didn’t mind. It was fascinating, and for the present, I wasn’t alone.
“As opposed to low bohemia?”
“The Jewish immigrant quarter south of us. Dingy pockets of progressive politics, serious theater, social art, and violin virtuosos, the nursery for great contributions someday.”
“If all that culture is going on there, how can you call it ‘low’?”
“Only because it’s in the Lower East Side. My brother’s in the thick of it there. So is our comrade, Hank McBride. The horn-rims, remember? He teaches drawing from classical sculpture at the East Side Artist and Educational Alliance. His favorite is the
Apollo Belvedere
, a Greek god coveted by a pope and swiped by Napoléon. He calls it the epitome of male beauty.”
“Interesting, but what I meant was to continue with your painting.”
He had blocked in a meadow and a distant hill in a lavender haze, and on it, the ruins of a Greek temple. He set to work again, painting swiftly.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like an Apollo just visible between the columns of this temple, my lady?” He waved his brush as though it were a magic wand. “Just a few touches and he would sweeten your fancies.”
“You remind me of Puck from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
”
“ ‘Thou speak’st aright. I am that merry wanderer of the night.’ ”
“In your fairy palette, do you have any chrome yellow?”
“Indeed, my lady. Puck splashes it about through all the kingdom.”
“Do you think he has the magic to put a few daffodils in the meadow?”
CHAPTER 7
WHITE
L ATE ONE AFTERNOON I WAS SEWING A BAND OF LACE ONTO A collar to disguise its worn condition when George came in, pulled my curtains aside, and peered out into the early twilight.
“It’s beginning to snow,” he said. “Tomorrow everything will be covered in white. White buildings. White streets. White omnibuses. White lampposts. An alabaster city.”
“I get the idea, George. You don’t have to catalog every snowflake.”
Snow meant three months left until the fair would open in May. With so much still left to do, I felt as nervous as a sparrow pecking at the frayed edge of resolve.
George was bursting to tell me something, but he kept it in, nosing around, picking up my powder puff, rearranging the things on my dresser scarf, making it seem as though he was only going to reveal it if I asked. To tease him, I refused to, which sooner or later would force him to reveal it on his own. Over the last several months it had become our mutual cat-and-mouse game.
He adjusted the curtain, he twirled the tassel on the curtain tieback, he played with my kaleidoscope, and he asked me what I did at work today.
“The same things I did yesterday and the day before that. Chipped chunks of lime green, orange, and gold glass into jewels for the crown in the double-peacock mosaic. It’s still not finished because we’ve had to take over some of the windows from the men’s department so they could stay home, sleep late, talk, talk, talk, and create a work stoppage. You can’t choose a million unique pieces of glass in a week, you know. Andnone of these are tesserae—simple rectangles. They’re sectiliae, cut to conform to the shapes outlined on the cartoon. Much more work because they’re irregular. It’s going to be gorgeous, but it’s nerve-racking because I hear the clock ticking every time I lay down a piece.”
That made him cock his head from side to side and cluck like a metronome. “I’m going to see it.”
“I don’t have a spare minute to show you.”
He stuck his nose in the air. “You can’t stop me.” He straightened the rug beside my bed. “What did your girls do today?”
“Three glass selectors, three cutters, and three assistants finished the big
Angel of the Resurrection
window. The angel’s face and hands and feet have just been enameled and fired. You should have seen the girls, so giddy to see all the pieces assembled but sad to part with what they created. It
“As opposed to low bohemia?”
“The Jewish immigrant quarter south of us. Dingy pockets of progressive politics, serious theater, social art, and violin virtuosos, the nursery for great contributions someday.”
“If all that culture is going on there, how can you call it ‘low’?”
“Only because it’s in the Lower East Side. My brother’s in the thick of it there. So is our comrade, Hank McBride. The horn-rims, remember? He teaches drawing from classical sculpture at the East Side Artist and Educational Alliance. His favorite is the
Apollo Belvedere
, a Greek god coveted by a pope and swiped by Napoléon. He calls it the epitome of male beauty.”
“Interesting, but what I meant was to continue with your painting.”
He had blocked in a meadow and a distant hill in a lavender haze, and on it, the ruins of a Greek temple. He set to work again, painting swiftly.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like an Apollo just visible between the columns of this temple, my lady?” He waved his brush as though it were a magic wand. “Just a few touches and he would sweeten your fancies.”
“You remind me of Puck from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
”
“ ‘Thou speak’st aright. I am that merry wanderer of the night.’ ”
“In your fairy palette, do you have any chrome yellow?”
“Indeed, my lady. Puck splashes it about through all the kingdom.”
“Do you think he has the magic to put a few daffodils in the meadow?”
CHAPTER 7
WHITE
L ATE ONE AFTERNOON I WAS SEWING A BAND OF LACE ONTO A collar to disguise its worn condition when George came in, pulled my curtains aside, and peered out into the early twilight.
“It’s beginning to snow,” he said. “Tomorrow everything will be covered in white. White buildings. White streets. White omnibuses. White lampposts. An alabaster city.”
“I get the idea, George. You don’t have to catalog every snowflake.”
Snow meant three months left until the fair would open in May. With so much still left to do, I felt as nervous as a sparrow pecking at the frayed edge of resolve.
George was bursting to tell me something, but he kept it in, nosing around, picking up my powder puff, rearranging the things on my dresser scarf, making it seem as though he was only going to reveal it if I asked. To tease him, I refused to, which sooner or later would force him to reveal it on his own. Over the last several months it had become our mutual cat-and-mouse game.
He adjusted the curtain, he twirled the tassel on the curtain tieback, he played with my kaleidoscope, and he asked me what I did at work today.
“The same things I did yesterday and the day before that. Chipped chunks of lime green, orange, and gold glass into jewels for the crown in the double-peacock mosaic. It’s still not finished because we’ve had to take over some of the windows from the men’s department so they could stay home, sleep late, talk, talk, talk, and create a work stoppage. You can’t choose a million unique pieces of glass in a week, you know. Andnone of these are tesserae—simple rectangles. They’re sectiliae, cut to conform to the shapes outlined on the cartoon. Much more work because they’re irregular. It’s going to be gorgeous, but it’s nerve-racking because I hear the clock ticking every time I lay down a piece.”
That made him cock his head from side to side and cluck like a metronome. “I’m going to see it.”
“I don’t have a spare minute to show you.”
He stuck his nose in the air. “You can’t stop me.” He straightened the rug beside my bed. “What did your girls do today?”
“Three glass selectors, three cutters, and three assistants finished the big
Angel of the Resurrection
window. The angel’s face and hands and feet have just been enameled and fired. You should have seen the girls, so giddy to see all the pieces assembled but sad to part with what they created. It
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