The Woman Who Painted The Seasons

By Penny Fields-Schneider

A biographical novel about Lee Krasner, who had an eye for genius and a passion for art.

 

From the age of fourteen, Lee is determined to make her mark as a painter of significance. For this first-generation American, born to a Jewish family who fled Russian pogroms, overcoming obstacles is in her blood. Gutsy and determined, Lee defies the religious and cultural conventions that would keep her from her goal.

By her late twenties, Lee's artistic innovations earn her a commanding position among fellow artists who paint in a style that becomes known as Abstract Expressionism, the uniquely American movement that establishes New York City as the center of the Western art world. Her reputation seems assured when her paintings are hung alongside those of the European modernists taking the world by storm.

Lee's priorities are realigned when she falls for Jackson Pollock. Awed by his talent and captivated by his slow smile, she tirelessly promotes the work of the man she believes is America's greatest living artist, even as she pursues her own career.

Despite turbulence and heartache, with Lee's support, Pollock's star reaches phenomenal heights. But not even love can save him from his self-destructive nature.

Alone and heartbroken, Lee finds solace in her art, rising from the ashes of grief to create her most exciting works yet. But in the chauvinistic 1950s, her status as Pollock's wife stifles appreciation for her achievements, which might be forgotten if not for the efforts of 1960s feminists who are determined to correct the gender inequality in the art world.

 

The Woman Who Painted the Seasons offers readers a deep and emotional insight into the turbulent life of Lee Krasner, a long-overlooked vanguard of America's Abstract Expressionist movement, and the woman to whom Jackson Pollock owes his success.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penny Fields-Schneider
• Release date: May 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781922747082

Penny Fields-Schneider

An avid reader from a very young age, Penny has always aspired to be an author. In recent years, she became seduced by  the world of art, dabbling with paint and brushes, attending art courses and visiting galleries. Penny aspires to create works of historical fiction that leave readers with a deeper understanding of the art world as well as taking them on emotional journeys into the joy and heartbreak that comes with family, friendship and love.  When Penny is not writing, she enjoys helping her husband on their cattle farm in northern NSW, loving every minute she can spend with their children, grandchildren, friends and family.  

Book preview

Chapter One

The mirror over the basin was cracked, but years of experience had taught Lena how to manage its distorted reflections. She’d been heavier with the rouge today and was pleased with the effect. Rose would not miss her heightened color, especially the lipstick she had purchased on her way home from college yesterday. It was a deep red. Not the crimson worn by Miriam, the salesgirl who’d brushed the back of her hand with half a dozen shades in search of something suitable, but certainly deeper than the hue of her own lips, and it gave them the plumpness of a ripe cherry. She pursed her lips in the form of a kiss, followed by an exaggerated scowl.

What the heck. She was seventeen and didn’t have to seek her sister’s permission for anything. Still, when she entered the kitchen, her prediction of Rose’s reaction proved correct.

What on earth is that on your face? Your lips look like they are bleeding!

Lena knew the shrillness of her sister’s voice was designed to attract their mother’s attention. Mama, bless her, didn’t turn from the saucepan of porridge she was stirring, but Rose didn’t give up easily. Mama! You must see this. Lena is painted like a hussy! 

I think she looks nice. Bill, Lena’s brother-in-law, looked up from his morning newspaper and coffee to give her a wink. She grinned back. Lena had never understood how such an easygoing man had elected to marry Rose.

Her brother Irving offered an equally supportive smile. Of all her siblings, he was her favorite. She could always count on his support when her sisters took to nagging. She returned an appreciative smile across the table—a contrast to the impatient frown Rose directed toward the two men. 

Lena is seventeen! A child! She shouldn’t be plastering her face with that junk!

Yesterday you said I was grown up and should look for a husband, so what’s it to be? You need to decide!

No, I said you were wasting your time fussing about with paintings and waltzing around the city when you haven’t even gained the skills to care for a home. You can’t cook, and you can barely clean! How’s this new school—Cooper Union—going to prepare you to manage a house and care for a family?

At that moment, Rose’s two-year-old daughter, Bernice, knocked her enamel cup over, sending it tumbling over the table’s edge with a clatter. A stream of milk cascaded onto the linoleum. 

Me, want a husband and children? I don’t think so... Sorry, lovely, you are gorgeous. It’s not personal! Lena lifted the sobbing child into her arms and hugged her while Rose reached for a cloth to soak up the milk seeping towards her husband’s newspaper. 

Well, how do you suppose you are going to get on in this world? You’ll end up a lonely, impoverished spinster ruing the foolishness of these ideas.

I will not! I’ll be too busy making great art. Works that will have you all gasping with amazement at their… Lena’s voice faded, for she hadn’t settled on the style of art she wished to pursue. Not formal portraits or landscapes. Something different. Modern and exciting. A style she’d never seen before, but would know when she found it.

Marvelous. And then you will take your works home, slice them up into neat squares, drop them into a pot of boiling water and cook them up for your dinner. It will be slim pickings for you!

The door opened, and her fifteen-year-old sister entered the kitchen. What’s that on your lips? Lena guessed Ruth had overheard Rose’s comments and had come to add strength to Rose’s assault. Her sisters always made a practice of uniting against her. She could only be thankful her two older sisters, Edith and Estelle, had long left the family home, otherwise her life would be unbearable.

Rose, Ruth, leave Lena alone. She’ll settle down when she’s ready, and all the more quickly if she doesn’t have to listen to the two of you shouting and the sound of babies bawling. Their mother, Anna, spoke in melodic Yiddish. Despite living in Brooklyn for two decades, neither of Lena’s parents had learned to speak English particularly well. At home, they and her four older siblings, also Russian born, often spoke in the languages of the old country, whether Yiddish or a blend of Ukrainian-Russian. Though Lena could understand what they were saying, she’d never mastered the skills to speak or read either language with any fluency. She felt torn between whether to hug her mother for her unwavering support or protest her suggestion that the desire to be an artist was a stage she’d grow out of. 

Accepting the slice of cold, half-chewed toast three-year-old Muriel offered, along with a toothy smile, Lena decided a hug for her mother would do. After the morning prayers led by Papa in the dining room, and then her lengthy makeup session in the bathroom, she was already late for her train, with no time for an argument on top of that. Besides, excitement for the day ahead had her in far too good a mood to be annoyed for long. 

She swung her bag onto her shoulder and, with a particularly jubilant farewell to her family for her sisters’ benefit, swept through the door. Once on the sidewalk, she pushed her shoulders back and strode toward the railway station.

The main street was lively with pedestrians. It was as though half of Brooklyn traveled to Manhattan each day to work in the rag trade, cutting fabric or working the sewing machines to make clothing which was sold across America.

Lena had caught the train from New Lots Station to Manhattan each morning for three years now. Until a month ago, she’d been a schoolgirl attending Washington Irving High School. Then, she’d worn a uniform and was expected to make her way home immediately after the last bell. If she wasn’t in the front door by 5 p.m., her mother would worry. Worse, then she’d been burdened by homework, assignments and preparation for examinations, which she invariably failed.

You’re just dumb, Lena, face it, Rose had always said whenever she sought help with her schoolwork. And though Lena had tried to ignore the barbs, inside she’d started to doubt her ability, especially when her younger sister had entered high school and effortlessly passed all of her subjects.

Thankfully, Irving had always been there to help with her homework. Best of all, when they’d finished, he’d read aloud to her from the books he enjoyed. Books by Dostoyevsky, Chekov and Gogol, which led to conversations about important issues. Reasons why it was difficult for so many people—particularly immigrant families—to secure well-paid jobs. The unfair work conditions of the factories which constantly led to strike action. The gender inequality at the synagogue.

Lena loved the way her brother spoke to her as though she were an adult and took her questions seriously. Irving, do you think there’s something wrong with me? she’d asked one evening, after he’d explained to her the requirements of a school project which was due the following week.

Don’t be ridiculous, Lena, he’d said. You’re one of the smartest girls I know. You have a wonderful mind. You think about serious matters, when most girls only ever think about getting married and having babies.

Lena was sure he was right. She wasn’t dumb; she just struggled to make sense of written words: Yiddish, Russian or English. But give her an opportunity to argue an issue, she had no difficulty.

Although Lena fought and lost her battle to read proficiently, she had an affinity for drawing. As a young child, she’d spent hours reproducing the Yiddish letters forming headlines in her father’s newspapers whose shapes she found fascinating. Then, when her older sisters developed an interest in fashion magazines, her eyes had been opened to a world of images: illustrations accompanying stories, advertisements for make-up and jewelry and pages of women smartly dressed in flowing dresses and neat skirts and blouses. With painstaking detail, she’d recreated them on sheets of paper. The walls of the bedroom she’d once shared with Rose and Ruth had been lined with her drawings.

Drawing skills hadn’t helped her pass English, mathematics and history at the Girls’ High School in Brooklyn, though, and her secondary schooling would have been dreadful but for transferring to Washington Irving, a school in Manhattan, with an art program which was far more suited to her interests. Even then, despite the art lessons she’d enjoyed, there was no escape from the core subjects of the curriculum. Her struggles had continued until her kindly English teacher recognized Lena’s limited academic skills belied her keen mind. Where other teachers thought she lacked focus or was lazy, Mrs. Turnbull believed something was amiss; it made little sense that a student with such obvious intelligence could not express her thoughts in written form. It was she who’d suggested Lena would be better suited to Cooper Union, an art school also in Manhattan, which prepared girls for employment in magazine and fashion houses.

Two months earlier, thrilled by this unexpected opportunity to escape those subjects which plagued her, she’d agreed to the course of study her parents and teacher mapped out for her. Not once did she admit that although she’d enjoyed sketching the women in her sisters’ magazines, she had no intention of pursuing a career drawing diagrams for the fashion industry. Rather, she intended to be a painter.

Her application to attend Cooper Union had been accepted immediately, and proved to be life-changing. Now, instead of having just three art classes a week, her days were filled with lessons on both art theory and practice. Her mind buzzed with all she was learning and all she wanted to know and she relished the freedom which came with being a senior student. Now she could dress as she pleased, and at the end of the day, wander through the streets of Manhattan to visit shops and galleries before returning home.

Two blocks from the station, she met up with Michla, who was pushing a pram along the uneven pavement. The two had attended primary school together, and then Girls’ High School in Brooklyn, and even though Lena had changed schools, they often bumped into each other. The previous spring, Michla had left school for a hasty wedding, and four months later she had given birth to the child who now squirmed restlessly in the pram she pushed.

Morning, Michla, how are you? My Alexis is growing quickly!

Yes, he barely sleeps, though. He’s been up since four, so I thought I would duck out and get us some fresh bread.

Lena wished she had time to stay and chat. Poor Michla. Pale and thin, she looked desperately in need of all the bread slathered with butter and jam she could find, as well as a friend to talk to. Lena suspected both would be scarce in her home. The girls in the neighborhood had been quick to greet her with gossip about Michla’s fall, and how Georgiy Kovalenko was forced to marry her.

What about Georgiy Kovalenko? Lena had challenged them. Why is he treated as a hero for taking on the responsibilities of fatherhood at a young age? Why is he granted sympathy for having to leave school early to work at the fish market while Michla receives your scorn?

Meeting Michla today made Lena think of her sister. Poor Rose. She’d been five years old when their family had left Ukraine, but still, she never questioned the ways of the old country. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she’d looked to marry young, and at seventeen, had met William Stein. A friendly man with a broad smile, he fitted into the Krassner family well. Very quickly, he became Bill, and soon after that, became Rose’s husband. Now Rose modeled her life upon the devoted wife described in the Talmud, each day rising early to cook meals, wash clothes and care for her little girls, rarely leaving their street except to shop at the market and attend the synagogue. From what Lena could see, the highlight of her sister’s week was escaping from the house to share afternoon tea with the married women of the neighborhood.

None of this would have mattered to Lena, for Rose was free to make her own choices. Except, despite her sweet family and the fact that she was soon to move into the home Bill had found for them to rent only a block away from Jerome Street, Rose always seemed so terribly unhappy. Lena was sure the constant nagging about her clothing, makeup and, more recently, her decision to enroll at Cooper Union stemmed from envy. Did Rose rue the loss of the freedoms she’d forsaken at such a young age in her eagerness to be married?

Chapter Two

L enore, wait!

At the sound of the familiar voices, Lena paused. They were her friends, both named Margaret—one German and referred to as Margie, the other French who went by Margot—and together they stepped into the open door of the carriage before them. Usually she caught an earlier train, but sometimes she had the chance to ride with her old classmates. Two weeks previously, as they’d traveled to Manhattan together, she’d told them how she’d adopted the name Lenore at Cooper Union. She was pleased they’d remembered.

The name change had been a happy accident. When the admissions officer had handed her the blank admissions form three months earlier, she’d called her Lenore and Lena decided she liked it. Not only had the name been used by Edgar Allan Poe, her favorite poet, but it was also modern and sounded far more sophisticated than Lena. Lenore had the ring of a woman going places. When Lena had completed the admission form with Irving’s help, Lena (Lenore) Krasner was the name they’d written on the first line. So far, outside of Cooper Union and her family, only the two Margarets knew of her new name.

Wow, I do like your makeup! Papa would kill me if I so much as dabbed my lips with Vaseline, much less with anything pink or red.

This is America, Margie. The land of freedom and opportunity! Here women can dress how they like and go where they want to, but for as long as we keep kowtowing to the opinions and expectations of others—including our parents and over-judgmental siblings—then we may just as well have stayed in the old country.

A tutting from an elderly man wearing a three-piece suit and tiny pince-nez glasses suggested he’d heard Lena’s outburst and wasn’t impressed. She recognized him as an elder from the synagogue and gave a nod. She hadn’t meant to offend the old man. Really, she loved the warmth of her Jewish heritage with its rich history, celebrations, and prayer rituals. But she was also excited by the opportunities of modern America, where life offered more to women than early marriage and days consumed by housework and child-rearing. She couldn’t abide rules that held people back. Centuries of entrenched attitudes about gender and race and class, which shaped lives and, when challenged, often led to bloody consequences. She and Irving discussed such things all the time, and Lena had adopted his mutinous attitude toward systems which tolerated oppression. People were surely born into the world as naked, squalling entities who each deserved freedom and equality. Male and female. Jew and Protestant. Rich and poor. And while Lena understood that not all people would achieve the same heights in terms of wealth and position, she still believed everybody deserved the same opportunities and nobody should have the right to suppress or control another person.

Papa would agree with you, said Margot, as long as you’re referring to those poor migrant men denied fair wages and promotions. He even supports my plan to attend Princeton and get a university education, just the same as my brothers. But he then expects me to marry before I’m twenty-two, stay at home, care for my house, give him a dozen grandchildren in a decade and to do exactly what my husband tells me!

They laughed ruefully. It was a common story. Lena was glad it wasn’t one to which her own parents subscribed; they simply wanted her to be happy.

Forty minutes later, she waved goodbye to her friends and left the station to walk the final two blocks to Cooper Union, on the corner of Third Avenue and East Seventh Street. She passed the main entrance of her new school, casting a disdainful glance at the man at the gate before walking to the side lane. His presence was a daily reminder that even American society was not actually as free and equal as she wanted to believe.

Her cheeks burned with the memory of her first day here, four weeks earlier. She’d arrived feeling every bit a woman of the world in her new fitted skirt, blouse, lace stockings and high heels. She’d ascended the stairs to the main entrance of Cooper Union, thrilled to finally call herself an art student. But then had come a tap on her shoulder.

Excuse me, Miss. Are you a student of the woman’s art school?

Yes. Today’s my first day. I hope I’m not late. I need to find my classroom, she’d replied.

Well, I’m sorry, Miss, but young ladies must use the side entrance. This one is for males only! he said.

What? You can’t be serious?

Yes, Miss. That’s the rule, I’m afraid. Women’s art classes are in the buildings to the right. There’s an office over there. Shirley is at the desk; she’ll show you around.

But can’t I get to the office from here?

Yes, but like I said, this entry is for male students.

Of all the ridiculous things… Are you saying no female students use this entrance, ever?

That’s right. It seems silly to me, too, but I don’t make the rules.

And why is such a rule in place? It’s as bad as the synagogue!

For years, Papa and Irving had joined the other men in the pews at the synagogue while she’d followed her sisters and mother up the stairs to sit with the women and children in the gallery. To learn Cooper Union also kept males and females apart seemed shocking. The insult had chafed for the rest of her first day, and going home on the train that afternoon, Lena had made a decision. She might be forced to tolerate three years of such nonsense at Cooper Union, but no longer would she stand for being treated as a second-class citizen at her place of worship, and she’d be telling her father so, as soon as she got home. Her heart had pounded at the argument she anticipated, and she was reminded of the time she’d refused to join in the Christmas carols with her class, telling her teacher she wouldn’t be singing ‘Jesus is my Lord,’ since he wasn’t.

But Lena’s father’s response to her announcement that while she’d participate in the morning prayers at home, no longer would she attend the synagogue, had been milder than she’d expected.

Heaven forbid, Lena. One day at Cooper Union, and you’ve lost your faith? her father exclaimed.

It isn’t Jehovah whom I have an issue with, Papa. It’s the foolish men who make these ridiculous rules. Why must women and children be treated as second-class citizens in the synagogue? Why isn’t our place determined by our reverence for God? Lena was sure her commitment to spiritual observance far outweighed that of some young men in the synagogue, who loved to flick balls of paper across the aisle at each other. She knew her father also thought some Jewish religious practices were foolish; it was the reason he led the family in the ways of the more progressive Orthodox Jewish doctrines rather than adhering to the strict Hasidic law followed by many families in their neighborhood.

Perhaps you’re right, Lena. But there is this man-woman issue to complicate things, he answered, unable to disguise the twinkle in his eyes. The Elders believe young people will focus on their prayers so much better if they aren’t being distracted by each other’s smiles.

They won’t have to worry about the impact of my smile, because I won’t be there anymore. And by the way, I am going by the name Lenore at Cooper Union, but you can please yourselves with what you call me.

Lenore! That is nice. Anna, did you hear that? We have a new daughter called Lenore.

She’d appreciated his humor. Name changes were common in their neighborhood as many immigrants adopted names which they believed were better suited to their new lives in America. She was even more pleased he hadn’t insisted she join her mother and sisters as they climbed the stairs to their place at the synagogue. Never again would Lena—Lenore, the new woman of the world—allow herself to be treated as a second-class citizen when she had control over the matter.

Now, four weeks later, beyond the insult of the rules about the entrance doors at Cooper Union, Lenore loved her classes. Almost three hundred students were enrolled in her group. Their education was free, funded by the wealthy matrons who formed the Ladies’ Advisory Council and who were committed to helping young women prepare for employment. As further encouragement, they offered monetary prizes and, for the most successful student, a scholarship to attend a summer school in Paris. Lenore enjoyed the lessons in fashion drawing, furniture illustration and interior decoration. However, her real passion lay in the fine arts and she was determined to top her class in elementary drawing, which was her first class of the day. She only wished the teacher, Mr. Hinton, was half as nice as her other teachers.

As she slipped into the classroom, he directed a scowl at her. He’d already set the students to work, and glancing at the model of a white hand set on a box and surrounded by draped black fabric, Lenore suppressed her disappointment. Last week it had been the same hand, but positioned at a different angle, and for the previous two weeks they had used pencil and then charcoal to portray the lines and shadows formed by a foot!

Setting her paper on an easel and adding her squeaks to the sounds of charcoal gliding over paper in the quiet room, Lenore felt unnerved to know Mr. Hinton was annoyed with her. More than once, students were reminded that Cooper Union was a popular school, and should any teacher believe a student failed to apply themselves with sufficient effort, they could be expelled from the class, and their position offered to another girl. She’d have to catch the earlier train tomorrow.

Ooh, Lenore! Did you see his face when you came in? Mary asked during their break.

Lenore enjoyed Mary’s company. Like her, she aspired to a career as a fine artist, and her drawings of landscapes, cityscapes, children and animals were impressive. Over the last week, the two of them had shared a growing frustration at drawing feet, and now apparently hands, lesson after lesson.

I know, Lenore said with a grimace. I nearly died on the spot. I could barely hold my charcoal without snapping it when he came and stood behind me for all of five minutes, breathing down my neck without saying a word!

At first, she had been in awe of Charles Hinton. During their first lesson, he’d told them about himself. As well as an experienced art teacher, he was a muralist and illustrator of children’s books. He’d studied at New York’s National Academy of Design and then gone on to Paris to study with Jean-Léon Gérôme and William Bouguereau, both master artists. Lenore had never heard of either, but Mr. Hinton made them sound impressive. He told them the techniques he’d be using to teach the class were those he’d learned from his early teachers. Slow and thorough, the approach would give them the skills they needed to create fine sculptures and portraits. The rest of their success was up to their own hard work and talent. Lenore and Mary had shared their excitement at receiving instruction from an artist with such skills and reputation, but after weeks of drawing body parts, their enthusiasm for his methods had waned.

We need to be careful, Mary reminded Lenore. Hinton can fail us at any time.

So he keeps telling us. More than once over the last month, the demand for the highest quality of work—and conversely, the risks of slacking off—had been repeated. I think he just wants to scare us.

Before you arrived, he told us three second-year students were dismissed for lack of effort last Friday, and of three hundred enrollments in the third-year cohort, only thirty girls remain!

Gracious! Lenore suddenly felt rattled to think she’d upset the teacher of the class she valued most in terms of her future as an artist. It would be terrible to have to tell her family she’d been dismissed from Cooper Union after the excitement of being enrolled here. Still, the decline in the number of third-year students couldn’t be all due to poor effort.

Mind you, she told Mary, I imagine lots of girls are forced to leave because they get married. I can’t see why they have to; surely a married woman can still be an artist. Others leave because they find the course is too hard, or because they find a job. You and I will stick it out!

Let’s hope so. But we’d better stay on our toes.

Lenore agreed and over the next few months, she left home early, arrived first for every class, and worked to the best of her ability. It wasn’t hard, for she loved the discussions of art and color theory, enjoyed lessons in art history and even appreciated the technical drawing classes.

While she often endured jibes from Rose, who after moving to her new home still visited theirs daily, and from Ruth, who shared Rose’s belief that their parents were far too indulgent where Lenore was concerned, she refused to be provoked by their petty comments. She tried to help with housework, and despite her absence from the synagogue, she rose early and applied herself to the family prayers with sincerity.

Lenore quickly thrived in her new school setting. She gave her best to everything: sketching females wearing fashion garments, working with beads, feathers and braids to decorate accessories, applying paint directly onto fabrics to create sample swatches for furnishing fabrics and, of course, her drawing classes. She attacked the tasks she was given with confidence and achieved pleasing results; in most subjects, anyway.

Each month, Cooper Union held an exhibition of student works, and she was thrilled when first her geometric fabric design, then a couple of months later her drawing for Woman’s Summer Fashions were selected to be shown—a feat all the more rewarding because from over eight hundred students, only twenty works were ever chosen to be displayed.

Nonetheless, Lenore was caught off-guard the second time her work was chosen and a stylish young woman wearing dangling earrings and a bright orange headscarf approached her for an interview.

Hi Lenore. I’m Jenny; the editor of The Pioneer. I’d like to do an interview with you, if you don’t mind.

Of course. What would you like to know? Lenore knew the Cooper Union’s monthly magazine, The Pioneer, often reviewed the school’s exhibitions and regularly had articles about the students. She happily answered Jenny’s questions, which focused on her early inspirations for fashion and drawing and her hopes for the future.

A week later, Lenore was pleasantly surprised to read the article Jenny had written, firstly because she’d been referred to as Lee, and for the way Jenny had commented on her appearance. ‘Lee Krasner, who wears her hair swinging above her shoulders in a blunt pageboy cut unlike most students, who prefer to wear their hair up…’ It felt like a compliment, coming from a woman as attractive as Jenny. Six months later, Jenny made another reference to Lenore’s work and this time she made a reference to ‘Lee’s wondrous eyelashes.’ Even though Lenore felt embarrassed by the attention given to her physical appearance, secretly, she was delighted. That night, examining herself in the mirror, she decided her eyelashes were thick and had a pleasing way of curving at the edges. Jenny’s compliments were a nice change from the taunts she’d heard from Ruth and Rose for years, saying she was so ugly no man would ever look at her.

The reawakening of her childhood enjoyment for drawing fashions had a lot to do with her teacher, Mrs. Ethel Traphagan. The woman was striking, with flaming red hair, pale blue eyes and standing at over six feet tall. Although, by Lenore’s reckoning, she must be near fifty, Mrs. Traphagan’s fine figure suggested she would have been well-suited to a professional modeling career rather than a fashion designer.

In her first lesson, Lenore had been stunned when Mrs. Traphagan arrived wearing tweed pants and a matching jacket; a feminized design of a man’s suit. Mrs. Traphagan had responded to the gasps of the girls by parading up and down the room, her hand resting on her hip in the pose of a model walking on a catwalk.

Like it? she asked. The responses were mixed, including tentative nods to resounding approval. Lenore loved her outfit.

For the whole first lesson Mrs. Traphagan had the class spellbound as she’d described her disdain for the way American women were lured to following European fashion trends, even though the garments were dreadful, with their whalebone corsets and hemlines dragging along the ground.

But nobody wears clothes like that anymore, Lenore said.

Name?

Lenore Krasner.

"Miss Krasner, you would be interested to know that four days ago, the fashion chiefs at The New York Times wrote about rising waist-lines and lowering hems, in keeping with the latest Parisian fashions. You might also be surprised to know the sales of whalebone corsets are on the rise. American women are like sheep when it comes to fashion. It’s our job, our duty, to show them garments which are comfortable and practical for American lifestyles. To offer clothes which allow them to get on with the job of living, rather than concentrating on how to breathe, worrying about how they are going to squeeze a sugar biscuit and cup of tea into bodies bound to an inch of their lives, and fearing they might faint if they move too quickly." The girls had laughed at the image Mrs. Traphagan had created.

Let me share my response to our illustrious fashion editor. She cleared her throat, and with a theatrical hand flick, began reading. One great good the World War accomplished was to free women from the curse of stupidity in the matter of clothes, and now comes this effort to set women back a century. These atrocities are ground sweeping filth collectors, dragging the germs from the streets into the home and defeating the best sanitary efforts of the twentieth century. It is an everlasting shame that civilization has no adequate weapon to combat this many-headed beast—French fashion—that is trying to exercise a more complete tyranny than any monarch the world has ever known. With an exultant flourish, Mrs. Traphagan folded the page and looked at them. I await their response with interest, she said.

Over the following weeks, they learned Mrs. Traphagan’s work in the fashion industry had gained momentum when, in 1912, she’d entered The New York Times American Fashion Contest and won the Evening Dress section. She’d since worked for Vogue and Vanity Fair and for some of the biggest garment retailers in New York. In 1923, she’d started The Traphagan School of Cooperative Fashion, which offered courses to girls who wanted to enter the fashion industry. Now her students’ work was featured in newspapers and magazines across America.

Education is the key to change, she told Lenore’s class. Education for fashion designers to dare to be original, and education for the women of America, so they understand our lifestyle is unique, and we should dress accordingly.

It was hard not to be enamored with Mrs. Traphagan and her ideas, and Lenore adored her. As such, she was particularly pleased to receive compliments for her drawings of women in action poses or for her attention to detail when she’d drawn a series of historical costumes. While a number of the girls were so in awe of Mrs. Traphagan they could barely speak, Lenore had no such difficulty in discussing her ideas and showing her drafts. She wanted to do her best at everything and while Mrs. Traphagan understood Lenore had no desire to work in fashion, she encouraged Lenore’s belief that all aspects of drawing the human figures would increase her skill as a portrait artist. Lenore wished Mr. Hinton could be so easy to get along with.

Sir, please can I progress to the Second Alcove? Lenore tried to look meek as she appealed to Mr. Hinton to let her move from Hands and Feet to Torso Drawing, hoping today he’d finally agree. She’d asked a dozen times over the past six months, thoroughly bored with depicting people’s limbs. Worse, this morning Mary had been told she could advance to the Third Alcove, Full Figure Drawing, after which she would be eligible for Life Drawing—the class Lee longed to join.

Miss Krasner, absolutely not. Your work is still far too messy. I have told you a dozen times, you need to rein it in. It was a variation of the same reply she’d received each time she’d approached him.

But I like to show a bit of looseness in my drawings. Have you seen Henri Matisse’s work? He is treating portraiture in new ways. Modern ways…

She and Mary had attended an exhibition of European Modern Art, which had been shown at the Metropolitan Museum the previous week, and had been fascinated by Matisse’s painting Seated Odalisque Left Leg Bent. Lenore was intrigued both for the relaxed pose of the woman he’d drawn and for the bright colors and loosely drawn lines he’d used. She hoped Matisse’s example might convince Mr. Hinton to grant her request. She was wrong.

If you’re interested in painting modern portraits, then perhaps you should ask Monsieur Matisse to share his genius with you. Until then, if you plan to remain my student, you will dedicate yourself to my teachings. The way Mr. Hinton spat out the word ‘modern’ left Lenore in no doubt about his attitude to modern portraiture, and she knew not to raise the subject with him again.

A typical pompous male, threatened by change, she thought. She wished he were more like Mrs. Traphagan, who had shown interest when Lenore discussed Matisse’s use of color. She’d even allowed Lenore to use bright complementary colors in her portfolio of ancient headwear.

Mr. Hinton showed no such open-mindedness, though. She bristled at the injustice of being held back despite trying her hardest to present tidier—albeit, in her opinion, sterile—drawings week after week.

But as her confidence and reputation as a serious student grew, and she received excellent results in her other subjects, Lenore’s fear of Hinton’s power to dismiss her from Cooper Union waned. Weekly, she approached him, requesting he progress her to the next alcove, and in the end, she wore him down. Towards the end of her first year, he finally reached for his rubber stamp and thumped its inky surface onto the front of her portfolio.

I’m passing you, not because you deserve it, but because there is nothing more I can do with you, he snapped, flinging the folio back at her.

Lenore was surprised and exultant. Finally, she could join the full figure lessons, and then, with luck, she’d be ready to start her second year at Cooper Union in the Life Drawing class. She’d already had another plan for her second year; to relinquish the name Lenore. Though it had served her well for her first year, she decided she’d adopt the name she was now being called by most of the girls in her class: Lee.

Chapter Three

In early1926, Lee’s parents surprised her with the announcement that they’d purchased a house on a small acreage in rural Greenlawn; they were moving the following month. She was pleased for them. Her father had spent years rising early, traveling to the wholesale markets to purchase fish, fruit and vegetables, then returning to Brooklyn and, alongside her mother, selling the produce at the local market. Over the years, they’d worked hard and saved. It made Lee happy to know their efforts had paid off. Now they could retire to the land, where they hoped to earn a modest income by growing vegetables and raising chickens for eggs. She was even more excited by what else this change meant. Ruth, of course, would join her parents, but as their new house was small, and with Irving and Lee still studying, their father would continue renting the brownstone the family had lived in for two decades as well as provide Lee with an allowance for food and train fares.

In September 1926, Lee commenced her second year at Cooper Union, and it proved even more enjoyable than the first. With her parents and sister living in Greenlawn, she and Irving rubbed along well together at Jerome Street. In a strange sort of way, Lee wondered if it was a bit like what being married might feel like. She took on full responsibility for their laundry, picked up bread and milk on her way home from school, baked the occasional batch of biscuits, and kept the house tidy.

At first the evening meals had felt odd, just the two of them in the house once overflowing with chatter, but soon they filled the silence with conversations about their days and developed an easy habit of preparing dinner, eating at the kitchen table, and tidying up afterward together.

At least once a month, they took the train to Greenlawn, joined by her sisters, their husbands and children along the way. While Lee enjoyed seeing her mother and father so happy, she endured more comments than ever from Ruth and Rose about her clothes, hairstyle or lack thereof, and the makeup she wore.

Thankfully, Lee had her friends at Cooper Union, who made no such judgments, and Manhattan, which was a feast, waiting to be devoured. Often, she and Mary joined up with the other girls to explore the city. Some evenings, they went to movies, and more recently, they’d finish by stopping in at a club where Lee would sit at a table and drink ginger beer before making her way to the train station to go home. She relished the freedom she had coming and going as she pleased, and was conscious of the many differences between the life she led and those of her mother and sisters.

Increasingly, Lee was fascinated by the topic of the New Woman—one who renounced the traditional roles of housekeeper and mother. Articles about the New Woman appeared in newspapers and magazines, and had become a subject of hot debate among the students at Cooper Union. Must women marry? Should they feel compelled to have children? Was contraception an evil, or an effective means for managing the world’s expanding population? Indeed, was the world overpopulated? Was companionate marriage a threat to society and sex for pleasure wrong? None of these topics were off limits. Many of the students argued in favor of social and religious traditions, and equally many argued against them.

Lee, however, believed a greater issue was at stake; the right of people to choose their own destiny. She believed women should marry and have children if they chose. Equally, they had a right to be single and pursue careers, or to marry and choose childlessness. She even thought that if a couple elected to have a common-law marriage, bound by affection rather than a wedding ring and marriage certificate, they should be able to, and conversely, if couples wished to marry, then let them. To her, freedom of choice was the most important thing, and she wondered how women could hope to attain true freedom if they were constantly being judged by their own gender, let alone males. She also opposed other constraints on the lives of individuals: those created by nationalism, religion, social expectations, economic exclusion and racial segregation. Her discussions with Irving had convinced her these were responsible for most of the misery in the world.

It was not uncommon for various members of the fashion world to wander into the drawing classes, especially those taught by Mrs. Traphagan, to see the students at work and to select one or two who might assist in a project.

Girls, someday this week I’m expecting a visit to our costume class from some very interesting people. You might have heard of them: the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation? They make movies. Not that any of you would be interested in such a frivolous activity as going to the picture theatre, of course!

They’d all laughed, for attending movies was the favorite pastime of half of America; everything about the film industry was cloaked in glamour.

I’ll be happy to strut my stuff for them if they’re scouting for actresses, Miss, Ginnie called out.

Really, Mrs. Traphagan, do you actually know these movie stars? asked another student.

Why, yes, I know a few of the actors and actresses on the silver screen. Some even think I’m quite good with my pins and thread, and so they commission me to run up a dress or two for them.

Again, the class laughed. Because she was one of the nicest and friendliest teachers in the school, it was easy to forget Mrs. Traphagan was held in high regard in the fashion world. It made perfect sense that actresses—along with socialites and even royalty—would seek her out to create unique gowns for them.

Our visitors are seeking designs for men’s clothing for some upcoming movies, she continued. Not just your average clothes—something with a bit of spunk. It’s quite a coup when the outfit an actor wears in a movie becomes a trend across America. They’re hoping to find a style which might veer men away from tweed three-piece suits.

Wow, Lee thought. While she understood how art was used to comment on society and how it could even prompt new trends in fashion and architecture, she hadn’t considered that designers strategically placed their newest garments in movies in the hope they’d grip the public’s imagination.

Oh, men’s clothing. How boring, a girl sitting near the front said. Her comment generated a flood of groans in agreement.

Yes, men’s clothing. Perhaps not so glamorous as women’s apparel, but believe me, seeing men clad in tweed for decades on end does get tedious. There is no reason why men’s fashions should lie stagnant for decades at a time, is there? The room was silent, and Lee guessed that like herself, most students rarely thought about fashion in terms of the clothes their fathers and brothers wore.

Lee took the project seriously. If this was an opportunity to be noticed for being innovative and modern, she intended to stand out.

She sketched half a dozen drawings of men wearing jackets and trousers: leaning against rails, gazing into the distance, smoking pipes and chattering together in pairs or groups. At first it was challenging to make basic garments like trousers and jackets look interesting, but by mixing colors and fabrics such as checked jackets with navy blue trousers, and adjusting the shapes of the trouser legs to a more fitted look, she felt confident her designs were original enough to draw the attention of Mrs. Traphagan’s friends.

Her efforts paid off, because all four of the drawings she’d submitted were selected for inclusion in the Famous Players-Lasky Corporation Exhibition and Lee was given a certificate of achievement as well as a double pass to see a movie of her choice at one of the Famous Players-Lasky theatres dotted across New York. Of even greater reward for Lee was the praise she received from Mrs. Traphagan, who insisted she should rethink her future aspirations, and consider a career in fashion design.

Chapter Four

Visiting art galleries quickly became Lee and Mary’s favorite pastime, starting with Cooper Union’s own Museum of Architecture and Decorative Arts, which was one floor below the women’s art classes. There, they perused the ever-changing displays of furniture and textiles, noting the interesting ways their fellow students worked line and color into their designs.

On the first Friday of each month, the new edition of The Pioneer was printed, and it was all the more coveted for its inclusion of a list of exhibitions being shown across New York. Lee and Mary tried to visit them all, from the obscure galleries showcasing works by local artists to the fabulous exhibitions at the Metropolitan Museum. They had seen an exhibition of French Impressionists: Renoir’s street scenes thrilled Lee, and she thought Fragonard’s portrait, A Young Girl Reading, was perfect. The works of the modern artists fascinated her. She would drag Mary across town if she heard a Matisse was on display or if anyone was showing the colorful works of Marc Chagall or Paul Gauguin’s Tahitian landscapes. They saw Cézanne’s paintings at the Wildenstein Gallery and those of Degas at Durand-Ruel. Twice they had traveled across town to the Macbeth Gallery to see works by American painters: George Bellows, Ralph Blakelock, and Albert Ryder. Her teachers and many of her fellow students disdained these modernists, but Lee eagerly read the plaques describing their paintings and examined their techniques with interest.

Good lord. These are really something, aren’t they?

Lee nodded as they walked through the rooms of the Waldorf Hotel. From Mary’s tone, she wasn’t so sure Mary liked the modern portraits, but Lee found them fascinating. She gazed at a painting by Picasso titled 1927 and beside it, a painting titled Head of a Medusa by a painter named Alexei von Jawlensky who’d obviously been influenced by Matisse. It was an image of a female with large black eyes and facial features colored in vibrant red, yellow, purple and green. Lee had never seen anything like it and was overcome by the desire to experiment with these modern art styles.

Honestly, I feel like we’re in straightjackets at Cooper sometimes, she said. Hinton would have an apoplectic fit if we splashed red and green paint around like this. What we need is our own place, somewhere we can draw and paint whatever we like. She chafed at the ridiculous standards of mastery Hinton demanded they meet before being allowed to add color to their work.

Lee, what a wonderful idea! You know, there are apartments all over New York being leased for a song. If we found somewhere cheap, we would have a place to experiment to our heart’s content. Plus, if we wanted to stay in the city overnight, we could. It would be our own little getaway.

Lee tilted her head and squinted at Mary. You’re telling me you want a little Manhattan getaway for painting?

They both laughed. While Lee could see the value of having a place of their own in Manhattan, she suspected Mary had other motives.

Several times over recent weeks, they’d joined a few of the girls from school and gone to the Cotton Club in Harlem, where performers like Louis Armstrong, Cab Calloway and Adelaide Hall played. The first time they’d gone, Lee had been agog at the sight of couples swinging around the dance floor, their feet a blur of complicated steps.

I can’t dance! she’d told Mary.

Neither can I, Lee, but who cares? It’s not as if we know any of these people. Let’s just have fun!

Fun it was, swinging to the lively tunes of saxophones, trumpets and double bass guitars. At first the girls danced together, but soon young men stepped forward, offering to dance with them. Lee came to look forward to their nights of dancing. The third time they went to the Cotton Club, they’d met Chad and Joe, two happy-go-lucky types in fashionably fitting suits, trilbies and two-toned shoes. The young men bought them mint juleps and showed them how to Lindy Hop. At 11 p.m. they suggested a move to the Savoy Ballroom, where Duke Ellington was performing. The evening was fun, but when Lee realized it was twelve-thirty and she’d missed the last train to Brooklyn, she was worried. After consulting with Mary, they agreed to accept Joe and Chad’s offer to spend the night in the apartment they shared. She and Mary would each tell their families they’d spent the night at the other’s house.

Joe and Chad were nice; they repeatedly apologized for causing the girls to miss the train. Their apartment was only a few blocks from the station, and as they walked through the darkened streets, they assured Lee and Mary they were in safe hands.

Lee had felt awkward arriving after 1 a.m. to the home of two men they barely knew, but Mary seemed to be totally at ease, possibly because she was the only girl in a family of five boys. Beyond drinking a glass of watered-down wine, the most daring thing Lee did was splutter through a cigarette as they sat at the small kitchen table chatting. She was dead-tired when at two-thirty she and Mary collapsed in the double bed Joe offered them, insisting he’d be fine sleeping on the sofa.

The following day, they’d agreed to keep the story of missing the train and staying at Joe and Chad’s house to themselves; if news got around Cooper Union they’d slept in an apartment with two strange men, no matter how innocently, their reputations would be tarnished in the eyes of many of their fellow students. And who knew? If their teachers—or worse, the Ladies Advisory Council of Cooper Union—heard of the transgression, they might even be expelled.

And then, last Friday, they spent a second night at Joe and Chad’s. Somewhere around midnight, Mary and Joe had vanished, leaving Lee talking to Chad in the kitchen. At 12:45 a.m., he suggested she take his bed; he’d sleep on the sofa this time.

While Lee’s muttered lie to Irving about where she’d stayed overnight didn’t weigh heavily on her conscience, she agreed with Mary: an apartment in town could be fun. After all, she was nineteen now, and if she was going to live life to the fullest, she’d prefer not to be answerable to anyone, but nor did she wish to lead a double life.

Two weeks later, during their lunch break, Cherie, a fellow student, told them about a vacant third-floor apartment on Fifth Avenue near where she lived. Rent was twenty dollars a month—cheap because it had mold on the walls, a kitchen so small only one person could fit into it at a time, and carpet so threadbare you could see the floorboards. It was barely three blocks away from Cooper Union, meaning they could walk to lessons. It also meant they could put extra time into their studies by working at the Cooper Union Studio Club where senior students were allowed to work outside school hours, and any time they wanted they could walk into the city without taking the bus or train.

I am sure you could get it easily, if you are quick. My parents know the owner, and they might put in a good word for you. Cherie said. Lee nodded, screwing up her forehead as she calculated how she could afford to contribute to the rent, no matter how inexpensive it might be.

I’ll pay the rent, Lee. Since my parents moved out of the city, I’m spending a fortune on fares. Dad will see the sense in saving some money and reducing the time I spend traveling.

No, Mary. I’ll find some money one way or another. Lee couldn’t depend on her parents to pay for an apartment in the city, not when they were already paying the rent at Jerome Street. But with careful budgeting of the allowance her father gave her for travel and food, and if she could find a job for a few hours a week, she might manage.

Perhaps you could do some more drawings for Perard, Cherie suggested, referring to their still life teacher, who was in the process of writing a book on drawing. More than once, he’d complimented Lee on her anatomical drawing skills. Even so, she’d been elated when he’d offered payment for her to create a series of blocked hands he could use as illustrations for his book.

I don’t think so, he’s finished his book now. Perhaps he might have more work for me, but I couldn’t count on it. Still, the money he gave me for the drawings will help with the deposit.

Well, if you don’t mind stripping down, Moses Dykaar lives on the first floor. He’s always looking for models. Lee had not expected the suggestion from the baby-faced, blue-eyed, prim Cherie.

Who’s he? Lee frowned. She had no objections to baring her curves for a reputable artist if it meant earning a few dollars. Heavens, some of the most beautiful paintings in the world were nudes. But she didn’t want to peel off for a sleazebag.

Mr. Dykaar is an excellent artist. He’s made bronze statues and busts for all sorts of famous people and does a lot of portraiture. He seems a pretty decent type. If you like, I’ll tell him you’re willing to be a sitter.

Mr. Dykaar was interested, and Lee met with him the following week.

She was barely in the door when he reached out, taking her face in his hands, turning it toward the light. He asked her to look to the ceiling, then straight ahead, then to turn a half rotation. Having painted dozens of portraits of her classmates, Lee understood exactly what he wanted.

My, you have powerful features. Your eyes, they are wonderful. You know, some girls are pretty, but you—you’re interesting! Would you mind stripping down to your underwear?

Despite being prepared to undress for Mr. Dykaar, Lee was nervous. Undressing in front of a man was not something she’d ever done. She appreciated the way he turned his back to his desk, gathered his pencil and drawing pad, then repositioned the chair set in a corner alongside a vase on a small stand. With a swift motion, she slipped out of her dress, and stepped toward the chair.

Before you sit, can you stand over here near the window and turn away from me, looking over your shoulder so the light catches your face? … yes… yes… and raise your head a little. That’s right. Very good. Your body, it is that of a dancer. You like dancing, do you? Beautiful. Miss Krasner, I would be very pleased if you would sit for me. I have a series in mind, and you will be perfect.

And so it was agreed, for two dollars a week, Lee would sit for Mr. Dykaar. They took the apartment, and twice a week, she visited him and held the poses he requested while he sketched at his easel. At first, their conversation was minimal, and to pass the time, Lee gazed at the ceiling and cast her thoughts to her own paintings or to her and Mary’s plans for the evening. At other times, Mr. Dykaar was chatty and interested in Lee’s aspiration to be a professional artist.

But why are you wasting your time at Cooper Union? he asked. That is for… frivolous artists. Fashion and furnishings, yes? He scrunched his nose at Lee, making her laugh. She looked around his stark room, absent of cushions and curtains, it was easy to see he had no appreciation for attractive furnishings.

He continued, It is not for serious painters. You want to be an excellent artist, yes? Then you should attend the Art Students League on West Fifty-Seventh Street. They will allow you much greater scope than fashion designs. They’re a far better option if you want to establish a reputation as an artist.

Lee laughed again. We don’t just create fashion designs. Really, the standard at Cooper Union is very rigorous. We study portraiture, oils, life drawing and lots more.

Yes, but Cooper Union is renowned for its commercial artists, not for turning out serious painters.

She shrugged. It was all very well for Mr. Dykaar to make such a suggestion, but Lee needed to complete the course she’d started so she could get a job and earn a serious wage. With a regular wage to support herself, she’d then spend every spare minute of her time painting. She’d enter art competitions—possibly even find a gallery who’d show her work. The career of a successful artist wasn’t easy to map out. It was all about being very good and being noticed. Lee had every intention of doing both.

It was fun having the apartment. Mary stayed in town most nights—often not alone, Lee suspected from the pair of coffee mugs she’d find on the bench and the stubs of cigarettes in their trash can. Lee usually stayed there from Thursday night to Sunday morning. On Friday nights she and Mary often went dancing, and after sleeping late the next morning, they’d go to Washington Square with their sketchbooks.

When she was alone in the apartment, Lee took the opportunity to try some of the techniques used by the modern artists. At first, despite feeling free to let loose on her canvas with swirling lines and exaggerated colors, all she achieved was a mess. She refused to be defeated though, and after repeated efforts duplicating the styles of Matisse then Picasso then André Breton, Lee began to apply their techniques to her own designs. Some of her efforts showed promise, but Picasso’s Cubism remained unfathomable to Lee, and she spent hours trying to reproduce his style.

One afternoon, she was particularly pleased with a heavily abstract depiction of a park scene inspired from sketches she’d drawn at the park. Back in the apartment she’d drawn the buildings as jagged cubes, and used dashes of color to depict people. The following Thursday, she carried the canvas downstairs to show Mr. Dykaar.

This is very good, you know, he said. I know little about modern art, but I can see you are on to something here. Again, I ask you, why are you wasting your time at Cooper Union?

When Lee returned to her apartment, she set the painting against the wall and studied it. It was good. She knew it was. Different. Nothing she could ever submit to any of her teachers at Cooper Union, heaven forbid; they’d be horrified. Was Mr. Dykaar right? Was she wasting her time there?

Certainly, over the past few months, as she’d sat for Mr. Dykaar,