just the artistic type. I’ll probably wind up starving in an attic somewhere.”
Crumpler was not satisfied with Phil’s flippant response. He continued to study the picture and said, “Have you ever heard of the Ashcan School?”
“Ashcan School? No, what’s that?”
Crumpler shrugged his beefy shoulders. “A group ofpainters who paint stuff like this. I guess they picked the name all right. They like to paint pictures of the backyards of tenements. All pretty grim stuff.”
“Who are they? What’re their names?”
“Don’t know most of them. One of them’s named John Sloan. He was a student here for a while a long time ago. Some of his paintings are in the window of an art shop. I don’t know why. They’ll never sell.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“It’s over on Eighteenth Street. Place called Maxim’s.”
Phil left at once to find Maxim’s. There he saw paintings in the window such as he had never seen before. They were not “nice,” but instantly he realized that this man Sloan had absorbed the poor of New York into his bloodstream, and now they somehow vividly came to life on his canvas. He stood before one painting of three women out on a rooftop drying their hair. Two of them, a brunette and a blonde, sat on the ledge. All wore clumsy-looking shoes, obviously marking them as lower class, and soot-blackened tenement houses rose up into the smoky air behind them. To one side, a clothesline full of underwear and work clothes flapped in the breeze. The main figure, wearing a white chemise, was pulling her blond hair forward over her shoulder, allowing the sun—what there was of it—to dry her hair.
Another painting, obviously by a different artist, portrayed two young girls dancing in the street. It was a dark portrait, except for the light that illuminated the faces of the girls. The face of the one on the right glowed, and her hair spun as she danced around. Her expression of joy spoke loudly and contrasted vividly with the poverty shown in her heavy shoes and worn clothing.
Going inside, Phil wandered around and found himself more impressed than he had been by the paintings in the art museums of Europe. These are real, he thought. They show how life really is. He paused before a portrait of two wrestlers. They were on the mat struggling, one man withhis head braced against the mat straining to keep his shoulders from being pinned. Every muscle stood out on the two men, the terrible strain captured in paint. The pink flesh of the central wrestler about to be pinned was the most lifelike thing Phil had ever seen.
“You like that?”
Phil twirled to see a man standing beside him, a small man with a bushy red mustache and a pair of alert blue eyes.
“My name is George Maxim—but everyone just calls me Maxim. You like the painting?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A man named George Luks did it. You can almost smell the sweat on those fellows, can’t you?”
“Yes. How much is it?”
“How much have you got?” Maxim smiled.
Phil laughed. “Not enough to buy it, I suppose. Do you sell many?”
“No, not too many,” Maxim said. He cocked his head to one side, and his lips turned up in a smile. He fingered his mustache and said, “You’re a painter, I take it?”
“Trying to be.”
“Most painters don’t like these fellows, Luk and Sloan. They call them the Ashcan School.”
“Is it a large group?”
“They’re called ‘The Eight.’ ” He named them off and said, “I take it you’d like to be number nine.”
“I like what they’re doing. Look at this one. Who did it?”
“Everett Schin.” Maxim studied Phil and said quietly, with interest, “You think that’s good?”
“Well, look at it.”
It was a portrait of the backyard of a tenement. All across the back of the painting a run-down building rose up, cluttered with junk, with clothes flapping on a drooping clothesline. At the bottom a woman was hanging out clothes, and piled
Crumpler was not satisfied with Phil’s flippant response. He continued to study the picture and said, “Have you ever heard of the Ashcan School?”
“Ashcan School? No, what’s that?”
Crumpler shrugged his beefy shoulders. “A group ofpainters who paint stuff like this. I guess they picked the name all right. They like to paint pictures of the backyards of tenements. All pretty grim stuff.”
“Who are they? What’re their names?”
“Don’t know most of them. One of them’s named John Sloan. He was a student here for a while a long time ago. Some of his paintings are in the window of an art shop. I don’t know why. They’ll never sell.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“It’s over on Eighteenth Street. Place called Maxim’s.”
Phil left at once to find Maxim’s. There he saw paintings in the window such as he had never seen before. They were not “nice,” but instantly he realized that this man Sloan had absorbed the poor of New York into his bloodstream, and now they somehow vividly came to life on his canvas. He stood before one painting of three women out on a rooftop drying their hair. Two of them, a brunette and a blonde, sat on the ledge. All wore clumsy-looking shoes, obviously marking them as lower class, and soot-blackened tenement houses rose up into the smoky air behind them. To one side, a clothesline full of underwear and work clothes flapped in the breeze. The main figure, wearing a white chemise, was pulling her blond hair forward over her shoulder, allowing the sun—what there was of it—to dry her hair.
Another painting, obviously by a different artist, portrayed two young girls dancing in the street. It was a dark portrait, except for the light that illuminated the faces of the girls. The face of the one on the right glowed, and her hair spun as she danced around. Her expression of joy spoke loudly and contrasted vividly with the poverty shown in her heavy shoes and worn clothing.
Going inside, Phil wandered around and found himself more impressed than he had been by the paintings in the art museums of Europe. These are real, he thought. They show how life really is. He paused before a portrait of two wrestlers. They were on the mat struggling, one man withhis head braced against the mat straining to keep his shoulders from being pinned. Every muscle stood out on the two men, the terrible strain captured in paint. The pink flesh of the central wrestler about to be pinned was the most lifelike thing Phil had ever seen.
“You like that?”
Phil twirled to see a man standing beside him, a small man with a bushy red mustache and a pair of alert blue eyes.
“My name is George Maxim—but everyone just calls me Maxim. You like the painting?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A man named George Luks did it. You can almost smell the sweat on those fellows, can’t you?”
“Yes. How much is it?”
“How much have you got?” Maxim smiled.
Phil laughed. “Not enough to buy it, I suppose. Do you sell many?”
“No, not too many,” Maxim said. He cocked his head to one side, and his lips turned up in a smile. He fingered his mustache and said, “You’re a painter, I take it?”
“Trying to be.”
“Most painters don’t like these fellows, Luk and Sloan. They call them the Ashcan School.”
“Is it a large group?”
“They’re called ‘The Eight.’ ” He named them off and said, “I take it you’d like to be number nine.”
“I like what they’re doing. Look at this one. Who did it?”
“Everett Schin.” Maxim studied Phil and said quietly, with interest, “You think that’s good?”
“Well, look at it.”
It was a portrait of the backyard of a tenement. All across the back of the painting a run-down building rose up, cluttered with junk, with clothes flapping on a drooping clothesline. At the bottom a woman was hanging out clothes, and piled
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