The Collector's Apprentice Read online

  Within a week, Vivienne finds work at a tiny millinery shop, helping women who save their centimes for months, maybe years, to buy a hat. Except for the staff at the estate, Vivienne never knew women like this, and she’s staggered by the life of privilege she grew up within, by what she had presumed was normal. She likes the customers, their quiet pride and shy pleasure when she places a hat on their heads.

  Shoppers are scarce in this humble district, and the milliner can afford to have her only two days a week, which isn’t enough to pay for her room and one meal a day. But it’s dangerous to search for a job with a wealthier clientele in a fancier area; even with her name change, weight loss, and new hairstyle, she might be recognized. So Vivienne stays within these streets where she knows no one—and where no one she knows would ever be.

  She discovers a café just off rue du Cardinal Lemoine that’s in need of a waitress a few nights a week, and then she meets a painter who asks her to model for him, something she did at the Slade School as a favor for her friends rather than for money. He finds a few other artists who hire her also. Between the three jobs, she manages.

  She’s surprised to find she doesn’t mind working. In truth, she enjoys it, especially the modeling, because she’s back in the world of art and artists. She’s perversely amused that the modeling would horrify her parents. Her mother would be even more horrified to learn that her daughter has made friends with some of the girls at the rooming house.

  Adélaïde, who has been on her own since she was twelve and can turn a tattered piece of fabric into a dress that looks as if it came from an elegant store. Exquisite little Rachelle, who ran away from a Catholic orphanage and lives with a terror Paulien can now appreciate: that she’ll be recognized, beaten, and sent back for more punishment. And Odette, who is fearless and takes Vivienne to dance halls on Saturday nights. They all recognize she’s different but ask no questions, and for this Vivienne is grateful.

  When one of her artists mentions that an American art collector, a Dr. Edwin Bradley, has lost his translator and needs someone to help him navigate the French art world, Vivienne asks for the details. She speaks fluent English, Flemish, and French. Also German and Spanish, although not nearly as fluently.

  But can she? Should she? A job like that will put her in the middle of Parisian society. Her stomach cramps at the thought of it, but she hasn’t been able to save any money, and this will surely pay more than she’s making. Two months have passed since she arrived, and the fact that she no longer looks or even feels like Paulien Mertens has to count for something.

  An interview is set up for the following day. She’s to meet Dr. Bradley in the lobby of his hotel at noon. On her way, Vivienne fixes her eyes on the ground, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face. She stays close to the buildings, steals around corners, amazed to realize that she’s now more comfortable in the rooming house she shares with a dozen shop girls and three coops of chickens than in the rarified venues she’s always patronized. She thinks about running back there but continues forward. She needs this job, and although she has no experience with job interviews, her mother has schooled her well in the art of charming a man.

  The hotel turns out to be small and elegant, hushed and tasteful, the kind of place one would expect a wealthy European tourist to choose. Exactly the sort of person Vivienne doesn’t want to encounter.

  Fortunately, Dr. Bradley is waiting at the entrance when she arrives. “Miss Gregsby?” he asks in English as soon as she walks through the door.

  “Yes,” she responds, also in English. It still feels odd to acknowledge that she isn’t who she’s always been. She doesn’t remove her hat until he leads her to a quiet spot toward the back of the lobby and she’s had a chance to scan the room for familiar faces. Faces she fears. Faces she longs for.

  Vivienne guesses Dr. Bradley is in his late fifties or early sixties and probably was a handsome man in his day. Some might say he still is: tall and powerfully built, with a patrician nose and a full head of hair, if liberally sprinkled with gray.

  “Please sit,” he says, and for the first time he looks directly at her. The force of his icy-blue eyes, deep with intelligence, is so intense that for a moment it seems as if he’s looking directly into her mind, seeing all. Given her circumstances, this is more than a little disquieting.

  She takes a cigarette from her pocketbook, and he lights it for her before lighting one of his own. She asks how he’s enjoying Paris.

  “I like it very much, but I don’t think it likes me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m American and feel no need to hide it. If I decide I want something, I buy it.”

  This is an apt description of what the French most despise about Americans, and she says, “You’re a man who reads his audience well.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Gregsby.” They’re sitting kitty-corner in a pair of armchairs, and he rests his right foot on his left knee. “The very best art in the world is being created here—brilliant and bold and free spirited—and I’ll put up with just about anything to get my hands on as much as I can.”

  She flashes him a broad smile. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you come to be a collector?”

  “I once tried to be a painter,” Dr. Bradley says, “but I wasn’t a very good one. So now I collect. The next best thing.”

  “It is,” she agrees. “Have you been doing it long?”

  “About ten years. My good friend Bill Glackens—are you familiar with his work?”

  Vivienne admits she isn’t.

  “You probably wouldn’t be. He’s from the United States. Extremely talented. A post-Impressionist, I’d say, but an American one. I own a number of his pieces. Bill took me all around Europe and showed me how to look at art, how to distinguish between what’s good and what isn’t, how to find what’s extraordinary. And I was hooked.”

  “It must be wonderful.”

  “Do you know anything about art?”

  “I studied painting at the Académie Royale des Beaux-Arts and the Slade School of Fine Art in London. Then I worked for almost a year at the Whitechapel Gallery outside the city. It’s my dream to be a collector someday.”

  As soon as she tells him this, she realizes she shouldn’t have. This is a job interview, and he’s well within his rights to check on anything she says. If he does, he’ll discover that Vivienne Gregsby never attended either school or worked at Whitechapel. He would have no reason to ask about Paulien Mertens, who had.

  “Which artists do you most admire?” he asks.

  Vivienne hesitates, knowing her answer could determine whether she does, or doesn’t, get the job. Brilliant and bold and free spirited. She’s heard that people in the States are even more critical of the new painters than Europeans are, but she takes a chance. “Matisse and Cézanne are two of my favorites, Matisse in particular—he’s the one who taught me that I could never be happy unless I’m surrounded by great art.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Oh, there are many. But I believe Picasso and Braque are the future. That their work will propel the next wave of innovation.”

  “What is it about this type of painting that attracts you?”

  “The new uses of color. Color as a power in and of itself, not just something you put on top of a drawing. Color as an encounter.”

  “An encounter?”

  “Colors are more than just visual to me.” She leans toward him. “They’re experiences, emotions, tastes, smells. Blue calls to me, calms me, brings me to the beach, and tastes like salt water. Red is pizzazz, happy and sexy and full of life, a swirl of exotic dancers. And yellow, the morning, hope, the sweet smell of a newborn baby . . .” She trails off, looks down at her lap, embarrassed.

  When she dares to raise her eyes, she sees that Dr. Bradley’s demeanor has changed, that the harsh set of his mouth has softened, as have his eyes. “Is your French as fluent as your English?”

  “Je parle très bien,” she says, and th
e job is hers.

  “Now that that’s settled, let me tell you about my plans,” Dr. Bradley says. “I own works by traditional masters such as El Greco, Rembrandt, and Michelangelo. As well as many pieces of African and Chinese art. But my collection—as my passion—is primarily post-Impressionist.”

  Vivienne sits up in her chair. This man appreciates the same artists she does. He’s collecting their work, as she hopes someday to do. And he has just hired her to assist him in these efforts. For the first time in what feels like forever, she experiences a whisper of hope.

  Dr. Bradley goes on to explain that his collection has grown so large that he’s in the process of constructing a building where it can be properly seen. He lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, which is somewhere south of New York City. Her knowledge of American geography is fuzzy at best.

  “There’s a lot of resistance to the post-Impressionists and more modern artists in Philadelphia,” Dr. Bradley says. “I want people to have access to them, to my collection. To be able to learn more about the style, the artists—where they came from and where they’re going—and come to value them as much as I do.”

  “There’s a lot of resistance here also, although it’s been ebbing since the 1918 Painters of Paris and Nice show. At least no one’s saying the post-Impressionists are part of a plot to destroy European painting anymore. But everywhere people are afraid of new ideas, and we need men of vision like you to open their eyes.”

  He tilts his head as if this kind of compliment is simply his due. “I have to agree with you there, Miss Gregsby.”

  “Please tell me more about your ideas.”

  “A museum. Open to the public, but one without guided tours by so-called experts, and absolutely no little white cards with the name of the piece and the artist to distract the viewer. I detest those stodgy old places. I want warm, comfortable rooms where people will be encouraged to look, really look, and come to their own conclusions about what’s in front of them.”

  “That sounds grand,” she says, thrilled that he, too, views his collection as something to be shared.

  Again, Dr. Bradley accepts her compliment as a given. “The new building is substantial,” he continues. “It needs more art to adequately fill the spaces. And that’s why I’m in Paris. For the next three weeks I plan to buy, buy, and then to buy more.” He mentions a number of places he’s already been to, including Gertrude Stein’s, and a number he expects to visit before he leaves the city. “Then I go on to Italy to do more of the same.”

  Vivienne tries to hide her disappointment. Even if the pay is more than she’s making, three weeks won’t add much to her paltry savings. And she’ll have to give up the jobs at the millinery shop and the café, both of which will surely hire replacements. But maybe he’ll stay longer than he expects. Or, if she does a good job, perhaps he’ll take her to Italy to translate for him. Italian isn’t all that different from Spanish. She could manage.

  He explains that she’ll be accompanying him on his purchasing rounds, starting at seven in the morning and possibly going well into the evening, seven days a week. Translating is her primary charge, but she’s also to act as his secretary, helping him set up meetings and taking detailed notes on the transactions. “Can you handle all of this?” he asks.

  “Of course,” Vivienne says with less enthusiasm than she intends. It will be a very public three weeks. She’ll be out and about in the city, easily seen by anyone passing by. The job carries significant risk.

  But the places Dr. Bradley plans to visit aren’t ones her family’s conservative set is likely to frequent. Avant-garde galleries. Modern artists’ studios. Gertrude Stein’s salon. It’s impossible to imagine any of the Mertenses’ circle mingling with bohemian Parisian writers, painters, and collectors. Her father is the only one who might, but she’s sure he’s neither traveling nor purchasing art at the moment.

  “I don’t have time to waste.” Dr. Bradley narrows his eyes. “If you aren’t able to do this, I need to know now so I can move on.”

  “No, no,” she assures him. “This sounds like a perfect job for me.” She has no secretarial skills, isn’t sure what that entails, but she can take notes and make appointments.

  He gives her another of his penetrating stares, and she meets it. She must have convinced him of her sincerity, because he quotes an hourly rate three times what she makes as a waitress and salesgirl, four times what she makes as a model.

  3

  Vivienne, 1922

  Combing a city for art is in her blood, and doing it in Paris with Dr. Bradley is a dizzying experience reminiscent of her days with her father, but almost better because of the expansiveness of Dr. Bradley’s search and the limitless amount of money he seems to have to spend. Her pleasure is dampened only by the need to be on the alert for familiar faces.

  They often visit six or seven venues—museums, private collections, galleries, antique shops, artists’ studios—in a single day. And then after a late dinner, they go to the gallery owned by Dr. Bradley’s Parisian dealer, Paul Guillaume, where Dr. Bradley holds court as painters and sculptors are called in to discuss their work with him. He says this is very different from the way he’s treated in Philadelphia, where the art he’s buying is at best ignored and at worst ridiculed.

  One day she accompanies him to the mansion of the famous collector Christian Tetzen-Lund. For reasons she can’t fathom, the wealthy merchant wants to sell Matisse’s Le Bonheur de vivre, a masterwork her father believes changed the course of painting. It’s enormous, formidable, revolutionary, and she immediately understands what Papa meant. She’s swallowed up by it: the reds, the greens, colors inverted, planes flattened, forms slightly abstracted, high spirits everywhere. It may only be paint on canvas, but it’s alive, and she wants to live inside Matisse’s enchanting creation.

  “I don’t understand how anyone could not be moved by this,” Vivienne says to Dr. Bradley. “How anyone could even think of ridiculing it.”

  He doesn’t take his eyes from the picture. “They claim that Matisse is a fool. That everyone knows the sky isn’t purple and trees aren’t pink.”

  “Then they’re the fools. Denying themselves the pleasure of feeling a great piece of art and instead just looking at the surface of it.”

  He nods at her in appreciation and starts bargaining with the broker on the price. Soon The Joy of Life is his.

  The next day he buys a painting of a Tahitian woman crafted in brilliant triangles of blue and salmon by Paul Gauguin. The following day it’s Van Gogh’s The Smoker, a depiction of a man so close to the picture plane that he’s almost in the room with you, created with paint squeezed directly from the tube, thick ridges of pink, olive, and yellow, juxtaposed with unpainted canvas. Vivienne is in awe.

  Although she’s been dropping a prodigious number of hints, Dr. Bradley hasn’t asked her to accompany him to Italy yet. While she takes great pleasure in viewing art and speaking with artists, the vigilance necessary in Paris is wearing her down. She has to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. She does everything she can to impress him: working hard, taking detailed notes, making careful suggestions, using all her languages. Although this last skill is probably unnecessary when it comes to French, as Dr. Bradley apparently knows far more of the language than he lets on.

  He waits for her to translate what he says and then waits for her to translate the response, but he always keeps his eye on the speaker instead of on her. Although he attempts to control his facial expressions, she can see that often he doesn’t need her translation. He also listens intently to conversations between French speakers, who are more forthcoming than they might be if they believed he understood what they were saying, giving him an edge in negotiations. He’s willing to pay a fair price, but never more than he needs to. The man is shrewd.

  By midafternoon of her last day, Vivienne, Dr. Bradley, and Guillaume have been to three museums, an antique shop, and a show at the Galerie Au sacre du printemps. Guillaume, at least twenty yea
rs Dr. Bradley’s junior, is starting to flag, as is she. But Dr. Bradley, who’s already purchased two Modiglianis and a Soutine, is still raring to go. He declares that he must see the work of the Lithuanian sculptor Jacques Lipchitz before leaving for Rome. So it has to be that very day. There’s no arguing with him. When Dr. Bradley gets it into his head that something must happen, it does.

  “Lipchitz is a most disagreeable man,” Guillaume grouses. The dealer is startlingly attractive, with a mustache, high cheekbones, and a generous smile. He also speaks English well, so there’s no need for Vivienne to translate.

  “If I bought only the work of artists I personally liked,” Dr. Bradley tells him, “I’d have a very small collection.”

  “He may refuse to see us,” Guillaume says. “He is angry with me at the moment.”

  “Does he need money?” This type of inquiry contributes to Dr. Bradley’s reputation as a man without breeding or culture, but Vivienne doesn’t agree. What many consider his uncouth American directness about money—particularly the willingness to talk about it in polite company—she finds refreshing.

  “Lipchitz’s name has been bandied about recently,” Guillaume says, “but his commercial success has been limited. So yes, I suppose he does need money. Much of our current quarrel stems from a sale that fell through.”

  “Then,” Dr. Bradley says, “lead on.”

  And indeed, when Lipchitz opens the door and sees who is standing on his stoop, he crosses his arms and demands, “What do you want, Guillaume?”

  Guillaume nods at Dr. Bradley. “I have a collector who is interested in your work.”

  Lipchitz is a large man with longish brown hair and dark eyes that are almost black. “He can contact my dealer,” he snaps. “I work through him, not you.”

  “This is Dr. Edwin Bradley from the—” Guillaume begins.

  A plump woman with rosy cheeks comes into the doorframe. She holds out her hand. “So nice of you to stop by, Monsieur Guillaume. Please, do come in. All of you, please.” She gives her husband a look that’s easy enough to read: Do not turn away potential buyers.