I was fairly sure I wouldn’t be able to decide either. But that wasn’t important. All that mattered to me on that cold March day was that the Armory Show was the most fashionable place to be in New York City and that I, Jane Prescott, would be there.
In service to absolutely no one but myself.
* * *
The 69th Regiment Armory was only a few blocks from the Tyler home in the East Twenties. Designed along elegant, modern lines with curved arches and a French mansard roof of limestone, the Armory welcomed visitors with a banner hung above the entrance: INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION OF MODERN ART. Limousines were already lining up outside, creating traffic jams as they disgorged their stylish passengers. As I joined the line to get in, I heard a man ask, “How does a minister’s niece come to be at this tawdry spectacle?”
I turned and saw Michael Behan. I had not seen him for several months, and an art exhibit was not where I expected to find him. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I am paid to be here,” said the reporter. “Which is the only way you’d get me near the place. Are you going in?”
“I am.”
“Well, let the Herald pay your fare. Come on, I’ll give you the guided tour.”
As we sailed inside and past the guards, who seemed to know him well, I said, “Don’t tell me you’re now an art critic.”
He shook his head. “There are only so many ways to say bunk, garbage, con, and hooey, Miss Prescott. These fellows make P. T. Barnum look like an honest man. No, I’m here to cover the local color angle. Reactions of the average man and woman, with a bit of gossip about the famous who wander through.”
He handed our coats off at the coat check, then turned to me. “Now then, average woman. What would you like to see first?”
I gazed at the bustling, well-dressed crowd. I had dreamed of this for weeks, and now I was actually here. Thrilled to feel both free and in exactly the right place, I said, “I want to see every last bit of it, Mr. Behan.”
“Shall we start at the Chamber of Horrors?” This was the nickname for Gallery I, where the Cubists were displayed.
“Let’s.”
I had last seen Michael Behan at the time of William and Louise’s wedding. It had been an uncertain time for me. I had not been sure of my place with the Benchleys, and just before the wedding, a young woman I knew had been murdered. The sudden end of her life had made me look at my own in a different light.
In such a mood, seeing Michael Behan, who was both good-looking and married, had been complicated. I realized now, I had let myself get caught up in all sorts of stupid ideas, taking letters he had written to me for something beyond what they were. Thankfully, I hadn’t made a fool of myself, and I could now be in his company without a trace of confusion. Yes, I was pleased to be seen in smart new clothes. But if women couldn’t take pleasure in having their attractions noted, a lady’s maid’s career would not thrive.
Gallery I was by far the most crowded. Craning to see over shoulders, I asked, “Where is Nude Descending a Staircase?” The painting by a Frenchman named Marcel Duchamp was said to be the most shocking of the entire show, and I was in a mood to be shocked.
“Right over here,” said Behan. “And I’ll give you a dollar if you can see anything remotely resembling a human being.”
The painting was mobbed, and it was a while before I could get even a glimpse of it. I confess, my first thought was Mud.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” said Behan. “Puts me in mind of a dropped book.”
I peered at the canvas, determined to see that nude. There was a briefest flash of comprehension—Oh, it’s like that, isn’t that astonishing?—before a beefy man elbowed me to one side and I was back to seeing muddy trees.
The reorientation of my eyes held enough that when we moved on to a sculpted head that looked made up of triangles and rectangles, I said truthfully, “That’s beautiful.” But I felt my face go red when we approached a black-and-white image of a nude woman. The strokes were rough and unlovely. She was well fleshed, her belly sloping, legs open. Avoiding Mr. Behan’s eye, I went on to Woman with Mustard Pot.
Here, you could see the person clearly: a woman sitting, rather bored, her head leaning on her hand. Her face was all angles, slashing cuts of black, orange, gray, and yellow. I wasn’t sure I liked it; it felt almost cruel to take a face apart like this. But it was also mesmerizing. Nearby a matronly woman declared that if her child ever made art like this, she would smack it.
We wandered through to another room, where Mr. Behan admired a painting of boxers—all muscle and epic struggle—and we both smiled in recognition of a painting of three young women drying their hair on the roof of a city building.
Then I heard a high, excited voice call my name. I turned to see Louise’s young sister-in-law Emily Tyler weaving her way through the crowd, catching the eye of several gentlemen. This was not surprising; she was tall and lively, with the reddish-brown hair of the Tylers and mischievous brown eyes all her own. What was surprising was her presence in the city. She was supposed to be at Vassar College.
As she reached us, she said, “Is Louise here, or are you on your own?”
“On my own,” I informed her. “It’s my holiday.”
“Me as well,” said Emily happily. “Not officially, but yesterday, I just decided that if I had to read or write one more word, my head would burst. So—here I am.”
Notebook at the ready, Behan inquired, “And what do you make of the exhibition, Miss Tyler?”
“Well, there are an awful lot of naked people,” she said, dimpling.
“Miss Prescott?”
“I like it,” I announced. “It’s a new way to see things.”
Behan took this down; I knew how he’d write it. My views would be given due respect. But Emily would have the last word.
“Do you cover the arts, Mr. Behan?” Emily asked.
“Just the life of the city, Miss Tyler. Art, crime, the human drama…”
“Oh, well, you should talk to Jane. Her uncle runs a home for prostitutes on the East Side. That’s just full of human drama.”
Her voice had risen on the word “prostitutes,” and Michael Behan’s brow quirked. He might write about tawdry subjects, but he was conservative in some things, and young women shouting about prostitutes was apparently one of them. Making his excuses, he left me to manage a wayward college girl avid for experience.
I asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Miss Tyler?”
“She does not,” said Emily, gazing at the black-and-white nude. “And don’t you tell her. Not a word to William or Louise either.”
I was about to say she had one week to enjoy my discretion when we heard “Emily Tyler!” and turned to see Mrs. Dolly Rutherford. She embraced Emily in the manner of an old family friend, even though they’d only met once or twice before.
“Have they released you from that purgatory in Poughkeepsie?”
Like most socially ambitious women, Mrs. Rutherford had an excellent memory. Small and blond, she gave the impression of a woman who cannot imagine being unable to charm anyone into anything. She had a beautiful rose complexion and a ready smile. But the ringed fingers that set themselves on Emily’s arms were white at the knuckles, even as she kept a sharp lookout for anyone more important.