Dancing for Degas A Novel by Kathryn Wagner

Author:Kathryn Wagner
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: ePub Bud (www.epubbud.com)
Published: 2010-11-30T22:00:00+00:00

“As do I.” He moves toward the front door, then abruptly turns back to me, practically bumbling. “Actually, I’m going to be attending the Salon tomorrow. It is a horrid art exhibit, but a popular event nonetheless. Perhaps you would like to go with me?”

No. 16 Scène:

The Annual Salon

E dgar had downplayed the Salon so much I’m astounded to see it’s the social event of the year. Posters advertising the exhibit are plastered on all buildings leading to the show, creating a medley of colors. I feel so lucky to be accompanying Edgar as we enter the building and begin to walk, arm in arm, through eight miles of paintings. It’s impossible to move with crowds blocking the hall, but I wouldn’t trade the slow pace with its starts and stops for anything. It gives me more time to be beside Edgar, gently bumping into him when the crowd comes to a halt. Still under the spell from the evening at his home, I had broken down at practice this morning and told Noella that my interest in him has extended beyond friendship. She clapped her hands in delight to hear that he has finally opened his eyes, but warned me to tread carefully. Being close to him today, I don’t heed her advice as I imagine the two of us like this for the rest of our lives, inseparable, a fixture at every prominent exhibit in Paris.

“I had no idea this would be so grand,” I say to him, as I rest my closed parasol on my shoulder.

“Don’t be so excited,” he laughs. “The Salon is known for insignificant paintings, but artists obsess about being accepted into it.”

“So it’s not an honor to have your work exhibited here?” I ask.

“Hardly!” he laughs. “It does give artists some recognition. But the real dream is the Louvre. Any artist who tells you he has not spent endless afternoons studying the paintings at the Louvre is a liar. That, my dear, is the ultimate recognition.”

I look at him in confusion. “If the Salon has such a bad reputation, then why do more people not exhibit in smaller circles as you do?”

“Not everyone has the advantages that I do,” he explains. “Most artists are not able to bring collectors to their homes and studios. The studios in Montmartre, for example, are unfit for any human. I can’t imagine bringing a collector there!”

Once I’d become especially brave when exploring the city and crossed over to Montmartre, mesmerized by the windmills I saw in the distance. After climbing a hill so steep stairs had to be built into it, I saw a whole street lined with dilapidated little shacks held up by leaning pieces of wood. Beggars dotted the street and chickens ran wild in the yards, reminding me of Luce’s childhood home, only worse.

“Each time I visit those studios I’m afraid that the walls will collapse,” Edgar says. “Inside is even worse. The kitchen and bedroom sit right in the studio. There is something reassuring about them, though.

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