XXXVIII

Those who took Life before it became a newsphoto affair must have remarked drawings with a '+A.C.' after the artist's signature.

'Plus A.C.' was an agent with a lot of saleable ideas and entree to many of New York's editorial sanctums. He gave these ideas to artists he knew and sold the combined effort on a fiftyfifty basis.

We found Plus A.C. in his shirt-sleeves with his feet on the office desk. An illustrator named Peters, who drew regularly for Life, was leaving when we came in.

"Hello, Crampton," said Plus A.C. without moving.

"A friend of mine who wants to break into the magazine game," said Crampton, introducing me.

"Lets see your stuff," said Plus A.C. to me, shifting the cigar stump to the other side of his face and stroking his lean jaws. He threw my batch of drawings on the desk after glancing at three or four of them.

"College stuff," he said.

Then Crampton said: "Why not try him out on a couple of ideas, the sketches have a lot of character."

"Have to take care of the boys that are with me right along. Not enough ideas to go round," Plus A.C. said.

What do you think of his stuff?" persisted Crampton.

"Needs experience. Drawings lack professional snap. Amateurish."

I gathered them up and slipped them back in the package.

"Come back in a year or two," said Plus A.C. to me with a nod of encouragement. "So long, Crampton."

"You draw a damn sight better than some of the guys he works with," said Crampton when we got outside.

"I have Mynott Osborne's letter for Frank Crowninshield in my pocket," I said.

"We'll call him up," Crampton said.

When I presented Mynott's letter to a pretty girl secretary at Vanity Fair she came back in a couple of minutes and said Mr. Crowninshield would see me right away.

The editor of Vanity Fair was quite a contrast to Plus A.C. His office was furnished simply and in good taste. He shook hands with us both cordially.

"These are not the sort of thing we use," he said, looking over my drawings. "You might do some thing with Life or Judge. But it's hard to break in. You see, they have regular contributors, and always give them preference."

"What is your frank opinion of his work?" asked Crampton.

"Shows promise." Mr. Crowninshield looked at me. "But you need experience."

"You...you think there's any use sticking to it?" I said.

"Yes," he said. "But unless you have independent means I suggest you work at something else for the time being. Count on drawing as a side line."

At the Christian Herald it was the same story. The editor was friendly, but he had two staff artists who drew very literally. I realized I could not draw the way they did. I got back to Crampton's studio hot, tired and discouraged. More so than I remembered having been before.

"I don't know how to thank you for all the trouble you've taken, Rollin. Goodbye. I'll drop round and see you again when I find some work," I said.

"Where are you going now?" said Crampton.

"Look for a room," I said.

"Fixed all right for dough?" he asked.

"I've about eight dollars left," I said.

Crampton thought for a moment, then he pulled back the curtain.

"There's a bunk in there you can use for a few days till you get your bearings. Brem sleeps out," he said.

"Thanks ever so much," I said gratefully. "You're sure I wouldn't be in the way?"

"No, that's all right," he said. "Nobody uses the bunk. Brem sleeps out."

For economic reasons I steered clear of Jensen's that night. There was a lunch counter on the corner of Broadway and 65th Street, and shredded wheat and milk only set me back a nickel. At noon the next day another nickel got me a glass of beer and free lunch at a saloon near Columbus Circle. But it was not as good as the free lunch at the old Hoffman House bar off Madison Square where Newson and I used to go from his father's office on 21st Street. In the afternoon I got in to see Ellis Jones at Life. He said my drawings were good but the ideas lousy. College paper stuff, he said. If I got a good idea he said to draw it up and shoot it along. The conversational joke was getting played out and had to be exceptional to get by.

* * * *

At the Lincoln Arcade I ran across Benton and his cape in the elevator. With him was a young man in a straw hat. He had a very large head and a peculiar nervous laugh that sounded more like a chuckle. Benton asked if I had a cigarette. I said no.

"Meet Ralph Barton," he said.

I shook hands with the young man in the straw hat who said:

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."

He talked as if he was from the Middle West, and his tongue too large for his mouth.

"You draw for Judge and Puck," I said. "I know your stuff. Some of the Yale Record heelers try to imitate it."

"Well, at least that's encouraging," he said.

When we reached his floor he said to come around to his studio if I had nothing better to do. I followed him. There we found a young woman draped over the couch. She was wearing a brown shiny dress.

"Rye Atwell," said Benton. "The Virgin Queen of the Lincoln Arcade."

Miss Atwell extended a moist languid hand and asked if I had a cigarette. I realized I was going to get nowhere in the Lincoln Arcade unless I put some of my remaining capital in Fatimas.

"Sorry," I said. "Don't carry cigarettes these days. Sore throat."

"Egoist," said Miss Atwell.

"Here you are, Rye," said Barton handing her a package.

"You lousy bastard," said Benton taking one. "I asked for a cigarette in the elevator."

"You didn't ask me," said Barton with his funny laugh.

Barton's studio was bigger than Crampton's and more cheerful. A couple of Indian draperies with little bits of mirror sewn into them relieved the walls and reduced the spotty effect of drawings thumbtacked about. Perhaps the languorous presence of darkeyed Miss Atwell had some thing to do with the happier general effect.

"You're a painter?" I asked her.

"No, I pose and write verse," she said.

"Glaring example of a vicious mind in a chaste body," said Benton.

"You're a liar, Benton," said frank Miss Atwell. "My mind is as chaste as my body."

"Got anything to eat, Barton?" said Benton.

"Is there anything, Rye?" said Barton.

"Beans and bacon," said Miss Atwell. "But they're cold."

"Where?" said Benton.

"Where do you think?" she said. "On the stove. You're always hungry, Benton."

"Genius needs nourishment," he said, discovering and sampling the beans.... "Cold as hell. Come on Rye, get your derrière out of there and heat them up."

Miss Atwell arose and walked over to the electric stove. I noticed she did not wear corsets and her body had feline grace. She was quite beautiful in a very special, voluptuous way. She did not use makeup and her skin had a rather oily appearance that was not disagreeable. This, combined with straight black hair parted in the middle, gave her the appearance of a Hindu. Her waist was high and her legs long. I had noticed her knees were small when she was on the couch. Benton saw me looking after her.

"Nothing doing," he said. "I've been working on it for a month. Nothing doing."

There were beans enough for everyone and a few slices of bacon, too. Miss Atwell started the coffee percolating and found some bread. There was no milk or butter. When we had finished I noticed a photograph of a pretty woman on the wall behind the stove. Barton laughed and said:

"My ex-wife."

"And this?" I said, pointing to a photograph next to it of a young girl with large expressive eyes and full lips.

"My daughter, Natalie," said Barton.

"Your daughter?" I said.

"One of them," said Benton wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Rye's the only one he hasn't fructified around here." He extracted the cigarette package from Barton's pocket, and lit one.

"Want to pose for a while, Rye?" he said.

Miss Atwell shrugged.

"That'll make two-fifty I owe you," he added encouragingly. "Make a note of it."

"Lot of good that will do," she said, "Anyway I'm bored here, so I might as well. See you later, Ralph."

"Want to see what I'm working on, Barton?" said Benton.

"Certainly not," Barton said.

"Come over for a minute," said Benton to me. "Like you to see this figure organization I'm working on."

"Hey, come back with my cigarettes," said Barton to Benton

Benton's studio was on the floor below. On the door next to it there was a Chinese herb doctor's sign and, across the hall, Madame Zaida, clairvoyante, received by appointment from 9 a.m. to noon, and from 12:30 p.m. to 6 p.m. Benton's studio was long and very narrow. It looked more like an entrance hall, and appeared to be part of something else that had been cut in two, as only one half of a window opened onto Broadway. It was very bare. Cigarette butts strewed the floor and the sole furnishings were a divan, an easel and a table with a palette and brushes stacked in a jug with a broken handle. At one end of the room was a large flyblown mirror. Half a dozen or more canvases were tacked against the walls, three of them self-portraits handled in a vigorous way. The rest were nude studies in which blues, greens, reds and oranges predominated.

"Synchronism," said Benton,

In spite of the unfamiliar color combinations, I noticed an unusual feeling of form and volume in these canvases. The draughtmanship was sure.

"You paint a lot of portraits of yourself," I said.

"Keeps me out of debt," said Benton.

Miss Atwell gave him a hard look.

On the easel was a canvas tacked onto what seemed to be the only stretcher he possessed, for rolled-up canvasos leaned against the walls and lay about on the floor. This one had been blocked in in charcoal with a composition of upward-swirling nudes.

"What do you think of it?" said Benton.

"Yes," I said. "But the composition is top-heavy."

"Expressly so," said Benton. "I've dropped the pyramid composition. Too static. This is the inverted pyramid, El Grecco used it successfully. The inverted pyramid has movement. Michael Angelotyping error in original. and Reubens were conscious of this. El Grecco too."

"Tell me," I said, "why do you paint those parts of the body furtherest from the eye in blues and greens and the nearer planes in reds and oranges?"

"Blue and green give depth, The blue line around the figure picks it out from the background. Grecco used it."

"But the reds and oranges?" I said.

"Red and orange jump out and hit you slap in the eye. Cezanne's theory. A perfectly logical one. He died before he perfected it. I intend to carry it further."

"Benton, are you going to work or shoot off your face?" said Miss Atwell.

"Well, I'll get to work now," said Benton to me. "Come around any time."

Miss Atwell was staring at the composition. "Which figure you want me to pose for?" she said. Benton pointed it out. She took one look at it.

"Well, if you think I'm going to stand on my head for an hour—" she began.

"It's quite simple," said Benton. "You only have to lay down on the divan and stick your legs up against the wall."

"Listen," said Miss Atwell, "what's wrong with turning your canvas upside down?"