titled
Louis Comfort Tiffany’s Glass Mosaics, 1895
, and told me to look on the second page. There it was in black and white: “Many of the firm’s great mosaic projects have been executed by women.”
“Wonder of wonders! It’s the first time he’s publicly acknowledged that the fifth floor exists. He didn’t waste much ink, though. Just a little more and he could have put in my name.”
“Then what would you do with it?”
Show it to Edwin. I wanted him to understand what I would be giving up if I married him. If. If. The big If.
I lifted my shoulders. “It just hurts to be anonymous.”
He offered a consoling look. “The Philharmonic is presenting a Mozart program. Are you at liberty to accompany me the Saturday after next?”
After only a moment’s hesitation I replied, “Yes. I love Mozart.”
“Then let’s meet at Sherry’s, Fifth Avenue at Thirty-seventh, at five o’clock for dinner first. Oh, and Mr. Tiffany wants you to come to his office.”
“Is something wrong?”
His precisely drawn eyebrows lifted in unison. “Something is very right!”
Humming mysteriously, he accompanied me downstairs, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. When I peeked in the open door little Napoléon was hopping, actually hopping from side to side, next to Mr. Nash.
“Look, Clara! A breakthrough! Iridescence on blown glass! We’ve done it!”
The second breakthrough: my first name. He used my first name.
A dozen vases stood on the display table. Iridescence bathed the full bodies of some, and only glinted in decorative gesture strokes on others. He pranced around the table, and we looked at them together from all angles.
“They’re gorgeous. I knew you would succeed.”
He was breathing the heady ether that lingers after high moments of life, and I was inhaling his exhale. Though my department had nothing to do with blown glass, he had called me downstairs to see what was so vital to him, knowing I would rejoice with him. That had to mean
something
.
“We’ve been calling it Favrile glass to make the Italian term,
fabrile
, for ‘handmade,’ sound more French,” Mr. Tiffany explained.
“When do you think you’ll begin selling them?”
“Not yet. This first year’s production will go to museums—the Smithsonian, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Victoria and Albert, the Musée des Arts Décoratifs du Louvre, and the Imperial Museum of Tokyo.”
“What about the Metropolitan? You’re leaving out your own hometown!”
He lifted his chin, as though that would make him taller to match this success. “Henry Havemeyer has promised to purchase at least fifty to present to them. I’m setting aside the finest for him.”
With a pang, I thought, How could I ever think of leaving this melting pot of creativity? Or leaving him? He had mentioned my department in the brochure, a sure sign of broader recognition to come. And he had wanted to share his triumph with me—no other woman. Now,with connections to the world’s greatest museums, what might the future of my own work be? Would it ever be in a museum? What about our secret of leaded-glass lampshades?
ON MY BED that evening lay a letter under a single creamy white rose.
My dear Clara
,
May I call you that? I have done so in my own mind for months
.
I can see you are the archetype of an independent woman who lives singly, experiences broadly, and has a fine and satisfying vocation. I respect you for that, but I promise that you will have more adventures with me than by yourself
.
I’ve been extremely busy, which is the only thing that has kept me from your doorstep day and night. Wednesday evening I met with a group beginning to organize a Citizens Union to support governmental reform in the interests of the common citizen. J. P. Morgan was there. I made my last speech at eleven-thirty. Then last night was the meeting of the Allied Political Clubs and I was at work all afternoon and until midnight with them. The striking garment workers
Louis Comfort Tiffany’s Glass Mosaics, 1895
, and told me to look on the second page. There it was in black and white: “Many of the firm’s great mosaic projects have been executed by women.”
“Wonder of wonders! It’s the first time he’s publicly acknowledged that the fifth floor exists. He didn’t waste much ink, though. Just a little more and he could have put in my name.”
“Then what would you do with it?”
Show it to Edwin. I wanted him to understand what I would be giving up if I married him. If. If. The big If.
I lifted my shoulders. “It just hurts to be anonymous.”
He offered a consoling look. “The Philharmonic is presenting a Mozart program. Are you at liberty to accompany me the Saturday after next?”
After only a moment’s hesitation I replied, “Yes. I love Mozart.”
“Then let’s meet at Sherry’s, Fifth Avenue at Thirty-seventh, at five o’clock for dinner first. Oh, and Mr. Tiffany wants you to come to his office.”
“Is something wrong?”
His precisely drawn eyebrows lifted in unison. “Something is very right!”
Humming mysteriously, he accompanied me downstairs, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. When I peeked in the open door little Napoléon was hopping, actually hopping from side to side, next to Mr. Nash.
“Look, Clara! A breakthrough! Iridescence on blown glass! We’ve done it!”
The second breakthrough: my first name. He used my first name.
A dozen vases stood on the display table. Iridescence bathed the full bodies of some, and only glinted in decorative gesture strokes on others. He pranced around the table, and we looked at them together from all angles.
“They’re gorgeous. I knew you would succeed.”
He was breathing the heady ether that lingers after high moments of life, and I was inhaling his exhale. Though my department had nothing to do with blown glass, he had called me downstairs to see what was so vital to him, knowing I would rejoice with him. That had to mean
something
.
“We’ve been calling it Favrile glass to make the Italian term,
fabrile
, for ‘handmade,’ sound more French,” Mr. Tiffany explained.
“When do you think you’ll begin selling them?”
“Not yet. This first year’s production will go to museums—the Smithsonian, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Victoria and Albert, the Musée des Arts Décoratifs du Louvre, and the Imperial Museum of Tokyo.”
“What about the Metropolitan? You’re leaving out your own hometown!”
He lifted his chin, as though that would make him taller to match this success. “Henry Havemeyer has promised to purchase at least fifty to present to them. I’m setting aside the finest for him.”
With a pang, I thought, How could I ever think of leaving this melting pot of creativity? Or leaving him? He had mentioned my department in the brochure, a sure sign of broader recognition to come. And he had wanted to share his triumph with me—no other woman. Now,with connections to the world’s greatest museums, what might the future of my own work be? Would it ever be in a museum? What about our secret of leaded-glass lampshades?
ON MY BED that evening lay a letter under a single creamy white rose.
My dear Clara
,
May I call you that? I have done so in my own mind for months
.
I can see you are the archetype of an independent woman who lives singly, experiences broadly, and has a fine and satisfying vocation. I respect you for that, but I promise that you will have more adventures with me than by yourself
.
I’ve been extremely busy, which is the only thing that has kept me from your doorstep day and night. Wednesday evening I met with a group beginning to organize a Citizens Union to support governmental reform in the interests of the common citizen. J. P. Morgan was there. I made my last speech at eleven-thirty. Then last night was the meeting of the Allied Political Clubs and I was at work all afternoon and until midnight with them. The striking garment workers
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