The Artist’s Muse. Kerry Postle

How could I miss them? They’re plastered all over Vienna.

      ‘Do women really believe they’ll get the vote?’ It’s a woman’s voice that utters these words though I can’t put my finger on who she is.

      Then I hear her: ‘Please, Pauline. Really. It’s 1911. In this day and age women should surely have it.’

      Emilie Flöge’s voice fills me with both awe and hatred: her words are inspiring, but how can the woman, who saw my bloodstained hem and said nothing, possibly mean them?

      ‘There is to be a rally on the 18th of March and I for one shall be going,’ she adds. I make a mental note of the date as the Flöge sisters express their interest, all at the same time, their excitement at the prospect of a women’s rally now expressed in volume and speed so that, for a while, I am unable to pick out a single word.

      Then I get one. ‘Eman –’ I lose it: it comes again. ‘Eman –’ I strain to make it out, waiting for it to be said again. ‘Emancipation.’ That’s it. I’m not sure what the word means, but as I lie there listening to the conversation in the room across the way, it is bandied about with such relish, that I work out it has to mean something wonderful.

      ‘Oh yes, emancipation, Emilie, for women! Women have been shackled for centuries! It’s time for all of us to slip our chains.’ (I think that’s Helene.)

      As these words permeate my consciousness, lying there, next to Consuela, rubbing her back, it dawns on me how they apply to me, much more than to any Flöge sister, as I lie shackled to the bed in the studio, my insides pulled and constricted by fear. Fear to speak out for fear of losing my job. And over the Thursdays to come, as I lie there in my chains, soothing Consuela, remembering to leave the studio door open, the women’s words seep in with a key for my model’s manacles. I dare to hope that change is on its way.

      Though the fact the message is delivered via the likes of Emilie Flöge sticks in my throat.

      ***

      She might have been reduced to tears at having to go to French classes on her own but I learn that Emilie Flöge is a strong woman. She exercises a power over Gustav that changes the tone in the studio for a short while, impacting greatly on us all.

      We girls wear what we’re told are ‘clothes for liberated women’ for many of our modelling sessions at the moment, and the talk of emancipation has burst the four-walled banks of the living room and is now sloshing around under our feet in the studio, covering the floor in a slippery, insubstantial layer of hope, which, to walk on too enthusiastically, leaves a girl flat on the floor.

      That’s because even Gustav is talking the talk. And, after what’s happened, it’s difficult for me to take him too seriously (even though a part of me can’t help hoping the hope. Am I a fool to do so?). When I cast my eyes to the floor to avoid his gaze I am immediately reminded of how dangerous he can be, and I shudder at the memory. Besides, Gustav may be familiar with the individual words – words such as unity, liberty, rights – yet when he puts them together in a sentence he clearly has no understanding of what they really mean. Though if the women of the world united we’d soon see some improvements around here.

      The three Flöge sisters run a fashion house on the Mariahilferstrasse 1B, Casa Piccola, telephone 1621. It’s a very fashionable street. And they socialize with very fashionable women who wear their very fashionable clothes, which they buy from their very fashionable shop. I’ve seen portraits of Adele Bloch-Bauer and Sonia Knips around the studio – it always helps to put a face to a name. And Hilde’s been to their shop a few times – oh, but not to buy anything, just in case you’re wondering! She’s had to go there for Gustav.

      It’s ‘stunning’ and the interior is ‘so modern’. Should be, as Gustav got Jo and Kolo, his Wiener Werkstätte friends, to design it all. All right for some. Helene, Pauline, and Emilie: the very fashionable Flöges who want to free women with their exclusive designs and crusade against the foe with their prohibitively expensive made-to-measure range. United. Little matter that they don’t get on.

      Nevertheless, they’ve unwittingly introduced subversion into our fold by spreading the emancipated word, a word only ever intended for somewhere vague out there, to be passed around among educated women, never within their own kitchens, parlours, workrooms, and studios. Though they don’t tell you that part. No, I’ve worked that one out for myself.

      Consuela and I are early to the studio this morning. Earlier than usual. She’s in the final phase of her pregnancy and the studio has never looked so clean and ordered. It’s going to be a busy day. We’ve arrived even before Gustav has gone to have his usual breakfast at the Tivoli Café (it’s not far from the Schönbrunn Palace) and we listen to him while he waits for his horse-drawn carriage to arrive to take him there. I am not sure what to make of what he’s saying. Consuela laughs. I think she’s heard it all before.