Unlikely Paradise. Alan D. Butcher

the decisions of others when you’ve learned, when you know what to do, and what you’re capable of doing. Then, and only then, can you go your own way.

      Good news followed bad, as good news often does. She was told, after X-rays and a lot of medieval poking and prodding, that she had a stomach ulcer. Then she received a letter from her Toronto patrons inviting her up for the weekend. Reports from the doctors in early April were happily positive, so her days in Toronto were carefree. “Lunch with The Girls. Oh, it was so wonderful to see them all!” She also took time to see the administrators of Tannamakoon, the summer camp in Algonquin Park, and firm up her position as counsellor for the summer months. “It felt so wonderful, spiritually, to get all my problems settled. The ulcer seems to be a thing of the past, summer camp is ahead of me, and I’ll be back in New York with a scholarship, I hope.”

      Notwithstanding his mention of a scholarship, Zorach was not wildly enthusiastic about offers of financial assistance. “I do not believe in subsidies to artists,” he said firmly. “There is only one way to subsidize art, and that is to buy it.” But Frances did not subscribe to this at all. “That’s all very well and good, I suppose, among established artists,” she said, “but it doesn’t work so well if you’re a penniless student who isn’t going anywhere without assistance.”

      This, though, was a passing response to Zorach’s views; things were going too well for her to entertain negative thoughts for long. “Work is coming along better than ever, and it’s nice to know that my stomach is officially all right. Now,” she exulted, “now for some food!” She spent the weekend in New Rochelle “and ate too much.”

      She sent in her letter for the scholarship on the nineteenth of April, then banished it from her mind in the flurry of work on Melba, a piece that excited her immensely and gained Zorach’s approval: “You have improved a lot this year!” Hovannes, too, liked her Melba: “It’s the best yet,” he said. And the final accolade: “The Art Students League,” said Frances, “have taken an option on my Melba! That means they want to buy it! I am walking on air!”

      After a celebratory supper with friends, she returned home late after perhaps a couple too many. “Woke up feeling terrible. Guess I shouldn’t drink so much. But …” She brightened. “… tonight the committee will decide on my scholarship.”

      Later she met her friend Rowlie (Joan Rowland) for lunch, and they walked along the East River. It was a crisply cool April day and the sun sparkled on the river as they sat on a bench, watched the boats, and reminisced of their days in Ontario and at Tannamakoon summer camp. “Rowlie was a great pianist, international reputation, toured all over Europe. She studied under Mona Bates in that big old Massey mansion on Jarvis Street —519 Jarvis Street, where Barbara Howard and I lived after we graduated from the Ontario College of Art.” Publicity photographs of Joan Rowland show a wide happy smile, lots of teeth. “Rowlie was kind of fat, freckles. She looked just like a little girl — until she sat down at that big grand piano. I met her at Tannamakoon. She was a good swimmer.”

      Rowlie laughed, recalling the days at the camp. “Remember the time I almost drowned you?” she said. “Talked you into swimming way out.”

      “Remember?!” said Frances. “How could I forget? I could have died!”

      “Come on. I towed you in, didn’t I?”

      More laughter as Frances cried, “How very considerate of you!”