the end of August he had a dozen of the pictures finished and several in various stages of completion. Milla planned to leave in September and Morrison asked her to stay on for a while. He suspected at the time that this was his finest hour, that he would never paint this well again. She left, nonetheless. The combination of hand, heart and mind had fused to give him a group of magical paintings as none before.
When he started to display them in his gallery space, Morrison saw the paintings go one after another, usually sold soon after they were displayed. All the framed sketches sold in the first autumn. His interest moved along to other motifs, landscapes of the mountains nearby and gardens from his neighbors’ courtyards. These were subjects that took longer to sell and Morrison felt challenged to make them as attractive to buyers as he could, but they never matched the popularity of the maidens.
Miss Harkness dusted off the next to the last maiden. After centering the canvas on the easel at the window, she adjusted the spotlight to a small focus. Reaching just outside the front door to a pinon pine there, she pulled off a needled branch to adorn the top of the painting. She thought the twig gave emphasis to the archaic nature of the scene and added poignancy to its presentation. From her days in Philadelphia, she knew the importance of display. The pinon’s branches nearest the door were almost picked clean.
The snow outside had shifted from a fine white dust to large wet coins falling with deliberate slowness, sticking on every surface. By three in the afternoon darkness was winning and the few automobiles that drove by had their headlights on.
Morrison at his easel heard the bells, followed by voices in the gallery, but only Miss Harkness’s words were understandable behind the closed door. Sharp syllabic definition was one of her small vanities, but even then only part of the exchange was clear.
“ . . . such a canvas is a life-long (something) . . . both the Metropolitan and the Art Institute insisted that . . . (something) (something) . . . Impeccable taste. . . . The lovely skin tones as only an ethnic Tewa woman. . . .” And then a very long silence. The bells on the door indicated a hasty departure.
Morrison was sure that no sale had been consummated. He painted on, refining the stems and leaves of a large garden painting, a motif he reserved to keep his spirits up on gloomy winter days. He heard the bells on the door again.
Another visitor to the gallery could mean that Miss Harkness’ assessment might be right. This time he heard nothing of the conversation, and he lost interest in eavesdropping and returned to the details of a complicated umbel of yellow bloom.
He worked on for half an hour more and quite forgot the matters of commerce in the front room. Miss Harkness’s knock on his studio door startled him. How was it that she could knock so much louder than men?
“Come,” he said.
“Magnus, can you visit with some sweet people from Indiana, the Piersons? I’m sure you’ll want to meet them,” she said.
The term “sweet people” was their code word for “buyers,” usually very substantial buyers. In this way, Miss Harkness could interrupt Morrison in the studio by saying he must meet some sweet people from Portland or Houston and this meant they had already bought a painting. Buyers of smaller paintings were referred to as “interesting people.” People only considering a purchase, needing heavy encouragement, were called “charming people.” Morrison could then judge just how much time to waste in pleasantries.
The Pierson couple came in behind Miss Harkness, peering around the studio with obvious delight. Morrison’s work place held many tableaus and props to interest collectors: baskets and pots, feathered head-dresses, war shields, dried floral arrangements, and a long row of coat-hooks with Indian costumes.
Mrs. Pierson spoke first. “Mr. Morrison, we love your work. Especially the Nambé Pueblo pieces.”
“Call me Magnus, please.” He took Mrs. Pierson’s hand, smiling. “How nice of you.”
Miss Harkness interceded, “The Piersons had the discerning taste to buy the very last pair of your Pueblo maidens. They will join the rest of the Pierson Collection at the Art Museum in McPherson, Indiana.”
Miss Harkness’ face betrayed nothing of her feelings. “The Piersons would like to organize a museum exhibit of your work next winter in McPherson. The museum would pay for everything and you could stay right with the Piersons.”
Mrs. Pierson said, “Herbert and I have been collecting in New Mexico since the Thirties. We have Maria pots, Gaspards, Sharps, Ufers and all the right artists of Taos and Santa Fe. Our small Victor Higgins may be his very best and we’re hoping to bag a John Sloan view of the cathedral. You would be in good company, we can assure you.”
What a horrible idea, Morrison thought. “Thanks, so much. Give me time to think about it.”
“Of course, Magnus. Give it your earnest consideration. We sponsor these exhibits every few years to share our new purchases with the people of Indiana. We’ll be at La Fonda Hotel for the rest of the week,” Mrs. Pierson said. Already Morrison was regretting giving permission to use his first name.
“I’ll be in touch soon.”
Miss Harkness wrapped the two small paintings in several layers of brown paper and the Piersons departed into the swirling storm, heading farther up Canyon Road to other studios and galleries. Morrison wondered who else would be included in the Pierson collection this day.
“I object, Miss Harkness, to being something people from Indiana want to ‘bag,’ like a ten-pointed elk or a champion-sized zebra,” Morrison said.
“Quite right, Magnus. I gave them no encouragement at all in what your answer might be. You must turn them down completely.”
“Good, because that’s exactly what I am going to do.”
“Mrs. Pierson seems to be the guiding light at the museum. It must be a very small, very provincial museum, but whatever she wants, they do, she told me.”
“Women like her use the museum to add luster and value to their own collections. It’s totally a matter of dollars, despite how much she throws around the compliments. Deposit the check tomorrow, will you please, Miss Harkness. Then, we’ll say no.”
“Yes, Magnus.” Miss Harkness turned off the lights and put the “Closed” sign in the window. She walked away into the dark afternoon.
The snow continued for several more days. In the quiet gallery Morrison thought about the sale of the last two of the Nambé paintings. Surely, there was one of those incomplete versions in his racks, one he could supply with final changes to add one more to the series. He went to search for it but with no success. Then he recalled using those canvases for another, more favored motif, painting over Milla’s legs or arms with thick loads of gesso.
How had he not saved one or two of his best paintings from the past years? Why was it so important to sell the work that came from that high plateau of his painting years? Now they were all dispersed to places like California and North Carolina, the last two now in the hands of those Piersons from Indiana. Why was earning the dollar so necessary that he brought upon himself this sense of loss?
He should have called Miss Harkness, after all, giving her the day off. He knew that he could never rekindle the flame of excitement and skill of those summer afternoons by the orchard with Milla. Now, they were a just remote memory under the falling snow.
