Rolland Golden: Life, Love, and Art in the French Quarter

By Rolland Golden

In the early twentieth century, the French Quarter had become home to a vibrant community of working artists attracted to the atmosphere, architecture, and colorful individuals who populated the scene (and who also became some of its first preservationists). Louisiana native Rolland Golden was one of these artists to live, work, and raise a family in this most storied corner of New Orleans. With 94 black-and-white and 54 color photographs and illustrations, his memoir of that life focuses on the period of 1955 to 1976. Golden, a painter, discusses the particular challenges of making a living from art, and his story becomes a family affair involving his daughters and his beloved wife, Stella.

Golden's studio sat in a patio on Royal Street, around the corner from Preservation Hall where old-time musicians played Dixieland Jazz. Golden sketched and painted many of them in a visual style that encompassed realism and gradually developed into abstract realism. Golden recalls work that he did in historic preservation, sketching architecture for publications such as the Vieux Carre Courier, and he discusses his studies with renowned regionalist painter John McCrady. The artist frankly discusses his experiences with the display, representation, and sale of his work, presenting a little-explored and yet crucial part of a working artist's life. The memoir concludes with Golden and his wife traveling to the premiere of his exhibition in Moscow, having been selected by a Russian envoy as the only American artist to have a one-man touring exhibition in the former Soviet Union. Among the nearly 150 black-and-white and color illustrations are never-before-seen photos and sketches by the artist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: University Press of Mississippi
• Release date: Aug 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781626743816

Rolland Golden

Rolland Golden, Folsom, Louisiana, and Natchez, Mississippi, has won countless awards from New York to California. He has held over one hundred one-man shows in galleries, cultural centers, and museums in the U.S. His works reside in museums such as the New Orleans Museum of Art; the Pushkin Museum, Moscow; and the Ogden Museum of Southern Art.

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Rolland Golden

Rolland on Guam by a Quonset hut, 1953.

PROLOGUE

Meeting Stella, June 1953

When I first walked into the mess hall at the communication center on Guam, back in the fall of 1951, I thought, Dear God, where have you sent me?

There I was, this young guy fresh out of naval boot camp and looking at a group made up of 60 or 70 percent World War II veterans who had joined the reserves and been called back to duty by the government because of the Korean War. They were a sight to behold: shirts hanging out, walking in flip-flops, long hair, and beards, they were disheveled. This was definitely not boot camp.

While on Guam, I received a Dear John letter from my then girlfriend, Drusilla, which said: Sorry, but while you’ve been gone I found someone else; hope you understand. Sure, I understand. He’s there and I’m here; end of story.

Now after twenty months on this rock, as we called all islands, I was finally being sent back to the states, and to New Orleans, for an extended leave. My parents were planning a welcome home party. A few days before the party, my mother saw one of our neighbors at the bus stop. It was Mrs. Doussan, who lived across the street from us; mom invited the Doussan family to the party and inquired, Don’t you have a beautiful daughter?

I do have a daughter—Stella.

Please let her know she’s invited as well.

I will, said a happy Mrs. Doussan.

So now the girl, from literally across the street, had been invited to my party. The first piece of my future had been put in place.

Stella had heard that I was a number of years older than her but apparently didn’t know exactly how many. She had seen my father cutting grass in his undershirt—little pot belly showing, bald head glistening in the sun. She thought that was me! When her mother told her the entire Doussan family had been invited to my coming home party she, naturally, objected.

I don’t want to go to a party for an old man!, she said forcefully. Her mother wouldn’t budge and insisted she go. Stella bristled.

But I have a date, she complained.

Bring him with you, responded Mrs. Doussan.

God bless you, Mrs. Doussan. When her daughter, Miss Stella Anne Doussan, came into the backyard, boyfriend in tow, I was dazzled by her fair complexion, reddish blonde hair, and tall figure. As an added kicker, she had green eyes and lips that needed to be kissed—by me, perhaps. The boyfriend looked about twelve years old compared to her and stood passively by while we talked. We introduced ourselves, and I could see by the look in those green eyes that she was pleasantly surprised that I was NOT my father.

After a short conversation, my mother’s mother, Grandma Evans, came right out and asked if Stella and her boyfriend would like to see some of my artwork. They said yes and disappeared into the house. Soon they came back out with Grandma Evans, who we simply called grandma, and walked up to me. Grandma, somehow, with the boyfriend standing right beside her, induced Stella to invite me to her house the next day. Is that all right? I asked Stella.

Yes. I’ll be home all day.

See you then. I was happy to agree—my dance card was currently empty.

The next day I walked across the street and up the long driveway to the Doussans’ house. Stella was sitting in the shade of the carport, dressed in pants cut off just below the knees, and a short-sleeved shirt. Once again, I was struck by the way the sun hit her fair skin. After twenty months of dark-brown Guamanian skin, it was striking to see such a fair complexion. I sat next to her and we chatted for a few minutes. Stella was completely different from my former girlfriend; Drusilla, or Drue as I called her, was olive-complexioned, with big brown eyes and black hair.

Our conversation went well; Stella seemed perfectly comfortable with me, as was I with her. So without beating around the bush, as dad would say, I asked her for a date the next night and she said yes. Thus, we began an on-again, off-again relationship, conducted both up close and, at times, at long range.

Stella on her parents’ lawn, Selma Street, 1953.

We hadn’t talked long enough to judge personality, but she seemed pleasant and fun to be with, and I detected just a bit of feistiness beneath the surface, just the way I liked—but redheads are usually pretty fiery anyway, in my opinion.

I assumed Stella was eighteen, just three years younger than me, but on our third date I decided I’d better ask how old she was. Imagine my surprise when she answered sixteen. My God! I wondered if I could be arrested for dating a child! I still dated her—deciding to take a chance, since we were not acting completely on our attraction.

We had lots of enjoyable times together, and our personalities seemed well-suited to each other’s; we were certainly well-suited physically, obviously finding each other attractive. Stella and I went dancing at several places, and no one ever asked for her ID card because she looked older, plus they weren’t as strict in those days in New Orleans. We went to see the Basin Street Six; my friend Pete Fountain was on clarinet. It was the most popular Dixieland band in town, and Pete went on to national prominence.

Dad had bought a car while I was on Guam, and now that I had a driver’s license, Stella’s and my favorite thing to do was park on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain—that large body of water north of the city that emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. Along the bank were concrete steps, and there were numerous parking places just yards from the water. There we necked, as we called it, until I had to take her home; my worries about her being sixteen were long forgotten. Also, Mom reminded me that she’d married dad at that age and just over nine months later had me, only three days after her seventeenth birthday. Dad was ten years older than mom, and it hadn’t seemed to hurt their marriage.

Rolland and Stella in front of his parents’ house, Selma Street, 1953.

Over the last three weeks of my leave, Stella and I saw each other almost every day or talked on the telephone. After all, she was tall, slim, reddish blonde, and beautiful. I was twenty-one and, whatever color Stella’s hair, she was definitely mature enough for an old guy like me.

As the time approached for me to report for duty, the more passionate our feelings for each other became. We tried not to count the remaining days but couldn’t help ourselves. The very last night before leaving, I encouraged her to date other guys; she was too young to be tied to one person who’d be thousands of miles away. This was the only troublesome consideration in our relationship. She was mature for sixteen, but she was still sixteen. She was reluctant, but finally agreed. Later, she told me she was mad at me but tried not to let me know. She succeeded. The next evening, before I boarded a plane for San Francisco, we gave each other a long kiss, holding each other as tight as we could. And we’ve been holding each other tight ever since.

CHAPTER 1

March 1955: Discharged from the Navy

The plane began to slowly descend as it made its final approach to the New Orleans airport. The sun was below the horizon, but the sky above and around us was bright; below, the earth was enveloped in darkness, with sprinkles of lights here and there. As I pressed my head against the window looking forward, I could see the glow of the New Orleans sky.

I was about to resume my civilian life again, but not as it was before—that was impossible. Too much had happened to me during my four years in the navy. I was changed forever; older, wiser, and certainly no longer naïve. As we flew over the Mississippi River, descending more rapidly, the city seemed to be alive, its multitude of lights akin to corpuscles in a body—a giant mother receiving her children. The wheels touched the landing strip, bounced once, then settled down to begin its taxi to the small air terminal. This would be the last day I would wear my navy uniform unless, God forbid, we were forced into war again. I was leaving with the rating of second class petty officer, which is the equivalent to a staff sergeant in the marines or army.

Descending the steps from the plane, I walked towards a fence behind which scores of people waited for family or friends to appear. As I neared the gate, I saw four people waiving to me: Dad, Mom, my brother Donald, and Stella. I was home!

◆ ◆ ◆

Three months later, in June 1955, I sat in a straight back chair in the office of John McCrady, director of the John McCrady Art School. I was there to be interviewed regarding enrollment in the school on a full-time basis. The school taught fine and applied art, my reason for selecting this school.

Rolland, age six, by the family car, Grenada, Mississippi, 1937.

I’ll never be able to do anything this good, I said to myself as I slowly reviewed the walls. They were covered with very adept drawings of nudes, both male and female. I must be nuts! Slowly I rose from my chair, deciding to slip out and forget about art. But just as I stood, Mr. McCrady came in and sat down behind his desk. He was a man probably in his mid to late forties with a receding hair line of dark black hair, a dark black mustache, and deep brown eyes with heavy black eyebrows. Courtesy demanded that I go through with the interview, so I shook his hand and sat back down. It would prove to be yet another in a series of events that directed me to pursue a career in art.

So, I understand you want to enroll in our little art school. said Mr. McCrady. He smiled.

Yes sir.

Why?

I hesitated, and then answered: I’ve been interested in art for as long as I can remember. I was a sickly child, with asthma and severe anemia, so I spent a lot of time at home, missing school, and frankly, I enjoyed nothing more than drawing and painting what fascinated me. My dad was very talented in art and I believe he passed some of that on to me. I’d watch him paint, then get my pencils and paper, and draw.

Mr. McCrady leaned back in his chair, saying: And you kept this interest up through high school?

Yes, as well as one semester in college, until I joined the navy. It was four years without art, but now that I’ve finished my duty, I still want to give art a serious try.

Good. We’ll certainly do all we can to teach you the basics and beyond; getting you on the right track.

After our conversation, he gave me a tour of his school, walking me into the large room next to his office. Several students were assiduously working on paintings or charcoal drawings of still-life arrangements. On the side of the painting storage space was a quick sketch by Thomas Hart Benton, who had been a good friend of McCrady’s.

The McCrady Art School was located at 910 Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, ensconced in a building erected in the 1830s or 1840s. The structure was owned by the mother of his wife, Mary Basso McCrady, and was full of the charm that only an old building could offer.

Mr. McCrady was a kind man with glistening, intelligent eyes. A great painter of the regionalism school, he was equally gifted as a teacher, perhaps more so. He turned out to be the perfect instructor for my talent, such as it was. The aspects of art he emphasized were those for which I seemed to have the most talent: drawing, composition, and perspective. It was fortunate indeed for me that he returned before I left his office; what would I have become if he hadn’t?

After we finished our tour, Mr. McCrady instructed me to go downstairs where watercolor and commercial art were taught by his wife. I wasn’t interested in commercial art, but it seemed a good idea to put it into my curriculum. Mrs. McCrady’s brother was Hamilton Basso, author of the highly acclaimed 1950s novel, The View from Pompey’s Head. She was quite talented in her own right, especially in watercolor and commercial art. A petite lady with salt and pepper hair pulled into a bun, she appeared to be a very vibrant person. But most notable to me was, as I would learn over the years, her complete devotion to and support of her husband and his career; their art school; and their much-loved daughter, Tucker.

Shortly after being discharged, I had bought a second-hand Dodge. Although it used up much of my discharge money, the car was worth every cent. As I drove the Dodge home after the McCrady interview, I was relieved that it was over. I had enrolled as a full-time student; I had much to learn. Especially after seeing the skillful drawings in Mr. McCrady’s office, I was unsure of how good I was or could become—and drawing was my strong point! As for painting, I had practically no experience with it. However, I thought, Well, that’s why I’m going to school.

Before the interview, I had called the Department of Veterans Affairs inquiring if there was an art school in New Orleans that accepted veterans on the G.I. Bill of Rights, established after World War II. There was only one, The John McCrady School of Fine and Applied Art on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. I would receive $110 each month in veterans’ benefits, which would pay my tuition of forty dollars a month, with some left over for supplies and so on. It wasn’t much, but I had a car, some savings, and I could get by while living with my parents.

The general public has a romantic concept of artists living in sleazy third-floor apartments, drinking wine while painting beautiful, nude girls, then sleeping with them after the posing was over. There probably are some artists who live this lifestyle, but in truth, art is indeed hard work, and very few who pursue it as a career are able to continue throughout their lives. Even those able to follow art as a career for their entire lives have a hard time keeping enough money in the bank to pay the bills.

The drive from the interview back home passed swiftly as my mind wandered far afield. I had thought long and hard about this decision. As I turned onto Elysian Fields, a wide thoroughfare that runs from the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain, I said out loud, Quit all this negative conjecturing, Golden. Just begin! Who knows—you might actually be good enough to make it. You’re sure hardheaded enough!

I pulled into the driveway and parked behind dad. The scent of mother’s roast came wafting through the side door.

I’m going to make it, I said again.

At last I had made a decision; it would be art. Not knowing what I wanted was actually harder than making the decision.

CHAPTER 2

Art School

Dan Banister, my good friend since high school days, had been discharged from the navy just two weeks after me, and we caught up on this lost time in the navy while I was waiting for art school to begin. Much of our entertainment involved going to the Eight Suns Bar on Franklin Avenue and having a few drinks. Dan could drink more than anybody I’d ever seen and not show it—well, at least not until he went beyond his sober limit. I didn’t try to keep up with him because too much liquor made me sick, and I did not like praying to the porcelain God on the floor afterward.

Dan and I were about as close as two men could be; we were practically brothers. We had been close friends for years and there wasn’t anything we couldn’t discuss or wouldn’t do for each other. At one point after his discharge, he even lived for a time with my parents, my brother, and I in our two-bedroom house on Selma while he got on his feet.

Once school began in September 1955, I was ready and found the pace easy. Mr. McCrady, or Mr. Mac, as we affectionately called him, made it that way with his patience and subtle prodding; this was welcome to me after the frequent, stressful tasks demanded in the navy. The level of intensity was determined by every student within themselves; the degree to which one desired to improve determined how much pressure they put on themselves. The more pressure, the greater the stress.

I must not forget the sequence of events that helped guide me to becoming an artist. Stella was a devout Catholic, and when I was home on leave from the navy we usually went to Mass together, even though I was still unattached to any denomination. At one particular Mass, the priest gave a very thoughtful sermon; he said God gave each of us a talent, some more than others, and it was a sin not to use it. This struck home with me while I was still trying to determine what I was going to do with my life once I left the navy. I had traveled thousands of miles and even endured a few dangerous times without ever being injured. I strongly believed that therefore I needed to take advantage of both of these gifts, which were my artistic talents and my life being spared during the war.

John McCrady teaching students at his art school (Rolland is sixth from left), Bourbon Street, 1955.

Now, three or four weeks into school, I had worked my way through three still-life drawings in charcoal that Mr. McCrady made every student do before beginning to paint. His school was in many ways like the old Bauhaus schools of Germany and elsewhere in Europe—emphasizing the basics of art, drawing, composition, perspective, values, and understanding colors and their effect upon one another. Some students felt this stifled creativity, especially if they had had any previous instruction.

Mr. McCrady would say, How can you create art if you don’t understand its basic principles? This failed to pacify some, but it worked well with my mindset. He also said, Creativity, if you have it, because not everyone does, will come and be built upon a sound foundation.

Those who disagreed left; those who didn’t care either way stayed—along with those like me who agreed with him. In the end, his school produced many fine artists.

Rolland with his parents in front of the Delgado Museum, age seven, 1938.

After completing the charcoal drawings, we were instructed to begin our first oil painting. The medium was totally foreign to me, and I struggled with it until the end, managing to get the paint all over myself and my clothes in the process, something I continue to do to this day. However, I felt I’d done a pretty good job, considering my lack of knowledge of the medium, and left school for the weekend buoyed by my effort.

The next day was Saturday, and not having anything else of importance to do, I decided it would be a good day to go to the museum in City Park. I’ll be back later, I yelled to Mom as I went out to my car.

The museum, called the Isaac Delgado Museum of Art after its benefactor, was located in a lovely building constructed in an old European architectural style. It sat in the middle of a circle surrounded by a roadway leading in and out of the park. Upon entering the museum, the visitor is engulfed in a large, vaulted ceiling foyer, or entrance gallery. I remember coming here as a child with mom and dad, awed by the paintings and the space. Dad spent time trying to teach me about different styles, including impressionism, and how one had to get back from the painting to really see what the artist was attempting to convey.

Now I’d look upon these works with greater appreciation and knowledge, and herein lay my shocked reaction: Oh my God! My work—my one completed painting—looked like something scratched out by a four-year-old child! I sat on one of the benches in the grand foyer to regain my composure and my senses. At last I calmed down and resumed viewing the paintings, reminding myself I had only one painting under my belt.

I’d never been too cocky about my abilities, despite usually being one of the best artists in class growing up, but I was confident, perhaps falsely so. This was a lesson in humility that I evidently needed. I vowed to return to the museum often. Outside, I went down the steps leading to the museum’s entrance, saw a bench near the pond, and decided to sit and think while all was fresh in my mind. A flock of ducks swam around under the shade of a tree as I pondered what I’d just experienced. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, but a good thing, in reality. How could I have been so absurdly insolent to believe I was better than I was? My God, I didn’t even know how to mix a decent gray!

◆ ◆ ◆

I followed Mr. McCrady’s instructions, assiduously seeking answers to the many art problems that burned in my brain. Do lighter objects come forward or recede? Do images in the distance all become grayer or do certain colors still prevail over long distances? Can sunlight be a spotlight on certain images, or does it bathe everything equally? Values can transpose even the most colorful scene into black, gray, and white, but red becomes black without color and the value of yellow seems too light—yet Mr. McCrady insisted we learn the relationship of values to color; puzzling.

Despite all of these questions, art school seemed to be going well as far as I could tell. Each Friday was critique day, when the master himself analyzed everyone’s current work in front of all the students. By listening to his criticism of others’ work, as well as your own, you were able to gain a wealth of valuable information.

Not only did Mr. McCrady stress learning values, he was a stickler about drawing and composition. If you came away with anything, it was probably one or both of these two facets of creating art. He encouraged individual expression, but his teaching method was such that one almost subconsciously acquired some of the characteristics of his work; for most of us, that was a good thing. Some students who graduated from the McCrady Art School developed their own style, but built on McCrady’s principles. It is certainly true of the work I’ve been doing since beginning school. This was especially true regarding composition and the use of space and line. It was McCrady who told us a line has two sides. I knew about composition because I’d studied it in high school and during my one semester at college, but hearing about space and how to use it creatively and efficiently was a whole new topic. Yet I seemed to grasp it quickly and realized I had some natural talent for this aspect of art.

I became fascinated with watercolor—another medium I had no experience in. I began to spend most of my at home work time trying to learn how to use it. Mrs. McCrady taught watercolor at school, and I bought a book by the late Ted Kautzky, a master watercolorist. More frustrating as it was than other mediums, I never seemed to tire of working with it, and as a result, I made progress faster with this medium than with oil. Soon I decided that watercolor would be my primary medium. It proved to be a wise decision, but it took countless failures and frustrations to reach even a decent level of proficiency.

Watercolor’s fast-drying character, which gave little margin for error or correcting mistakes, made it a constant challenge. This challenge only piqued my interest and made me only more determined to learn how to paint in this medium—it was fast and the colors brilliant. I’d found a niche that seemed to fit me and my personality. I say personality not because I liked to work fast, but because I could finish a painting in two or three days, rather than a week or ten days minimum with a medium such as oil.

The first year of school was passing quickly and happily. I lived at home with my parents and younger brother Donald. I regularly received the $110 a month from the government to pay my tuition and took an odd job here and there to earn some spending money. Stella and I spent most of the time at my parents’ house; she watched as I painted and we both listened to Frank Sinatra records. Stella was totally supportive of my aspiration to be an artist, but I think her main objective was for us to get married.

One of my favorite haunts in the heart of the French Quarter was the Bourbon House, a lovely old building with magnificent cast- or wrought-iron lacework on its two balconies located at the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon Streets. For lunch, several of us students would walk down to the Bourbon House to eat—the food was good and inexpensive. It was a mecca for all kinds of people: artists, writers, musicians, ship captains, college professors, jazz enthusiasts, local and sometimes national actors, gays, and straights. There was always someone to debate or just to have a quiet conversation with about interesting subjects on which both agree.

At that time, gays—particularly those prone to being flagrant and flirtatious—stayed on the other side, which was the restaurant side, not the bar side. Some liked to make remarks if you were reasonably good looking. I’m sure they must have been the source of some embarrassment for the overwhelming majority of our gay population. Nonetheless, they were never asked to shut up or be quiet, at least not when I was there. Actually, they were really funny, and those of us who might be the object of some of their erotic language usually had good comebacks, which added to the amusement. Hey, baby! It’s New Orleans! Get with it or move to Metairie (a suburb adjacent to New Orleans)! In a way, the Bourbon House was the epitome of democracy. All walks of life together in this relatively small bar/restaurant, agreeing or arguing, drinking or just thinking with a cup of coffee on the table.

Bourbon House couple, sipping bourbon, French Quarter, 1957.

At any time of the day or night, you could count on seeing someone there that you had seen the day before, and the day before that, and who’d be there tomorrow. The Bourbon House was a habit for many like Andy Lang, a wonderful watercolorist who had his own stool at the left end of the bar that seemed to be occupied only by him; it was as though it would be a sacrilege if someone other than Andy sat on his stool. How he managed to paint, I could not fathom, with his heavy drinking and his long hours spent at the Bourbon House. But he did, and even produced some of the finest watercolors I’ve ever seen. Sadly, he died young from cirrhosis of the liver. For a long time, some of us who knew him well wouldn’t sit on his stool. His light burned for too short a time.

One person I saw almost every day was Larry Borenstein. After being discharged from the army following World War II, Larry migrated from the Midwest south to the Crescent City. He soon became an entrepreneur—buying buildings in the Quarter and eventually opening a gallery across from the Bourbon House. Larry wore glasses, a T-shirt, slacks, and sandals—sans socks—as long as the weather permitted. He not only looked bohemian, Larry was bohemian. His only grudging compromise with fashion society was to wear a sports coat to a gallery opening or a concert—which would partially cover not his usual white T-shirt but a brown or green one.

Larry was one of the shrewdest businessmen I’d ever met. Some people didn’t like him because he could drive a hard bargain, but Larry, unlike some art dealers, would keep whatever deal was made, whether it turned out well for him or not. He represented some of the finest artists in the French Quarter at that time, including Andy Lang and Richard Hoffman, a talented young artist. Larry bought paintings from his artists at a set price agreed to before he’d begin handling their work.

Barbara Reed was a self-avowed witch who once ran for mayor. I was so disgusted with the other choices that I voted for her, providing one of the seven-hundred-odd votes she received. Johnny Donnels was another one of the real characters of the Quarter; he had been working in his small studio in the skyscraper building for years. It was given this moniker because, built in 1795 at a whopping four stories, it was then the tallest building in the French Quarter. It looked its age, with its four-story façade covered with peeling paint and chipped plaster. Cracks ran in all directions, but we all loved it just that way. It was one of those old buildings in the French Quarter that gave it the character sought by many from around the world.

Dick Allen, who became the first director of the Tulane University Jazz Collection, was also a regular at the Bourbon House. Allen was originally from Georgia, and one of his great achievements was to teach himself how to be a primitive painter, despite his extensive education. He set himself up in Pirates Alley on weekends, selling his primitive works to tourists. With his dry sense of humor, he was one of my favorites.

Once a year, the Bourbon House would close for three or four days to do top-to-bottom cleaning, washing, and scrubbing. It was more than your mere traditional spring cleaning. Those to whom the Bourbon House had become a habit could be seen wandering the streets or leaning against a sun-drenched wall. They didn’t know what to do with themselves. Bourbon House regulars gathered in small groups talking, trying to emulate the atmosphere of the House. It didn’t work. There were lots of other bars and restaurants throughout the Quarter, but they weren’t the same.

At last the treasured place would reopen, clean and shiny, and a sense of euphoria permeated the Quarter. Again, the House was filled with its children day and night.

◆ ◆ ◆

I didn’t know McCrady’s held night classes three times a week. I asked Mr. McCrady if I could come to some of those classes, along with the day sessions, and he readily agreed. The night classes, in general, had a more mature group of students: men and women who had to work during the day. They also had, I later learned, more nude models to work with than did daytime students. The models were mostly young women with very good figures, some of whom used the modeling money to go to college. The same ones were used so frequently that they became pros at assuming a stance or holding an odd position for long periods of time. One odd aspect of the nighttime nudes and their professionalism was that they did not bother to dress in any covering during their breaks. They might sit on a little stage made for them, reading a book or chatting coolly with a student.

I wasn’t informed beforehand of this feature of the models’ behavior and was taken off guard at first. Then I began to look upon some of the situations created by the nudity as ludicrous. To see a fully clothed male speaking idle chitchat to a totally naked girl appeared somewhat bizarre, even to an old navy vet. After the break, the model would end the conversation and return to the stage, resuming her previous position. I think my Victorian childhood was flaring up, despite my four years in Uncle Sam’s naval forces; however, I overcame this bothersome reaction.

Most distracting were those women who floated through the classroom without anything on; I suppose they thought that since we’d been looking at them while we drew them, it wouldn’t make any difference if they flounced around during breaks. I wasn’t prepared to see good-looking, nude women wandering in and around clothed people, seemingly unperturbed by leering eyes. I think they actually enjoyed it! Of course, the models primarily distracted the men; the female students paid little attention to them except for an occasional wry smile. Despite the initial distraction, the men seemed to enjoy the nude forays; after all, it wasn’t every day that a lovely, young, naked girl wanted to discuss your art up close and personal. Soon I began to look forward to these naked beauties walking barefoot through the class.

One aspect of the wandering nudes that could, and did, cause my complete loss of concentration was the large breasts of some. Imagine working on a drawing when a sense of heat comes close; I know the heat is from a body because I can smell perfume.

Very good, says a soft, lilting voice close to me.

I turned to be greeted by a pair of pink nipples at eye level, only a foot away, the heat radiating on high now.

What’s your name?, she asks sweetly.

A smile gradually spreads across my face as I break out of my trance and struggle to look up at her face.

Rolland, thank you, my voice has gone squeaky.

I’d like to see this when it’s finished. Do you come every night?

No, I said, clearing my throat. But Mr. McCrady can let me know when you’ll be here again and I’ll try and come. What an idiot, I thought.

Good. Be sure and bring the finished drawing.

With that, she smiled and padded on to the next student, giving him a real bad case of breast-itis. How stupid can you get?, I think, she’s probably saying the same thing to all the guys. After class, I found out from other classmates that she didn’t. I might be in deep shit with Stella because of this nude model’s apparent flirting.

The day classes were more conservative; no nudes strolling among the students, several of whom were young girls, apparently recently graduated from high school. I recall one day early in my studies when we were scheduled to have a male nude model. I took my usual place several feet from the stage, as did all the more experienced students. We all sat on metal folding chairs, which the young girls pulled up very close to the stage, anxiously looking upward for this male God to appear.

Soon he came from the rear, wearing a full length robe and carefully stepping out of his sandals. He was clearly relaxed—a real pro, I thought. He then took off his robe and, without hesitation, strode naked to the very front of the stage, assuming a male-like pose, with important body parts strategically facing outward. The eruption of metal chairs being moved back by the embarrassed young girls sounded like an iron beam being dragged down Bourbon Street.

They couldn’t get far away fast enough—dropping pencils and drawing tablets—they fled. Some of the advanced students, having seen similar retreat in past years, merely smiled and nodded their heads. This being a new experience for me and other first-year students, I compulsively laughed out loud, much to the chagrin of the girls; I was not a popular person the rest of the day. The model, pro that he was, remained in stance without