another picture. Elizabeth began to cover herself with the shawl. It felt strange to stand there, half-undressed, while she waited. Then she dropped her hand and let go of the shawl.

  Richard returned and held out the photo. She had seen it on her computer, but it was different on paper, in person. The beautiful body with its heavy breasts and mound of pubic hair, one arm extended like the branch of a tree. The whole body.