A Mad, Wicked Folly by Sharon Biggs Waller Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharon Biggs Waller
smiling back at me. “Wherever
else?”
“Good day, Mr. Earnshaw.”
“Miss Darling, just before you go,” he said. “Present the
best work you have. I’m not on the selection committee,
but as I said, they are very critical where women are concerned. You must put your best foot forward.”
“I shall,” I said, and then bade him good day and left.
Outside, I took a deep breath and blew it out in relief.
My knees were shaking, so I found a bench in a tiny garden
nearby, and sank onto it to rest for a moment and read the
leaflet:
Portfolio Requirements
for the Royal College of Art
All work submitted must have been
produced within three years and dated.
Only genuine sketchbooks and notebooks
will be considered; loose sketches will be
disregarded.
False statements made will result in
disqualification.
If invited to the interview and
examination, you will be requested to
bring further work with you.
I stuffed the leaflet and my sketchbook into my satchel.
With all that was required, what if my studio drawings
weren’t enough? Only one woman was selected for a
scholarship. Put your best foot forward , Mr. Earnshaw had
said. The paintings from the alumni were so good, so wellcrafted and inspired. The way that artist caught the light.
And then the awful voice inside me began to whisper: You
don’t know how to do that . How will your work measure up? And then my mother’s voice chimed in: What makes you
think you have the talent? . . . Preposterous, preposterous,
preposterous .
I couldn’t think this way. Monsieur Tondreau and
Bertram believed in me. I must believe in myself.
I had, what was it? Five weeks or so before the window
closed. I would just have to put my shoulder to the wheel
and produce more work. Starting immediately. I wished I
had subjects like the absinthe woman in France. I needed
something compelling, something fiery and bold, something that would make the panel feel what my subjects felt.
If I could make them feel, then they would sit up and take
notice.
Suddenly I remembered the suffragettes. I stood up and
started walking. If anything fit into the category of compelling, the suffragettes and the crowd that came to gawk
did. I could draw the police constables, the passersby, the
suffragettes themselves. A whole litany of subjects was
there for the taking. Freddy said they picketed Parliament
every day. I wasn’t far from Parliament.
I stepped into the street and waved down a hansom
cab.
six
The Houses of Parliament
I
HEARD THE NOISE
even before reaching Parliament.
Half of London must have been there. When I stepped
out of the cab and drew closer, I saw the crowd was
made up mostly of rough-looking men who didn’t
appear to be interested in women’s suffrage. More men
poured up the pavement from all directions. A few women
hurried past with downcast faces, towing their children
along. Some crossed the street to avoid the spectacle.
I pushed through the crowd to get a better view.
“Go home where you belong!” a sneering man shouted
at me.
I stepped back, unsure.
“Shut your mouth and leave her be!” said a pinch-faced
woman standing in a group of other women. She waved
her hand to me: come along.
Smiling my thanks, I joined the women and found a
place out of the way of the men, next to the railing. I pulled
out my pad and looked through it to find a blank page.
The words of Monsieur Tondreau filled my mind. Draw
what you see, ma chère , not what you know. I made some
quick sweeps with my pencil, warming up, getting the
measure of the crowd. I began to lose myself in the work,
and my mind settled.
“Are you drawing that for the newspaper, for Votes for
Women ?” A teenage girl wearing a straw boater peered
over my shoulder.
“It’s just a sketch.” I turned my pad away from her. I
didn’t like people to look at my sketches while I was working. Especially strangers.
“I wish I could draw,” the girl said, and then she brightened. “I’m in the poster parades though. We wear
else?”
“Good day, Mr. Earnshaw.”
“Miss Darling, just before you go,” he said. “Present the
best work you have. I’m not on the selection committee,
but as I said, they are very critical where women are concerned. You must put your best foot forward.”
“I shall,” I said, and then bade him good day and left.
Outside, I took a deep breath and blew it out in relief.
My knees were shaking, so I found a bench in a tiny garden
nearby, and sank onto it to rest for a moment and read the
leaflet:
Portfolio Requirements
for the Royal College of Art
All work submitted must have been
produced within three years and dated.
Only genuine sketchbooks and notebooks
will be considered; loose sketches will be
disregarded.
False statements made will result in
disqualification.
If invited to the interview and
examination, you will be requested to
bring further work with you.
I stuffed the leaflet and my sketchbook into my satchel.
With all that was required, what if my studio drawings
weren’t enough? Only one woman was selected for a
scholarship. Put your best foot forward , Mr. Earnshaw had
said. The paintings from the alumni were so good, so wellcrafted and inspired. The way that artist caught the light.
And then the awful voice inside me began to whisper: You
don’t know how to do that . How will your work measure up? And then my mother’s voice chimed in: What makes you
think you have the talent? . . . Preposterous, preposterous,
preposterous .
I couldn’t think this way. Monsieur Tondreau and
Bertram believed in me. I must believe in myself.
I had, what was it? Five weeks or so before the window
closed. I would just have to put my shoulder to the wheel
and produce more work. Starting immediately. I wished I
had subjects like the absinthe woman in France. I needed
something compelling, something fiery and bold, something that would make the panel feel what my subjects felt.
If I could make them feel, then they would sit up and take
notice.
Suddenly I remembered the suffragettes. I stood up and
started walking. If anything fit into the category of compelling, the suffragettes and the crowd that came to gawk
did. I could draw the police constables, the passersby, the
suffragettes themselves. A whole litany of subjects was
there for the taking. Freddy said they picketed Parliament
every day. I wasn’t far from Parliament.
I stepped into the street and waved down a hansom
cab.
six
The Houses of Parliament
I
HEARD THE NOISE
even before reaching Parliament.
Half of London must have been there. When I stepped
out of the cab and drew closer, I saw the crowd was
made up mostly of rough-looking men who didn’t
appear to be interested in women’s suffrage. More men
poured up the pavement from all directions. A few women
hurried past with downcast faces, towing their children
along. Some crossed the street to avoid the spectacle.
I pushed through the crowd to get a better view.
“Go home where you belong!” a sneering man shouted
at me.
I stepped back, unsure.
“Shut your mouth and leave her be!” said a pinch-faced
woman standing in a group of other women. She waved
her hand to me: come along.
Smiling my thanks, I joined the women and found a
place out of the way of the men, next to the railing. I pulled
out my pad and looked through it to find a blank page.
The words of Monsieur Tondreau filled my mind. Draw
what you see, ma chère , not what you know. I made some
quick sweeps with my pencil, warming up, getting the
measure of the crowd. I began to lose myself in the work,
and my mind settled.
“Are you drawing that for the newspaper, for Votes for
Women ?” A teenage girl wearing a straw boater peered
over my shoulder.
“It’s just a sketch.” I turned my pad away from her. I
didn’t like people to look at my sketches while I was working. Especially strangers.
“I wish I could draw,” the girl said, and then she brightened. “I’m in the poster parades though. We wear