The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

profuse shock of gray hair, who held a notebook and pen. She studied them both, the former a bit hunched at the shoulders, dressed in a somewhat tattered navy jacket, the latter attired in an impeccable black suit looking like a lion defending his territory.

“I must say,” the lion said, holding court while he scribbled notes, “this statue is the best piece in the show—if only the artist had the talent to display emotion on any level. Look at the face.” The group bent toward the bronze of a kneeling woman with the bow in her hand. “Do you see any expression? How can we tell if Diana is overjoyed or distraught at the prospect of killing the stag? The sculpture is devoid of true feeling. However, I regard this piece with more affinity than the other works in this heinous gathering.”

“You are quite correct, Vreland,” the fawning man next to him chimed in. “Of course this is the effort of a woman.” The appellation dripped with acid. “Women should know better than to attempt an art clearly intended for a man. They can dabble, but never succeed.” The women gathered around Emma’s bronze tittered—only one looked embarrassed about the comment of the middle-aged man in the navy jacket who stood so close to Vreland.

The name sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. Vreland—the esteemed art critic for the Boston Register.

Emma looked at her Diana. It had taken two years to complete. The bow, the grasp of the fingers on the archer’s string, the knee and leg resting on the base: all took monumental effort. Despite her struggles with the work, the balance of the legs, the proportion of the hips, the abdomen’s slight plumpness and the soft curve of the breasts had been easier for her than the face.

“I may be a failure as a sculptress, but I’m not a failure as a woman,” she said to Louisa, while directing her comment to the group.

“Now, Emma,” Louisa whispered.

The two men turned to stare.

“So, you are Emma Lewis Swan?” Vreland asked. “I’m sorry we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Yes. Perhaps I should retreat to the middle of the last century where I could sculpt as Ellis Bell or some other pseudonym satisfying to men of your ilk.”

“My pleasure,” Vreland said and bowed. The man next to him nodded stiffly. “I meant no offense,” he continued, “but in my capacity as a critic for the Register, you are aware I must make artistic judgments.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Emma said, sizing up the man. “You are the Mr. Vreland, the critic who has savaged artists before me.”

“Savaged is a strong word, Mrs. Swan,” Vreland said, “and I honestly don’t remember seeing any of your work before now. Pity.” His gray eyes swept over Emma with a fierce intensity. “My newspaper pays for my artistic opinions. The editors, and the public, I might add, see worth in my judgments.”

“Despite your failed memory, many have been on the poor side of your judgments previously. I’d hoped this opening might prove differently, but I’d been warned.”

“I’m afraid not.” He paused and slowly pointed a finger at the statue. “One . . . only has to look. Warned . . . it must have been someone with little artistic taste.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed and she bit her tongue not to mention Bela Pratt’s name.

“Still,” he said, “I reiterate my feeling that your sculpture is the best piece in a mediocre show.”

“Damned with faint praise,” Emma responded. “I shall bear that in mind when I read your words tomorrow—if they are literate.” The disagreeable man next to Vreland hissed at Emma.

“And who are you?” Emma asked, barely containing her anger.

“Mr. Everett—an admirer of good art.”

Louisa tugged at her arm. “Alex is waving to us.”

“Until we meet again, Vreland,” Emma said, with mock sincerity. “Good evening, Mr. Everett.”

Louisa pulled her toward Alex. “Are you mad? You’ll catch more ants with honey than vinegar. Vreland will rip you to shreds.”

“I couldn’t care less.” Emma disengaged herself from Louisa and reconsidered her attitude. “Oh, that’s a lie. But, really, consorting with a clod who believes sculpting is only for men . . . what nonsense.”

Alex strode toward them with his hands clasped tightly. “The verdict?” he asked Emma. His light-brown eyes flashed with curiosity.

“Not good, I’m afraid. Fortunately, Louisa came to my rescue before I made a complete ass of myself.”

“There are worse enemies than Vreland, but, at the moment, I can’t think of any,” Alex said and then kissed Emma on the cheek. “Sometimes our enemies are inside us, and if we defeat ourselves we’re doomed despite what anyone else says. Art will change, society’s perspective will shift, and Vreland and his associates will remain mired in the nineteenth century. I’m certain his review of this show will be positively scathing.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Emma said. “I should have controlled my feelings.”

“Artists and women have done so for far too long. Don’t give Vreland another thought—although I’m not sure how long I can continue to sustain this gallery in the face of unabashed criticism. Either the critics or the war will be the end of me.”

Louisa sighed. “Don’t be silly. You’re the only breath of fresh air in Boston. Your supporters will rally. Long live the Fountain!”

“You really are beginning to sound like a reactionary,” Emma said to her friend. “Come, we should leave and allow Alex to pursue his clients. I’ve done enough damage for one night.”

Emma said her good-byes to Alex and a few others in the gallery, lingering for longer than she would have liked. When she passed her now deserted sculpture, she patted it on the head.

Dusk had deepened the shadows to indigo when they stepped onto Newbury Street. The encroaching darkness battled with man-made lights, some soft and warm, some muted by emerging spring leaves, others glaring electric white in shop and apartment windows.

“Can you imagine a world without electricity?” Emma asked Louisa.

“Of course not. Soon the world will be ruled by the automobile, electric gadgets,