A Mad, Wicked Folly

or my aunt,
Shirley Atchison Steinert.
Thank you for believing in me
and for being my very first editor,
all those years ago.

I
am most anxious to enlist everyone who
can speak or write to join in checking this mad,
wicked folly of “Women’s Rights” with all its
attendant horrors, on which her poor feeble sex
is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly
feelings and propriety.

NEVER SET OUT
to pose nude. I didn’t, honestly. But
when the opportunity arose, I took it. I sat with the
other artists that morning in Monsieur Tondreau’s tiny
atelier in the French village of Trouville waiting for
Bernadette, our usual model, to arrive. Some tinkered with

their charcoals and pencils; others adjusted their easels. A
few of the artists stared at the stage as if the model would
magically appear if they looked hard enough. Monsieur
bustled around in his canvas smock, moving the model’s chair into the light, plumping the bolsters. The studio
smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and charcoal, and there
was no sweeter perfume in the world to me than that.

Étienne, one of the other artists, yawned, leaned back
in his chair, and closed his eyes.
“Hungover, old fellow?” his friend Bertram whispered.
“Is fair Bernadette in the same state?”
Étienne grunted a warning but did not open his eyes.
“Poor Étienne,” I whispered. “He looks unwell, Bertram.
Let him be.”
Bertram reached for his pencil, sharpened it with his
knife, and began to sketch a cartoon of Étienne. “It’s hard
to feel sorry for a chap who has inflicted illness upon himself and caused the malaise of our model, once again.” He
added devil’s horns to the line drawing and then nudged
Étienne’s boot with his own. Étienne cracked open one
bloodshot eye and then closed it. “He lacks the artist’s discipline but possesses all of his foibles.”
“We all have our faults, Bertie.” I knew I shouldn’t side
with Étienne; he was a rapscallion. But I also knew him
to be a talented artist, and this, in my eyes, meant he’d
earned the right to roguish behavior every now and then.
“If he had half your discipline, my dear Vicky, he would
be lucky,” Bertram said.
I smiled and began my own sketch of Étienne, this one
with angel’s wings. Bertram saw what I was doing, grinned,
and shook his head.
I had made Bertram’s and Étienne’s acquaintance last
autumn when I was drawing my best friend, Lily, in the
village square. They plonked themselves down at our table
as though we knew them and watched me as I worked.
I was about to tell them to keep to themselves, when
Bertram blurted out, “You’re very good.” But then he spoilt
it by adding, “For a girl.”
After I found out they were students of a local artist, Marcel Tondreau, and studied with him at his atelier,
I wouldn’t let them leave until they told me about him. I
was self-taught, apart from a few watercolor classes at finishing school, and I had always longed to attend an atelier
like that, but my parents did not approve of such a thing. I
begged Bertram and Étienne to introduce me to the artist.
To my delight, I found that Monsieur was a rare person in
the world of art. He didn’t care if the artist was male or
female; he let the work speak.
All of the other artists at the atelier were male, and
none of them gave me a thought apart from the occasional
curious glance. I did not blame them. Most females drew
things that did not matter.
But the other artists were wrong about me. I didn’t fill
my head with airy nothings or paint watercolors of kittens
and flowers meant only for decoration; I wanted so much
more.
When I was ten years old, I laid eyes for the first time
on a painting called
A Mermaid
, which hung in the Royal
Academy in London. The mermaid’s eyes seemed to call to
me, telling me that creating someone like her was within
my grasp. And like her maker, J. W. Waterhouse, I wanted
to be considered among the best artists in the world. I
wanted critics to laud my work. But most of all, I wanted
to express myself through my art as I fancied, and not be
told what or whom I could draw or paint. For all of these
dreams I needed knowledge and the connection with other
artists who could introduce me to the mysterious society
that made up the art world.
No one at my boarding school, Madame Édith’s
Finishing School for Girls, knew I attended the atelier—
not the headmistress nor any of my fellow students, apart
from Lily, who helped me sneak away. If they knew, it
would be hell’s delight, because Monsieur Tondreau’s atelier was not the kind females should frequent. At Monsieur
Tondreau’s we drew from the undraped figure—the nude.
No woman of good breeding would ever do such a thing,
which was another reason why female artists were not
taken seriously. Sometimes women could draw from nude
statues without fear of scandal. The South Kensington
Museum in London held drawing classes for women, but
the instructors covered the male statues’ bits with tin fig
leaves. Apparently, gazing at a statue’s male anatomy was
equivalent to staring into the sun.
Monsieur Tondreau glanced at his pocket watch and
sighed. “
Alors
. I think that Mademoiselle Bernadette will
not be with us today.” He leveled a look at Étienne, who
was cradling his head in his hands. “So. We say good-bye
for the day, or we have a student pose.” Monsieur’s gaze
flitted over the artists briefly and then lit on Bertram.
“I’m not doing it again.” Bertram raised his voice over
the artists’ calls of encouragement. “Once was enough.”
“Who wants to draw your scrawny carcass again anyway,” came a voice from the back of the room.
“I nominate Étienne,” Bertram went on. “He’s the
cause of all this grief.” He stood up, grinning, and dragged
Étienne to his feet by the shoulder of his jacket. Several
students shouted out in agreement. Étienne took this all in
humor for about ten seconds before slapping his hand over
his mouth, turning a very sickly shade of yellow, and running for the back door that led to the outdoor privy. Sounds
of retching echoed through the room.
“Can you not find a model who resists Étienne’s charms,
Monsieur?” one of the artists asked. “This is the second
time Bernadette has failed to show after a night out with
him.”
“I’m sick to the back teeth of drawing the blokes,”
Bertram added. “Hell’s bells, I can draw my own phallus at
home. We need to draw women, Monsieur.”
“I will try, but it is difficult to find women who are willing. Or one whose father will let her.” He looked over the
group again, but his eyes did not fall on me. “If no one will
volunteer, then I shall bid you all farewell.
À demain
.”
“Why does she not pose?” demanded Pierre, a burly
artist from Paris, who had pointedly ignored me from the
day I walked into the studio. “Everyone here has had a
turn. Why not her?”
I twisted in my seat and scowled at him. “My name is
Vicky!”
Pierre shrugged. “I only learn names of people who
matter,
Vicky
.”
“Don’t be an ass, Pierre,” Bertram said. “She’s just a girl.”
There it was again: I was just a girl.
“
Pardonnez-moi!
” Pierre replied. “I thought she was an
artist. She pretends to be.”
I turned back in my seat and stared at my easel. I felt
the gaze of several of the artists fall upon me. Everyone
in the room
had
posed before. Everyone but me. And that
awful voice inside me started up. That little voice that
always reared its head when I didn’t feel confident about
my work:
No wonder none of the artists give you a thought.
Why should they? You aren’t really one of them.
It was true, wasn’t it? I wasn’t willing to do what the
other students did for art. Who was I to call myself an artist? If I didn’t take my turn then I would always be
just a
girl.
Certainly never an artist in the other students’ eyes.
And then the words burbled out: “I’ll do it! I’ll pose.”
Monsieur Tondreau’s whiskered face registered surprise.
Pierre looked taken aback for a moment, but then I
thought I saw a little flicker of respect in his eyes. “Well,
then, mademoiselle. I was wrong. Maybe you aren’t pretending, after all.” He bowed slightly, sat back down in his
chair, and began to set up his easel.
“I didn’t mean
you
, Vicky,” Bertram said.
I stood. “The other artists here have taken their turn.
Pierre is quite right. I should do my bit.”
“A moment, gents.” Bertram took me by the elbow and
led me off to the corner. He leaned in close. “Vicky, you
know female models have more to lose than male ones. No
one cares if a bloke gets his kit off.”
“If I’m going to be a student here, treated on equal terms,
then I have to be willing to do everything that they do,” I
said. “There can’t be two sets of expectations, one for them
and one for me, the only girl in the class. How will I earn
their esteem if I don’t pose?” I threw a glance over my shoulder at the students watching us. Pierre sat with his arms
folded; the look of respect was now replaced with a sneer.
“Are you going to try to tell me that you care what
Pierre thinks? That great buffoon? The only one who you
should care about is Monsieur Tondreau, and he thinks the
sun shines out your arse. Take my advice: let your fabulous
work speak for you, and forget about what everyone else
says or thinks. Pose if you want to, by all means, but don’t
do it because you feel you have to. A model should never
be forced; you know that, Vicky.”
“I’m not forced.” I jerked my arm out of Bertram’s grasp
and marched to the front of the room. I wouldn’t say that I
wasn’t afraid, because I would be lying. My legs were trembling so much I was surprised my knees didn’t clack together.
Mercifully, Monsieur came forward and helped me up
onto the dais. He threw open the creaky blue shutters to let
in as much light as the gloomy day would allow.
I was going to do this. I was really going to do this!
I
turned my back and let my breath out. I had no idea how to
begin. When Bertram disrobed to model, he made it funny,
pretending to be a fan dancer at the Folies Bergère, taking
each item of clothing off and throwing it to us, eyes rolling
comically while we whooped and shouted.
I decided to do the opposite, to act as if disrobing in
front of a group of men was no great thing. I started to undo
my blouse, but my hands shook and my fingers slipped off
the buttons. I squeezed my hands into fists and tried again.
No one spoke a word as I undressed, but I could hear
the usual bustle of artists readying their easels and drawing boards—the rustling of paper and the scrape of pencils
against knives. I slid my skirt and petticoats off, put them
neatly to one side, turned around and sat down on the
chair. I stared at my bare toes for the longest time, unable
to find the nerve to look up. It was the first occasion in my
life that male eyes had seen my unclothed body. I’d never
cared what men thought of me before, but now, sitting in
front of their steady gaze, I wondered how they regarded
my breasts, my hips, my legs. I found I wanted them to see
me as beautiful. In my own experience I’d looked at the
men’s bodies in that way when they posed. I was human
after all, and the model wasn’t a
thing
, a bowl of apples to
be drawn.
Finally, I forced myself to lift my head. And I saw ten
pairs of eyes looking back at me. I had no idea what they
were thinking, because Monsieur’s students were professional and had learned to focus their minds on their work.
They knew if they gave in to any urges—leering or making bawdy comments—Monsieur would dismiss them and
they’d never be allowed back.
And so the artists regarded me frankly and then bent to
their work. Only one of the newer artists, a boy about my
age, gaped, his eyes out on stalks, jaw dangling. I could see
his throat tighten when he swallowed. I met his gaze and
raised my eyebrows. Startled, he knocked over his easel,
his pencils and papers scattering over the floor, earning
disgusted looks from the more experienced artists. He
fumbled to gather up his things, his ears red.
Bertram remained in the corner with his hands in his
pockets. I tilted my head toward his easel. He hesitated for
a moment, opened his mouth to say something. But then he
shrugged, went back to his workplace, and began to draw.
I felt my shoulders relaxing, my nerves disappearing.
I felt like Queen Boadicea taking on the Romans. I leaned
forward, propped my chin in my hand, and stared out at
the boys.
Now I’m one of you.