The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [45]
“Yes, Dr. Carroll,” said Eakins, motioning to a series of photographs of a frontally nude male holding a nude female in his arms, “those are of me. I hope that a man of your learning and sophistication is not repelled by the human form.”
I was too busy staring at the photographs and realizing that they were, in fact, of my host, to remark on my sophistication.
“Photography is the future, Doctor,” he continued, leading me by the elbow, “although with Eastman’s invention I expect a proliferation of amateurish profanities.” George Eastman had introduced the box camera the previous year and photography had instantly become a wildly popular avocation.
“Look at this series. I took them about eight years ago.” He had stopped at a group of seven photographs of a young woman, completely unclothed, standing either facing the camera, with her back to it, or in left profile. In the frontal poses, she wore a black mask that totally obscured her face. The mask created the sense that the woman had been forced to pose, that her clothes had been removed against her will. To my embarrassment, I found the series arousing, forbidden. But Eakins himself seemed oblivious to the sexual content.
“Look at the musculature,” he declared, “how the entire physique changes depending on whether the model stands evenly, favors one leg, has her hands at her sides or on her hips.” He spun me toward him. “Anatomical accuracy—that is what we get from photography!”
He continued to prowl along the walls, past array after array. One was of a group of unclothed men on a rock ledge at a pond. I found this photograph disturbing as well, and wanted to look away but, not wanting to appear a prude, I instead commented how precisely he had recreated the scene in his painting.
“Painting life is life,” Eakins said. “We explore the human condition through truth, not romanticized images. My God, I despise the Pre-Raphaelites!”
I did not know what a Pre-Raphaelite was but did not say so. I was aware, however, that while both Miss Benedict and Eakins saw painting as a quest for truth, each saw its realization in opposing artistic styles. Finally, we came to one group of photographs, those of a nude woman from the back and in profile, and I involuntarily stopped.
“Quite correct, Doctor,” said Eakins, “it is Susan.”
It was indeed—eight photographs of the bared breasts, buttocks, and pubis of my hostess. Her figure was quite magnificent and it was all I could do to hold myself from spinning around and comparing the photographs to Susan Eakins herself. Would nudes of Abigail Benedict be here as well?
Eakins took my stupefaction for awe. “Yes, these are wonderful, are they not?” he said.
“That’s enough, Thomas,” interposed Susan Eakins, unexpectedly at my side with Miss Benedict. “Allow Dr. Carroll to breathe for a moment.” Standing next to a stranger who was looking at nude photographs of her did not seem to bother her in the least. “Have you eaten?” she inquired of me.
Rather than repair downstairs, she offered refreshments at a small table in the studio. We partook of sandwiches, fruit, and lemonade amidst the smell of oil paints, as Susan Eakins recounted how she had first met her husband. She had, it seemed, come to the 1876 exposition expressly to see “The Portrait of Professor Gross.” Although the painting was ultimately consigned to an army hospital, she had seen it in a gallery, and decided she would study with whoever had been brilliant enough to create it. She enrolled at the Academy the following week, and eight years later, she and Eakins were married.
“I’m told you found my behavior with female students at the Academy somewhat questionable,” Eakins said abruptly. Miss Benedict had obviously mentioned the remark I had made in the coach. “It’s quite all right, you know. I would feel the same in your place…. What a harebrained thing to do. That Eakins must live in the ether. Well, Doctor, I studied with Jean-Léon