The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [43]
“As do you, Susan,” said Miss Benedict. She gestured toward me. “This is Dr. Carroll.” I extended my hand as Miss Benedict added, “Ephraim Carroll, I’d like to introduce Susan Macdowell Eakins, Thomas’ wife and one of the finest painters in the United States.”
Susan Eakins ushered us into the foyer. The hall was long, narrow, and dark, and the entranceway minimally appointed. A parlor was to the left, with walls painted brown and wide-board floor planking rather than tiles, décor more common to farmhouses in Ohio than four-story homes in Philadelphia. The scent of gas mixed with a mustiness that I associated with aging.
On the walls hung five large paintings. Each was in the carefully detailed style of the rowers I’d seen at Miss Benedict’s, but only the first four seemed certain to have been rendered by the same hand: a western scene—cowboys, obviously painted during the trip to the Dakotas; two portraits; and finally, over the mantel, a provocative rendering of a group of nude men standing on a large rock ledge that extended over a pond. His dismissal from the Academy of the Fine Arts apparently had not cured Eakins’ need to shock.
The last painting, on the far wall, was of two seated women. Its background was darker, yet the faces and hands of both women seemed to have been illuminated by an unseen light from the left. It was similar to others, but at the same time different.
“That is Susan’s,” remarked Miss Benedict, as I walked forward to examine it. “It’s called ‘Two Sisters.’ Brilliant, is it not?”
Although I agreed heartily that it was certainly an arresting portrait, it did not, I thought, have the power of Abigail Benedict’s rendering of Rebecca Lachtmann.
Susan Eakins led us to the stairs, informing us that Eakins was in the studio. As we ascended, Mrs. Eakins told me that her husband had been raised in this house and, upon his return from studies in Europe, had actually engaged with his father in a written contract to lease the studio and receive room and board for twenty dollars per month. His mother had died some years earlier, but Benjamin Eakins still lived here, although the old man spent most his time in his rooms on the second floor.
The studio occupied the entire top floor. Huge windows set on a slant under high ceilings faced north and let in a profusion of light. The lower panels were attached to long pushrods so that they might be opened for ventilation. Although a breeze wafted through the studio, a smell of paint, mildly acrid but agreeable, permeated the large room. Unlike the downstairs hall where paintings were hung for individual effect, here virtually every inch of wall space was covered with paintings, works in progress, and a surprising number of photographs, the vast majority of which were of unclothed men and women. The artist’s obsession with the human form had certainly not been understated.
In the center of the room, coming forward to greet us, was Thomas Eakins himself. He was about my height, slim, with chestnut eyes, hair flecked with gray on top, close-cropped without a part, showing more gray at the temples. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. A thin wisp of beard framed his face and an untrimmed mustache adorned his upper lip. Eakins’ features were, in fact, not dissimilar to those of his wife; they might be siblings as easily as spouses. Even upon first glance, there was a kinetic quality about the man that made him seem to be vibrating even when he was standing still.
After Miss Benedict made the introductions, he extended his hand, which was stained with a variety of colors of paint. “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Carroll,” he said, his voice incongruously high-pitched. He glanced down at his fingers. “Don’t mind the paint. It’s dry.”
I told him how flattered I was to be asked to his studio and that I had admired “The Portrait of Professor Gross” on my visits to Jefferson Medical College.
“Thank you,” said the painter. “You are more discerning in that regard than the general public.”
“I am sure that the picture will eventually be recognized for its greatness,” I replied.