Life Turns Ten - Part 4

(continued from April 13, 2009)

The young woman stepped into the ring of lamplight. Howarth remembered where he had seen her before: sleeping in the Depot as if waiting to catch a train. She would have been thrown out if she’d tried to beg for a few coins. "I just need a little food, sir. Can you help me?”

She was tracing-paper pale, a good Madonna. She wore no gloves, no shawl on her head. Her curly hair floated against the night sky. She wore broken-down old black shoes, but her eyes and lips were young.

“Miss, I do not live in town. I can give you a few coins, but that is all I can do. Perhaps I can help you to a women’s home? There is one not far from here.”

“Oh, no, sir, they don’t want me.”
“They will take anyone in need, miss.”

She thought about it for a few moments, biting her lower lip. She rubbed her eyes with a small hand and replied, “All right, sir, will you show me where it is?”

Howarth immediately felt he might have made a mistake. Maybe she was just the lure for a thug. He’d been taken in by this girl twice now, captivated by her in the Depot and here, on Second Avenue.

“Miss, let me flag down a hansom. There are still a few out.” He turned back, not finding a cab. The girl was gone. “Miss?” he called, and then louder, “MISS?” There was no sign of her. He began to look in doorways. Perhaps she was too shy to go with him. Perhaps she returned to her confederates. He did not want to get mixed up in that, and he had to get to his friend’s house.

Mr. E.Z. Mark by F.M. Howarth -- and what he did not want to be. Public domain.

A policeman saw Howarth standing on the corner. “Sir, may I help you?” Howarth mentioned the girl. “Who?” said the policeman. Howarth described her. The policeman turned pale. “You saw her here?” he asked. “Yes, just here, a moment ago. But earlier today, I’m sure I saw her in the Depot. I even started to sketch her.”

The policeman flagged down a hansom and put Howarth into it. “Go straight to your friend and stay there until morning,” the policeman ordered. “You shouldn’t be walking alone at night. Go home!”

Howarth thanked the patrolman and soon arrived at his friend's house. “Frank!” Silas cried. “Where have you been? I was expecting you hours ago!” They sat in the parlor sipping hot cider as Howarth told Silas about his day. “That’s enough commotion for a whole week,” Silas said. Howarth finally got around to his Madonna on Second Avenue. Silas sucked in his breath. “You haven’t read the New York papers lately, have you?”

(to be continued)

Lower East Side

I led a tour today of Manhattan's Lower East Side, one of the most densely-populated places in America in the late nineteenth century. Tides of immigrants stopped here, lived here, and most moved on. Others came to take their place.

There are so many ghosts thick in the air that the streets take on a life of their own. You can't distinguish the shade from the sunlight. A few parents roll baby carriages down the street. An old woman sits with her attendant on the sunny bench in front of the Abrons Art Center. Two men head to their synagogue. A Chinese baby naps in her stroller. It is so quiet. Everyone seems to be waiting, watching.

It is still Passover.

Life Turns Ten - Part 3

(continued from March 30, 2009)

F.M. Howarth got to Sardi’s just as the other illustrators were arriving. He had never met most of them and they were the stars of their day. Gibson was a household word; someday, for a brief time, Howarth would be, too. His “Funny Folk” and “Lulu and Leander” strips became well known and his witty captions once made people rock with laughter.

His hands trembled as he handed his heavy topcoat to the coat check attendant at the entrance to Sardi’s. He took the paper ticket and shoved it into the breast pocket of his suit coat as he walked into the bar. “Come and meet the other guests!” Van said. Howarth felt as though he were slowly pushing forward through a mist. Cigar smoke filled the air; men talked loudly, laughed, and whooped after hearing a good story. No women allowed. Van continued, “Fellows, this is young Franklin. He’s just started working for us. Watch your hides, boys! This one’s got real talent!”

Franklin blushed and the tremor in his hands grew stronger. He took a deep breath as Gibson chimed in. “Franklin drew the cartoons for the menu tonight.” “Oh my word,” Franklin replied. “You mean you printed those? They were just doodles, just ...”

“My boy, you know anything left on a sketchpad is fair game. I grabbed ‘em and we printed them on the menu. You’ll see ... .”

Howarth was elated but cautious. His quiet nature prevented him from saying much in the presence of the older illustrators. He moved along the bar to get a glass of Scotch. He soaked in the gaiety, conversation, the smell of men in suits and evening clothes. Since Howarth did not own an evening suit, he wore his Sunday best, which was good enough. No one seemed to care; in this crowd, only Gibson and Van were dressed for the opera. The other men came from business or their studios after cleaning up.

Several artists spoke with Howarth about his work, his models, where he lived, what he hoped to do in the future. The Great Gibson, as Howarth called him later, deigned to say hello and compliment the younger man on his wit. Soon they went into dinner and Howarth gasped when he saw the menu. With a cover drawn by Van, the menu placed Howarth’s sketches in the best possible company. All the tiny men and women that lived in his pen were on the elegant menu printed on thick, ecru card. The other illustrators signed his menu at the end of the evening, avoiding the splot of beef gravy that landed on it before dessert. Howarth held the menu in his hand carefully, as he put on his topcoat and prepared to leave. Tonight he would stay with his friend Silas Drew over in Turtle Bay – a close walk on a starry night.

Franklin gave a jaunty little wave as he left Sardi’s. He turned east and walked all the way to Second Avenue along 42nd Street. It was late, almost midnight, and only the bravest walkers were out on the street. Howarth turned up his collar and pulled his hat down more carefully onto his round head. In the light from the gas lamps, he picked his way through the leftover Christmas snow, moving quickly in the direction of Drew’s home.

As he prepared to cross Second Avenue and turn north, he saw someone coming up on his left side. When he turned, no one was there. “Must be the port,” he thought to himself. “Probably had a bit too much to drink. I won’t have anything with Silas. Just want to go to sleep when I get there ... .” Howarth kept moving along, peering into a window full of old clocks, a particular interest of his. In the glass, he caught sight of a someone standing behind him, a few steps away. A slight form, probably a woman or a tall child. Probably a streetwalker. He watched her as she watched him. He took a step away and she followed, hesitatingly. “Mister?” she said quietly. “Not interested, miss,” he replied. “No, no mister, it’s not like that. Mister, I’m hungry.”

Didn’t she know it was dangerous out here at night, all alone? Even her friends were huddled in their small rooms by now and the foot patrol had already passed this way an hour ago. The gas lamps did not cast much light, and the moon had become obscured by large clouds. Tomorrow, it would snow, Howarth thought. Tomorrow he would return to Philadelphia.

“Mister, please, can you help me? You seem like a gentleman.”

The young woman stepped into the ring of light cast by the streetlamp. Howarth remembered where he had seen her before. Of course – in the Depot. She was sleeping there today as if waiting to catch a train. She would have been thrown out if she’d tried to beg for a few coins. So here she was, on the street, all alone. “I just need a little food, sir. Can you spare a dime?”

(to be continued)

Life Turns Ten - Part 2

(continued from March 15)

Howarth turned back to his drawing. The girl had moved her head slightly, throwing off the angle from which Howarth viewed her a few minutes ago. He erased a few lines and continued. Soon he had a complete drawing of the young woman’s head and neck. He started to put away the pad. She slept on. “Hey, mister,” the young boy whispered.

“What? ... Say, aren’t you supposed to be back there on the bench with your mother?”

“She’s tending to the baby. She don’t know I’m here.”

Howarth was irritated by the boy’s question. He liked to work alone in his studio in Philadelphia.

* * *

He based his comic characters on himself and his family. His daughter, Edna, was a model -- a Philadelphia beauty at the age of 18. Here she is with Howarth’s granddaughter, Sara-Elizabeth, some years later. Edna has her father's eyes.

Photo courtesy of Floyd Smith Sanford. All rights reserved.

Exaggerated, dark eyes and bulbous noses on the men were Howarth’s trademarks. (He was kinder to women). His captions were witty but dated, reflecting the prejudices of Howarth’s era.

* * *

“You get right back there, young man. I don’t think she wants you to talk to strangers.”
“Oh, come on, mister, just lemme see that picture you did, the one of the lady.”
Howarth flipped open his drawing tablet and showed the sketch to the boy.

“Golly! It looks just like her!”
“Thank you,” Howarth replied.
“Can you draw me?” the boy asked.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Your mama wants you back on the bench, I’ll bet.” Howarth looked across the aisle to see the boy’s mother glaring. She came toward them with the baby in her arms.

“William, you come back here and stop bothering that man!”
“Aw, ma –"
“Come back and sit here with us. Don’t go bothering people!” She turned to Howarth. He could see how tired she was. “He’s just a curious boy, mister.”
“It’s all right, ma’am. He wanted to see what I was doing.”

Howarth showed her the drawing of the young woman. “Oh, my,” the boy’s mother breathed out in a sigh. “It’s her likeness!"
“I earn my living by making drawings that are printed in magazines.”
“You do? They pay you to make drawings?”
“Oh, yes, and they sell the copies at the newsstands. Like that one over there.”
“My, my, what people won’t buy! But that sure is a good picture, sir!”
“Why, thank you, ma’am.”

Howarth saw a group developing: the woman with the babe in her arms and the young boy grabbing her around the knees. “Ma’am, would you allow me to draw you and your children? I’ll give you the drawing – for free,” Howarth said.

“Sir, I never had my picture done. Don’t know if I should or not.”
“Why not? Let me just take a few minutes. Just stand there, just as you are. Now, don’t anyone move. Stay still now ...”

Howarth went on soothingly as he did a quick sketch of the outline of the little family group. The baby stirred. William tried to see what Howarth was doing, but his mother tugged on his collar as if to cement the boy to her knee. “Just a little while longer,” Howarth said. “Just a bit more here – “ he shaded with the edge of his pencil. “And there – “ he added some detail to the woman’s face. “And here – and it’s done!”

Howarth showed the drawing to the woman. She stood still and quiet, examining the picture. “Oh, my, sir, it’s all of us! Here we are, baby, and William, and me! The baby began to cry and William was getting restless. “Sir, thank you so very much. William, get our things or we’ll miss our train! We’re going to visit my mother. She paid for our tickets!”

“Madam, I hope you enjoy the drawing. William, thank you for being such a good subject,” Howarth said. He watched the woman roll the drawing carefully and tuck it into the bottom of one of her bags. “I’ll keep it clean like that,” she said. “That’s fine,” Howarth replied. “By the way, I signed my name on the bottom so you will remember me. There it is: F.M. Howarth.” “Howarth,” the woman repeated. “I don’t read too good, but I will remember your name. “So will I,” William chimed in. “I hope I see you again sometime.”

“I hope so, too, William,” the artist replied. The family walked toward the track and a porter helped the mother with her overstuffed bags. As Howarth watched them move on, he noticed from the clock in the reception hall that it was nearly 5:45. Time to get across town to his dinner! He noticed that the young woman was gone – too bad. That William was an inquisitive boy!

(to be continued)

Life Turns Ten

Franklin Morris Howarth was 29 years old when Life Magazine marked its tenth anniversary in 1893. The editors hosted a party at Sardi’s and all the major illustrators were there: Charles Dana Gibson, “Van,” A.B. Wenzell, “Chip.” Howarth, one of the youngest, also attended. He was yet to draw his most famous work for the Chicago Tribune and American Puck.

On an early January morning, Howarth set out for the dinner. He boarded a train in Buffalo after a weekend visit, knowing he would arrive hours early in Manhattan. He planned to spend his spare time sketching in Grand Central Depot. This was not the station of today; Howarth would not live to see it. (The white palace now on East 42nd Street has been there since 1913, a creation of the architects Carrere & Hastings and Stanford White.)

Grand Central Depot, in the public domain.

Tall, dark brick turrets marked the corners of Vanderbilt’s 1893 depot. A glass dome spanned the wide pedestrian walkways and alcoves. It was Vanderbilt’s pride and joy, the terminus of the New York Central Railway and the other smaller lines that the Commodore drew into his empire and from which he made his fortune. It was one of Howarth’s favorite places.

He found a seat in the grand waiting area on a polished wooden bench. All around him were women with small children, some sleeping, others crying. Several families were eating sandwiches out of a large sack; one young woman tipped her head back, eyes closed. She looked tired, thin, hungry. At least she was napping now. Perhaps she had worked all day as a typist or shop clerk. Howarth studied her face, her lips, her chin, her cheeks, and her curly dark brown hair. She stirred slightly, dreaming.

Howarth took a small white tablet and soft pencil from the pocket of his topcoat. It was cold, but the station was warmer than the streets. He began to draw the outline of the girl's face with loose strokes, shading a little here and there.

One of the children became fascinated by what Howarth was doing. He looked shyly over the artist’s shoulder. Deep in thought, Howarth didn’t even realize the boy was there until he said, “Hey, mister, whatcha doin’?” Howard said, “Sshhh! I’m drawing that lady, over there.” The boy asked why.

“She is very pretty. I like to draw people.” “Why don’t she wake up?” the boy pressed on. “I think she is very tired from working hard all day,” Howarth answered. “Do you think she is going home now?” the boy asked. “I don’t know,” replied Howarth. “Would you like to sit here while I finish my drawing?” “I have to ask my mama,” the boy replied, and ran off to the opposite bench. The woman looked over at Howarth suspiciously and forced the boy down on the bench next to her.

Howarth turned back to his drawing. The girl had moved her head slightly, throwing off the angle from which Howarth viewed her a few minutes ago. He erased a few lines and continued. Soon he had a complete drawing of the young woman’s head and neck. He started to put away the pad. She slept on. “Hey, mister,” the young boy whispered.

“What? ... Say, aren’t you supposed to be back there on the bench with your mother?”

“She’s tending to the baby. She don’t know I’m here.”

(to be continued)

Life before Video

Today I went to 31 Chambers Street to search for a probated will. Business done, I took time to look again at the incredible architecture of this building, used often for "Law and Order" interior shots. The monumental open staircases, sweeping marble banisters, intricate metal ornamentation, and complex murals make this a feast for the eyes. One can only look -- no photographs allowed in the lobby.

Behind the video monitor outside the door of the Municipal Archives is a fascinating dark space. Look in -- it's as if all but the corner of a curtain had been dropped to the floor. In the dimness, I saw ceiling vaults decorated with peacock blue-green mosaic tiles, splashed up on the walls like vines, cordoned off into the darkness.

Take a look sometime, behind the video monitor. Something will draw you there.

Out of Joint

I hate the time change! Whether we lose or gain an hour, everything is thrown off for days. How can I convince myself that it's "really" ten a.m. when the clock says eleven, or vice versa? Our departed cats never adjusted; they ran on feline time.

I wonder what the folks who live in the golden land on the other side of the moon think about this. Perhaps they are laughing at our foolish attempts to reset the moon and stars for our own ends. I'm sure all the cats in heaven can't be bothered to scoff at our silliness. It's time for a nap.