and can do nothing! What is there for me in life besides my painting? Now he’s taken the pleasure of even that away from me.”
Cara lay there thinking of the evening and knew she would not be able to put it out of her mind. She had been impressed by Phil Winslow in a powerful way. True enough, she did not meet many men such as he appeared to be. Her father, she knew, despised him as a worthless trifler in art. It mattered not that Clinton warmly admired him, and she herself had been so grateful to him for the assistance he had offered to Clinton. Now, however, as she lay there, her hands clenched into fists, she whispered, “What do I care what he thinks? He’s just a penniless artist! Father’s right about him!”
Her sudden agreement with her father did not help the swirl of troubling emotions she felt inside. To her shock and amazement, she found tears running down the sides of her face. She wiped them away quickly and said, “I won’t let him make me cry! He’s wrong. He has to be wrong . . . !”
CHAPTER FIVE
A Time to Live
Life at the art institute was entertaining but at the same time rather depressing for Phil Winslow. Day after day he would go early, after a sparse breakfast, then paint for hours. One day, however, he had stopped painting. He was sitting and staring out the window when Crumpler, the instructor, came by. “Why aren’t you painting, Winslow?” he demanded.
“No more canvases.”
“Buy some.”
“No money.”
Crumpler stared at Phil, then shrugged. “Come along.” He took him to a storeroom where hundreds of old canvases, abandoned by former students, were stacked up to the ceiling. “Grab some of those,” he said. “You can use them again.” A look of contempt curled his thick lips. “The world won’t be losing much. Most of it’s junk anyway.”
Phil grinned. “How do you know I won’t put more junk on it?”
Crumpler was as sparing with his compliments as Ebenezer Scrooge had been of his money, but now he finally said grudgingly, “You’ve got something in you, Winslow. I’d like to see it come out.”
As bleak as the words were, they spurred Phil to do more. He now had an unlimited supply of canvases and only had to buy paints and a brush from time to time. He threw himself into the work in a zealous frenzy, irritating the other students, who looked down upon him.
One of the things about Winslow’s paintings that puzzled Crumpler and annoyed the other students was his choice of subjects. Most of them were painting still lifes, landscapes, or portraits, for that was where the money was. Phil had become almost obsessed in depicting various settings from the streets of New York. He roamed the poor immigrant district near his boardinghouse, and once painted a picture of a German family who had agreed to pose for him. He had managed to make friends with this family by bringing them sweets. He chose their front room as his setting, allowing the dilapidated furniture and a stove with stacked bricks replacing a missing leg to bring out the hard poverty the Schultzes lived in day to day. He depicted honestly the ugly, ill-fitting clothes the children wore, and the way they stared at him with large eyes. He spent a great deal of time on the faces of the father and mother, both lined by poverty, hard work, and disease.
He had brought the painting to the institute and placed it on the easel, intending to fill in some of the final details. As he started to apply some finishing touches, he noticed that the other students curled their lips up and then passed right on by.
When Crumpler stopped, he stared at the painting for a long time. Phil sat there waiting for the acid comment that was sure to come.
“Why did you want to paint this?”
“I guess because I get tired of daisies and apples and fruit bowls.”
“No one would ever buy a picture like this.”
“I didn’t think they would.”
“Why paint, then, if you can’t sell a picture?”
“I guess I’m
Cara lay there thinking of the evening and knew she would not be able to put it out of her mind. She had been impressed by Phil Winslow in a powerful way. True enough, she did not meet many men such as he appeared to be. Her father, she knew, despised him as a worthless trifler in art. It mattered not that Clinton warmly admired him, and she herself had been so grateful to him for the assistance he had offered to Clinton. Now, however, as she lay there, her hands clenched into fists, she whispered, “What do I care what he thinks? He’s just a penniless artist! Father’s right about him!”
Her sudden agreement with her father did not help the swirl of troubling emotions she felt inside. To her shock and amazement, she found tears running down the sides of her face. She wiped them away quickly and said, “I won’t let him make me cry! He’s wrong. He has to be wrong . . . !”
CHAPTER FIVE
A Time to Live
Life at the art institute was entertaining but at the same time rather depressing for Phil Winslow. Day after day he would go early, after a sparse breakfast, then paint for hours. One day, however, he had stopped painting. He was sitting and staring out the window when Crumpler, the instructor, came by. “Why aren’t you painting, Winslow?” he demanded.
“No more canvases.”
“Buy some.”
“No money.”
Crumpler stared at Phil, then shrugged. “Come along.” He took him to a storeroom where hundreds of old canvases, abandoned by former students, were stacked up to the ceiling. “Grab some of those,” he said. “You can use them again.” A look of contempt curled his thick lips. “The world won’t be losing much. Most of it’s junk anyway.”
Phil grinned. “How do you know I won’t put more junk on it?”
Crumpler was as sparing with his compliments as Ebenezer Scrooge had been of his money, but now he finally said grudgingly, “You’ve got something in you, Winslow. I’d like to see it come out.”
As bleak as the words were, they spurred Phil to do more. He now had an unlimited supply of canvases and only had to buy paints and a brush from time to time. He threw himself into the work in a zealous frenzy, irritating the other students, who looked down upon him.
One of the things about Winslow’s paintings that puzzled Crumpler and annoyed the other students was his choice of subjects. Most of them were painting still lifes, landscapes, or portraits, for that was where the money was. Phil had become almost obsessed in depicting various settings from the streets of New York. He roamed the poor immigrant district near his boardinghouse, and once painted a picture of a German family who had agreed to pose for him. He had managed to make friends with this family by bringing them sweets. He chose their front room as his setting, allowing the dilapidated furniture and a stove with stacked bricks replacing a missing leg to bring out the hard poverty the Schultzes lived in day to day. He depicted honestly the ugly, ill-fitting clothes the children wore, and the way they stared at him with large eyes. He spent a great deal of time on the faces of the father and mother, both lined by poverty, hard work, and disease.
He had brought the painting to the institute and placed it on the easel, intending to fill in some of the final details. As he started to apply some finishing touches, he noticed that the other students curled their lips up and then passed right on by.
When Crumpler stopped, he stared at the painting for a long time. Phil sat there waiting for the acid comment that was sure to come.
“Why did you want to paint this?”
“I guess because I get tired of daisies and apples and fruit bowls.”
“No one would ever buy a picture like this.”
“I didn’t think they would.”
“Why paint, then, if you can’t sell a picture?”
“I guess I’m
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