was handsome in the way of the cutest male high school teacher, and the moment Georgia met him she fell for him, and he for her.
On Memorial Day, Stieglitz, Strand, and some other photographer who isnât important to the story took a trolley to Coney Island. Georgia was in a swoon. At twenty-nine, the Patsy OâKeeffe part of Georgiaâs personality, the fun-loving Irish girl who liked to dance and pull pranks, had been allowed to atrophy. Years earlier Georgia had realized that there were only so many hours in the day, and that if she stayed out late dancing, she wouldnât be able to paint the next day. Sheâd begun to understand both time and emotional energy were art supplies, every bit as important as fine brushes and high-quality paint. She simply never allowed herself to have fun like this. On the trolley ride home, Stieglitz wrapped OâKeeffe in his heavy loden cape to keep her warm. Georgia couldnât help but view Stieglitz as avuncular. He was old enough to be her father, with iron-gray hair and a well-upholstered marriage made in the last century.
Back she went to Canyon. Now she had a new correspondent, the adorable and age-appropriate Paul Strand. He was bewitched by her and, moreover, their work bore striking similarities. They were a generation younger than Stieglitz, and their sensibilities were completely modern. After the 1913 Armory Show, Strand became interested in cubism. A few months after Georgia had made her charcoal Specials, Strand found a set of bowls in the kitchen and began photographing them in clusters in extreme close-up. The black-and-white pictures were hypnotic, the shadows as important to the composition as the objects themselves. Georgia had made the first abstract paintings, Strand, the first abstract photographs.
Georgiaâs second year in Canyon was not as magical as the first. Around Christmastime things began to go bad. In April America had entered World War I, and a shop in Canyon was selling letâs-slaughter-the-Germans Christmas cards. When Georgia wrote a letter to the shop owner saying that this sentiment wasnât in keeping with the season, or, for that matter, Christianity, word spread that she was against the war. It was more than tiny, conservative Canyon could take.
Something happened in February upon which no one quite agrees: Either it was suggested she take a leave of absence, or else she came down with the flu. Even though the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 was not quite under way, then as now, a lot of people said flu when they meant a really bad cold. Georgia left Canyon for the ranch belonging to her friend, Leah Harris, in Waring, Texas. She was allegedly recovering from her illness there, but in one letter she reports that after gardening, cooking, cleaning, and sewing, she walked to town and back.
In New York, Stieglitz, a hypochondriac of some renown, read the word flu in one of her letters and panicked. He started to obsess, something he had plenty of time to do because heâd been forced to close 291 for lack of funding. He was at loose ends, without a cultural battle to wage. Heâd convinced the world that photography could be fine art, as well as the seemingly nonsensical cubes and lines of Picasso, the sinuous shapes of Matisse, Cézanneâs rough-hewn apples and pears. Now, he was being nudged aside by younger artists. Now, modern art had a number of supporters. He was depressed. At home, his marriage had deteriorated. He was sleeping in the study.
Stieglitz knew that Strand was also smitten with Georgia. The only enjoyable moments of his day were spent comparing notes with Strand about Georgia. The more they discussed her and her âflu,â the more important it seemed to rescue her from Texas and bring her to New York. A plan was hatched: Strand would go to Texas and bring Georgia back, at Stieglitzâs bidding. The old alpha dog had roused himself and decided it was time to act. Strand arrived in
On Memorial Day, Stieglitz, Strand, and some other photographer who isnât important to the story took a trolley to Coney Island. Georgia was in a swoon. At twenty-nine, the Patsy OâKeeffe part of Georgiaâs personality, the fun-loving Irish girl who liked to dance and pull pranks, had been allowed to atrophy. Years earlier Georgia had realized that there were only so many hours in the day, and that if she stayed out late dancing, she wouldnât be able to paint the next day. Sheâd begun to understand both time and emotional energy were art supplies, every bit as important as fine brushes and high-quality paint. She simply never allowed herself to have fun like this. On the trolley ride home, Stieglitz wrapped OâKeeffe in his heavy loden cape to keep her warm. Georgia couldnât help but view Stieglitz as avuncular. He was old enough to be her father, with iron-gray hair and a well-upholstered marriage made in the last century.
Back she went to Canyon. Now she had a new correspondent, the adorable and age-appropriate Paul Strand. He was bewitched by her and, moreover, their work bore striking similarities. They were a generation younger than Stieglitz, and their sensibilities were completely modern. After the 1913 Armory Show, Strand became interested in cubism. A few months after Georgia had made her charcoal Specials, Strand found a set of bowls in the kitchen and began photographing them in clusters in extreme close-up. The black-and-white pictures were hypnotic, the shadows as important to the composition as the objects themselves. Georgia had made the first abstract paintings, Strand, the first abstract photographs.
Georgiaâs second year in Canyon was not as magical as the first. Around Christmastime things began to go bad. In April America had entered World War I, and a shop in Canyon was selling letâs-slaughter-the-Germans Christmas cards. When Georgia wrote a letter to the shop owner saying that this sentiment wasnât in keeping with the season, or, for that matter, Christianity, word spread that she was against the war. It was more than tiny, conservative Canyon could take.
Something happened in February upon which no one quite agrees: Either it was suggested she take a leave of absence, or else she came down with the flu. Even though the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 was not quite under way, then as now, a lot of people said flu when they meant a really bad cold. Georgia left Canyon for the ranch belonging to her friend, Leah Harris, in Waring, Texas. She was allegedly recovering from her illness there, but in one letter she reports that after gardening, cooking, cleaning, and sewing, she walked to town and back.
In New York, Stieglitz, a hypochondriac of some renown, read the word flu in one of her letters and panicked. He started to obsess, something he had plenty of time to do because heâd been forced to close 291 for lack of funding. He was at loose ends, without a cultural battle to wage. Heâd convinced the world that photography could be fine art, as well as the seemingly nonsensical cubes and lines of Picasso, the sinuous shapes of Matisse, Cézanneâs rough-hewn apples and pears. Now, he was being nudged aside by younger artists. Now, modern art had a number of supporters. He was depressed. At home, his marriage had deteriorated. He was sleeping in the study.
Stieglitz knew that Strand was also smitten with Georgia. The only enjoyable moments of his day were spent comparing notes with Strand about Georgia. The more they discussed her and her âflu,â the more important it seemed to rescue her from Texas and bring her to New York. A plan was hatched: Strand would go to Texas and bring Georgia back, at Stieglitzâs bidding. The old alpha dog had roused himself and decided it was time to act. Strand arrived in
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