The Woman Who Heard Color (8 page)

She recognized several as those who had come weeks ago for dinner. The young twitchy artist with the greasy hair that kept falling into his face, the distinguished gentleman with the lovely accent, who she now realized was not an instructor as she’d then thought, but merely a student himself.

“Ah, Herr Kandinsky, I test your patience,” Herr von Stuck said as he stood behind the Prince. “Or, perhaps, it is you who test my patience.”

Kandinsky smiled, but said nothing.

“The color will soon come, but first we must become aware of the values of the color, and we must learn these values by doing it all without color.”

Even though Hanna could not see the art, she could see that they were not painting as she’d hoped, but merely drawing with pencils. The redness that she was sure colored her entire body from head to toe would not show up in a drawing in black and white.

“It is indeed my patience you test,” Kandinsky finally replied, “because the colors are singing in my mind. How do I draw in black and white a woman whose hair shouts with color?”

Hanna felt a warmth deepen within her as he spoke of her as a woman. She no longer felt like an inanimate prop, a model for the artists. She was a woman.

The room was soon filled with smoke. Must every artist feed his creativity with tobacco? she wondered. The greasy-haired young man opened a window. They took a quick break about halfway through. Hanna put on her dressing gown and walked back behind the curtained area and stood by herself until she was summoned once more by Herr von Stuck.

When they finished the second half of the class, she dressed hurriedly, but even so, when she went back into the studio, the students had left, the easels were empty. She would never see the drawings, she thought with a strange sadness. It wasn’t that she wanted to see these images of herself, but just how they had put in the light and shadows, how they had made her hair, her flesh, in black and white.

The young man at the desk thanked Hanna and asked, “Will you come again on Friday?”

Hanna wondered if she could arrange this. Frau Fleischmann napped each afternoon, and as long as she continued with this schedule, Hanna should be able to come. She wondered about Magda, if she would show up and take her place. Hanna laughed a little at the thought—not that Magda would return, but that in her mind she was already claiming it as
her place
.

“Yes,” she replied, “I will come on Friday.”

 

 

On Friday, as Frau Fleischmann napped, Hanna ventured out and hurried to the Academy. She was greeted by the same young man, who motioned her back to the studio. Again she undressed and waited for Herr von Stuck to announce they were ready for her.

By the time he came for her, the students had arrived and set up their equipment and, fortunately, it appeared that Magda had voluntarily given up her career as an artists’ model. Or perhaps, Hanna thought with an inward laugh, Josef, as the clerk had asked her to call him, had turned her away, thinking Hanna made a much better muse.

She sat and arranged herself again the way Herr von Stuck had instructed her on the last visit to the Academy. He seemed pleased and did not request any adjustment. Hanna knew if she were to pass herself off as a true model she would have to show that she understood how it was done. It seemed very simple— remember the pose from day to day, ask no questions, remain silent, speak only if spoken to.

She glanced quickly about, again aware that several of these students had been present the evening Herr Fleischmann hosted the dinner. Herr Kandinsky had smiled at her as she presented him with a veal cutlet! And now she sat before him completely naked. Did he recognize her? And there was Herr Alexej Jawlensky, also a Russian—she’d learned from the students’ banter—and also one of the dinner guests. He looked at her through his squinty eyes, his way of concentrating, she decided, as she was sure he didn’t know her. Perhaps she looked very different when she was fully dressed, with her bright red hair piled up and under her little maid’s cap. Of course, no one would take notice of a maid, she reasoned. And the thought came with a true sense of relief.

A second quick sigh of relief escaped her body, and then she sat, perfectly still, daydreaming, as she found it the best way to hold a pose. She envisioned a painting by an Austrian artist that had recently hung in the Fleischmann home. Although Hanna was no longer cleaning and dusting, and did not linger before a painting to study it as she worked, she now had time to view the paintings with some leisure. Having been taken under Frau Fleischmann’s wing, so to speak, becoming her assistant—Hanna no longer considered herself a maid—she felt a new boldness and, daresay, entitlement as she strode about the house. Often Herr Fleischmann appeared out of nowhere, almost as though he had been waiting for Hanna to place herself before one of his paintings. And she did believe he enjoyed their discussions about the art.

One day he asked, “Fräulein Hanna, what do you think of this painting by Gustav Klimt, my latest discovery from Vienna?” The colors vibrated with a rich, deep cacophony of sounds. Somewhat daring, she thought, the shapes and angles on the figures like nothing she had ever seen, and the music she heard was a quick, sparkling, jumbled but delightful blend from the highest notes on the scale.

“I think it is quite moving,” she replied.

“Moving?” he asked with a lightness in his voice.

Why did she always describe things in such a way, using absurd words that no one else understood? she wondered with embarrassment.

“It stirs something within me,” she said, trying to explain.

“Ah, stirring the spirit,” he came back with a chuckle, and she was not sure if she amused him or if he understood and shared this feeling. “Yes, it also moves me,” he added agreeably. “Good art will always stir the soul.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder, as her father did when she had accomplished a task and he was pleased. And Hanna felt another stirring, deep within. But this assuredly was not in her soul, as it was clearly something moving deep within her body.

She felt herself blush and grow warm now at the thought of Herr Fleischmann’s touch, and forced herself to clear such thoughts from her head. The students were moving about now, taking their mid-session break. Hanna slipped on her dressing gown and retreated to the area behind the curtain. She stretched her arms, wiggled her shoulders and legs to get the blood flowing, to prepare herself to sit once more. She wondered if it would be permissible to go out into the studio and look at the work of the students. This was why she had come—to see how it was done, taking what was real and putting it first through the artist’s mind, then onto paper or canvas. But if she ventured out, might one of the artists question her? Would they speak to her as if she were a person now? Probably not. She was but a young woman, a body, the subject for a drawing lesson. By the time Hanna had sorted through all this, the artists were back at their easels, ready to continue.

After the class, again the students packed away their supplies and were out of the room before she returned. She had yet to catch a glimpse of any of the drawings. She received her pay from Josef at the front desk, just as she had after the last session, and tucked it in her pocket. As she walked out of the building and turned toward Leopoldstrasse, Hanna’s heart leapt up to her throat. Coming from the opposite direction, clearly moving toward the Academy, was Herr Fleischmann. She turned her head, tilted her hat over her eyes, angling her body away from his. He passed by unaware of her. Hanna watched as he climbed the stairs, opened the door, and entered the building. This should not have surprised her, as she knew Herr Fleischmann had many friends at the Academy, that he often met for drinks or dinner with professors, and always showed an interest in the work of their students, always on the lookout for the next movement or trend in the art world, attempting to catch it before the other dealers.

Hanna hurried toward home, secure in her belief that he had not seen her.

 

 

T
he following week Hanna returned to the studio at the Academy of Fine Arts on Monday, and again on Wednesday, and then Friday. It was beginning to feel like a real job, though she loved going. She daydreamed when the studio was quiet, the students deep in concentration. She listened when they engaged in conversation, particularly when they discussed the concept of color. Several were now painting, rather than just drawing. Herr von Stuck and Herr Kandinsky often went back and forth about the teacher’s insistence that Kandinsky finish each piece, and that, for now, he work in black and white, as it was important that he understand underlying tones, tints, and shades before advancing to color.

Through the conversations at the studio, in her position as the invisible mind, the visible body, she learned much about the artists themselves. Wassily Kandinsky was a musician as well as an artist. He spoke of how the colors had actual connections to specific notes. She perked up considerably when he said this.

Alexej Jawlensky said, “Ah, my friend Herr Kandinsky not only sees the color, he
hears
the color.” He had come to Munich about the same time as Kandinsky, though they had not known each other in their mother country. Hanna learned that he had also studied with Anton Ažbe, and she guessed that the two had become acquainted then. They were older and seemed more mature than many of the other students. Jawlensky had had a career in the military; Kandinsky was educated as a lawyer in Russia, and both were now embarking on new careers as artists.

“A concept explored by the Greeks,” Kandinsky replied in response to Jawlensky’s comment, “as well as more modern musicians such as Beethoven and Schubert. This blending of the senses.” He went on to speak of an opera he had attended in Moscow where he had heard the colors along with the music, how he had experienced similar sensations, a mixing of sound and color during his childhood, opening a paint box to discover a symphony. “But, alas, I must now complete my drawings and paintings without the colors.” He shot a glance toward his instructor, Herr von Stuck.

Though Hanna was eager to hear more, the conversation went no further that day after several of the younger students requested silence in the studio for concentration.

“You might hear the color, Herr Kandinsky,” one of them politely joked, “but others require silence for their creativity.”

 

 

She continued thusly, tending to Frau Fleischmann, practicing her music to the delight of her mistress. Hoping each day to have a small conversation with Herr Fleischmann about art, rushing off with a true sense of excitement to the Academy three afternoons a week.

One might think that Käthe would be jealous of Hanna, becoming Frau Fleischmann’s little lapdog, as she’d overheard Freda whispering to herself one morning as she gathered the laundry. But Käthe was consumed with what was going on in her own life. They would both go home for Christmas, something Hanna was looking forward to and dreading at the same time, as she had not yet written to her father, and neither of them had made any apologies. But she knew Käthe would not return to Munich with her. Hans Koebler was to ask for Käthe’s hand in marriage on Christmas Eve. So, Käthe felt no jealousy and was quite delighted that, when she left, Hanna would be in such a favorable position.

CHAPTER FIVE

 

“You should have seen her dress,” Hanna told Josef, the clerk at the Academy. She had just tucked her pay into her pocket and, as she often did now, she lingered for a short time to visit. “Blue silk, so obviously expensive.”

“The jewels,” he came back, urgency coupled with curiosity in his voice. “Her husband’s a jeweler in Berlin, so there must be jewels.”

“Covered with them,” Hanna replied with a laugh.

Strangely, Josef Bloch and Hanna had become friends. They frequently visited as she came in and out of the studio. He was a sweet man, rather flamboyant in his dress, but he had a way of making Hanna feel comfortable, and he loved to chat.

“Oh, yes, her neck was covered with diamonds set in gold, accented with sapphires to match the color of her dress. Enormous diamonds hung from her ears, and a tiara glistened on her head set amidst her dark curls.” This woman does not dress herself for the evening, Hanna had thought when she peeked into the music room, observing the guests; she decorates herself like a Christmas tree. She giggled now at the image. “She looks much like her father, with dark hair and eyes. Now, this is very strange”—Hanna could feel her voice, as well as Josef’s interest, rise—“her name is the same as her stepmother, who incidentally isn’t much older than the daughter, and much more beautiful with her golden colors. They are both named Helene! They call the daughter Young Helene.”

“How awkward,” Josef replied. “The two Helenes—Frau Fleischmann, the wife; Frau Kaufmann, the daughter—did they get on?”

“I sensed the party was intended to keep her stepdaughter occupied, to ensure Frau Fleischmann did not have to spend a long evening conversing with the Young Helene.” Frau Fleischmann had stayed at the party much later than Hanna thought she should, considering her health. But she could see she had done this for Herr Fleischmann, that she made every effort to make this a pleasant visit for his daughter and her husband.

“Then all went well?” Josef inquired.

“From what I could see,” Hanna replied, “but you understand I’m just the maid. I didn’t join them at the party.”

“Someday you will,” Josef said seriously, and she shot him a look of genuine doubt. “Oh, yes, little girl,” he replied shaking a finger at her, “someday you will have a wealthy husband, and you will entertain your own guests, you’ll be invited to grand parties. Perhaps your husband will cover you with jewels,” he added with a grin.

Hanna liked this idea and she smiled at the thought. “Young Helene’s husband, Herr Kaufmann, is a handsome man, and the little boy is named the same as his father. They call him Little Jakob. He’s just over a year—so sweet.”