It was the kiss’s fault. The kiss.
Three days after the fact, the memory of Mr. Blackstone’s mouth on hers had not faded. On the contrary: during her daydreams and when in bed, she had shamelessly revisited the fleeting contact over and over, and by now it was so thoroughly embellished, it had become a vivid, drawn-out, and voluptuous—rather than shocking—affair. She didn’t really wish to forget it. Several white spots on the topography of her daily life had now been colored in: she could insert the warm pressure of Blackstone’s mouth into all the countless romantic novels she devoured, when before, her understanding of what kissing felt like had been limited to feeling her own lips on the back of her hand. She finally understood what her friends Annabelle and Lucie enjoyed behind closed doors ever since they had paired off with their betrotheds. But she also knew now that being grabbed by an underworld lord elicited shock, disbelief, heat, confusion. She had slapped Blackstone before she could think. None of these base emotions were present in her Persephone. Her painting was ignorant. Now she knew. Blackstone’s kiss had made her see.
She turned to Lord Skeffington. “My lord,” she croaked.
“Miss Greenfield.” He lowered his brush, his expression inquisitive.
“Do you think it is possible to make good art without experience?”
His high brow furrowed with surprise. “Hmm. Are you having trouble with your painting?”
“No, no, it is a general question I ponder.”
“Ah. A matter of philosophy.”
“Of sorts. I wonder: must an artist have personal knowledge about the subject of her art for it to be … art?”
Lord Skeffington chuckled. “Thinking grand thoughts before lunch—oh dear.”
His smile briefly edged out her troubles. He was so charming. In the brightly lit room, his fluffy golden hair glowed like a halo around his face. His lips were rosy and delicately drawn—if he were a girl, such a mouth would be described as a rosebud. He was very much how she imagined her favorite Austen character, Mr. Bingley, and it wasn’t a coincidence that she had chosen to work next to him during class.
“Let’s see.” He was tapping his index finger against his chin as he feigned contemplation. “Well, I know that not one painter of classical paintings has ever seen a Greek god in the flesh. Hence, I declare that no, no personal experience is required to create something delightful.”
She hesitated. Did he truly believe the purpose of art was to be delightful? But he looked so pleased with his answer … and she could feel the attention of the other students shifting their way again, like ants scurrying toward a fresh carcass. Today, it irritated her. It had taken the young men months to not murmur and stare when she showed up during the lectures. Ruskin’s general drawing class was open to the public and welcomed both men and women without further ado, but a woman properly enrolled in his actual art history lectures? Scandalous. Next she’d want the vote. She did, actually. And a woman with permission to attend the academic drawing courses in the galleries? Shocking, even with her chaperoning aunt stitched to her side. Aunty was presently taking a nap in a specially provided wicker chair, cozy in a shaft of sunlight by the nearest window, and in no position to dole out withering glances.
Hattie caught a glimpse of her Persephone, looking so boring and bored, and her stomach squirmed.
“You see,” she whispered to Lord Skeffington, ignoring the ears straining toward them, “I read an essay by John Dewey a little while ago. He argues that art is art only when it succeeds at creating a shared human experience—a communication, if you will—between the work and the audience. If it doesn’t, it’s just an object.”
His lordship was blinking rapidly; she must have spoken too fast.
“There is a sense of recognition,” she tried again, “between the artist, whose art embodies a universal experience, and the personal experiences of the observer. A moment of strangers’ minds meeting?”
“Dewey, Dewey,” Lord Skeffington said, his expression polite. “The name is familiar—isn’t he American?”
“He is.”
“Ah.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “They usually have funny ideas.”
Funny? To her ears, it had rung true. And with her limited experiences, she might well create something delightful, but how could she create something that was also moving and true? If one’s spirit happened to be born into a female body in the upper classes, the leash was short. The nosy men in this room could draw directly from the rawness of the world if they wished, from ill-reputed or far-flung places she could never go. Acclaimed contemporary female painters existed—Evelyn De Morgan and Marie Stillman came to mind—but they hailed from artistic families or had been allowed to study in Paris. Besides, there was an expectation that women depicted quaint motifs. And while she liked her dresses frilly and her novels swoony, Hattie wanted something different for her art … She wanted … She supposed she foremost wanted.