The Great Outdoors

The Wadsworth Atheneum at night was Clara’s happy place. Even now, after weeks of visiting, it never failed to make her smile. As she approached the museum after sunset, notebook and pencil in hand, her eyes drifted to the twin turrets flanking the entrance, marvelling at how untouched by time they appeared. Two spotlights crept up the length of the Atheneum, illuminating the stone-coloured structure in all its glory. The streets were quiet, and the museum was quieter still. Yes, this was her happy place.

Clara headed straight for her favourite room in the museum, her footsteps echoing as she passed through the different exhibitions. She began to slow down once she saw the deep teal walls and arched white ceilings of the ‘Inspiration Room’ – or so she called it. Works of different shapes, sizes, and subjects lined the room, scaling from floor to ceiling. Most had decadent gold frames, contrasting perfectly with the earth-toned paintings of various artists-gone-by. Clara sat on the solitary central bench - with matching teal upholstery - and opened her book to sketch. She had hoped that being surrounded by great art would inspire her, though she often found herself distracted by its beauty, and dreamt of her own work joining these famous walls.

As she daydreamed of sketching water lilies by the river, just like Monet, her pencil clattered to the floor, startling her back to reality. But before she could bend over to pick it up, an outstretched hand met her face.

“Your pencil, Miss”

Clara jumped a second time, for she hadn’t seen a soul at the museum, let alone heard one come into the room. Looking up, she took in his shoes first – they were made of shiny brown leather, which matched his stiff brown trousers. Next came a bottle-green overcoat, then a face framed by a high collar and a curled combover; she was surprised to find him rather handsome.

“Thank you! I’m always losing them” Clara laughed, as she stared awkwardly at the man.

“You’re welcome. So, I see you’re sketching – do you mind?” The man gestured towards Clara’s black notebook. Slightly taken aback, Clara held on tighter.

“I’m not sure, they’re not very good” She looked down in embarrassment.

“Let me be the judge of that” The man’s hand remained outstretched, until Clara relented and passed over the book. As he flicked through the pages, his frown grew deeper, with slight murmurs of approval or disapproval – Clara couldn’t tell – being the only sounds he made. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up at her and closed the book.

“You have potential, that’s for sure. But whoever’s teaching you is not letting you reach that potential” He shrugged, “Your work is stifled”.

“What do you mean?” Clara didn’t know what to make of this man and his opinions.

The man continued, “Let’s look at your first sketch.” He flicked the book open, pointing at a forest she had drawn, “The branches look like they don’t move in the wind” He turned the page, “And here, the waterfall, it’s supposed to be gushing down, foaming at the mouth, exploding at the base, but to me it looks like a...a…”

“A lazy river?” Clara raised an eyebrow.

He sighed, “Like I say, I see the potential. You have everything a casual artist does – the elements, the proportions, the perspective – but not the key of a true artist. The passion is missing. And you can’t let this Mr McCray hold you back!” Clara thought this man must be a psychic to know her tutor’s name, until she saw him pointing to where she had written it on the notebook’s cover.

“It’s not him holding me back, it’s me! I just can’t seem to make my work special. I don’t know if it’s the pressure of the scholarship or what, but you’re right. My work is boring.” It was Clara’s turn to sigh.

“What scholarship?”

“My art school offered me a partial scholarship to study in Paris in 2022 - probably to help me improve - but I still need to find the money to go. My only chance is winning the annual auction competition, where they sell your piece at auction as the prize, but I have zero chance with the talent at that school, let alone selling for enough” Clara looked up, “You don’t happen to have $10,000 spare, do you?”

“Don’t you think you ought to know my name before you ask for money?” They chuckled together, “It’s Tom, before you ask. And you're Clara, judging by the cover of this lovely notebook” Clara smiled and nodded, all fear of stranger-danger forgotten.

Tom continued, “Now, I don’t have that kind of money. However, I am a pretty good artist, if I do say so myself. If you want, I’d be more than happy to help with your sketching” He winked, “And maybe we can give you a chance at this competition instead” Hope rushed through Clara, and she didn’t hesitate to accept the offer. After all, what harm could it do?

Tom clapped his hands, “Great! In that case, meet me here tomorrow, same time - and bring more pencils!” He stood up and said goodbye, before wandering to a different exhibition, humming as he went. Clara left that evening with a stride in her step, despite her money worries – if she could 'find her passion’, as Tom had said, maybe her dreams of being a famous artist weren’t so out of reach after all.

As promised, Clara waited for Tom on the bench, with a host of lead and coloured pencils alike.

“Wow, you don’t do things by halves!” Tom exclaimed upon finding her, his eyes alight at the array.

“Well, I’m ready to learn!” She beamed at him, opening her notebook on a smooth, blank page and handing it over.

“Oh no, no, no. I’m not taking over. I want to see how you draw, in real time.” Clara gulped, sudden nerves clutching her like the grip on a pencil.

“Alright, if you must…” She steadied herself, and thought of the most luscious landscape she could picture. It had rolling hills littered with pink, yellow, white daisies, cotton-candy clouds floating through a delicate purple sky, full-bodied trees swaying in…

“Stop!” Tom’s voice cut across her thoughts, “Your clouds need to look voluminous, almost like a swelling – take your pencil and create the curves…yes, like that…a little rounder, every edge needs rounding…now gently shade into the cloud, creating small inner circles from the white background – that’s how you get the illusion of fullness” He guided her hand every step of the way, without touching the pencil once.

“Now, I like your flowers, but we need more variety – nature isn’t perfect. I need more colours, different shapes, sizes…”

They continued in this way, Clara drawing and Tom perfecting, until she had produced the vision she had in her head – with a few tweaks, of course.

“How did you do that?!” Clara grinned with pride when she took in the finished product.

“You mean, how did you do that?” Tom smiled. “It’s nowhere near perfect yet, but you’re improving already. We’ll call it a night there”

“Already? But I want to carry on!”

“Same time tomorrow, I promise” He smiled knowingly, before walking away.

Many weeks and multiple sketches later, Clara and Tom met in the Inspiration room as usual. But this time, he told Clara to put her pencils away.

“Clara, I think you’re ready”

Her nerves came creeping back again, just like on her first day drawing with Tom.

“No, I can’t be. There’s still so much to learn…” She looked down in dismay at her notebook, which was now brimming with sketches.

“I think we both know that’s not true” He looked at her with a sad smile, “I need you to put everything into practice, and draw for your life. Show McCray you deserve to win, just like I think you do. You said the deadline is in two weeks, so you’d better get started tonight”

Clara nodded, “I can’t thank you enough, Tom”

“Thank me by getting to that auction!”

With a cheerful smile, he disappeared, as always, into the depths of the museum, leaving Clara alone with her little black notebook.

13 days later

Clara knew she was cutting it fine, but she had truly created a masterpiece. She had taken everything Tom had said and poured it into her work, revisiting the very first sketch she had done with him. And when she knocked on Mr McCray’s door to hand in her piece, his face said everything she needed to know.

“My God Clara, is this your work?”

Clara felt like saying no, despite that fact that her hands ached with callouses and her arms were flecked with every colour imaginable. Tom was the soul of her inspiration, after all.

“Yes, and I’d like to enter it into the competition”

“I’m so sorry, Clara, but…” He paused. “You missed the deadline. It was yesterday”

Clara felt her heart drop into the depths of her stomach, as her knees resisted the urge to buckle. After everything she had put into this piece…how could this be?

“Isn’t there anything you can do? Anything?”

Mr McCray considered this paint-splattered girl standing in his doorway, with the most magnificent work he’d seen of someone her age. There was only one thing for it.

“We’ve already selected the winner for the competition, so you can’t take their place. But maybe…just maybe…I might be able to pull a few strings and get you in”

“REALLY?” Clara’s shattered heart now soared, higher than ever before – a place at the auction was like gold dust.

“Before you get too excited, someone’s got to buy it first” McCray remarked – but the look in his eyes betrayed his own excitement.

One step closer.

Auction day

The bustle of the art crowd in The Wadsworth Atheneum was almost deafening. Hoards of art buyers crowded in the American Art section to bid on piece after beautiful piece – but Clara could scarcely pay attention, as her nerves built up inside her. Once the sun began to set, she knew her piece would be coming soon – and there it was, mounted on the stage for all to see. Clara held her breath.

“Here we have The Great Outdoors, by Clara Williams. I’ll start the bidding at $1000”

“Here!” A shout from the crowd

“Do I hear $2000?” The auctioneer beckoned the buyers.

“Here!”

“Any advances on $2000?”

“$5000!” Clara gasped in amazement, looking for the face to match the voice. But she was soon distracted as the calls kept coming, thousands upon thousands adding to the total.

It was a mere 30 seconds until she had reached her target of $10,000. Adrenaline rushed through her veins - her dreams were coming true. But it wasn’t over yet.

“$15,000!”

“We have $15,000! Any advances?” The auctioneer scoured the room.

“$20,000”

Silence followed; no one dared challenge this bidder. Clara felt a shockwave go through her, as she heard the echoes of, “Going once, going twice…”

Her painting had sold for double of what she needed for Paris.

“Congratulations, Clara!” Mr McCray’s voice broke through her stupefied state, and she turned to face him, mouth agog. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet”

A wizened old man shook Clara’s hand, “I’m the one who bought your painting. It’s just marvellous, young lady – I can tell you’ve done your research on the Hudson River School movement! You may as well be the reincarnation of Thomas Cole!” He pointed to the wall behind Clara, and she turned to look.

There, in a resplendent emerald frame, was the painting of a face she recognised; right down to the curled combover.

“That’s Tom!” She exclaimed, rushing closer to read the inscription underneath the portrait.

“This exhibition is dedicated to the loyal friend of Daniel Wadsworth, and the father of the Hudson River School movement;

Thomas Cole

- 1801-1848”