Frank had begged his father to let him study art in Paris. His teachers at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts school told him as much. To no avail. His father was dead set against it. His mother would side with her husband, though secretly she wished young Frank could go. The training that might ensure his success was slipping away from him.
The morning of his 21st birthday, Frank woke restless. A walk to the coastline was just the thing. He roused his brother and off they went to photograph ducks in the reeds near the swamp. He got back late that afternoon and had to change for dinner.
The house was abuzz, his little sisters tormenting each other until he yelled at them to stop. Downstairs the family was already at the table, dishes clattering, maids ferrying in food. The girls chattered, and his father clinked a wine glass with his spoon.
“Quiet, children. Frank, we have something to tell you,” his father said in his baritone, and handed him an envelope. “Inside you’ll find a ticket to Paris, where you are to study. Your teachers have recommended Académie Julian for you, and that’s where you’ll go.”
“Th-thank you!” Frank looked at his mother in gratitude. She had persuaded his father. His parents had succumbed to their artist son’s lobbying, the opinions of their culturally minded friends, and the endorsement of his teachers Otto Grundemann, a German portraitist and figure painter, and Frederick Crowninshield, his life class teacher.
“There’s also a check in there. Use it wisely, for there won’t be any more. Work hard, and come home when the money runs out. And for heaven’s sakes Frank, make us proud!”
Top Photograph: The Louvre, 1895
