Publications

Reminiscences > Omaha (1908)

Dictated by Ary

“Finally the family triumphantly produced a solution. I wanted to be an artist — well, here was my opportunity. At that time there was a vogue for colored photographs — the black and white image touched up with color.”

After I had been in Sioux City a little while my uncle decided that I would have more opportunity in Omaha, where cousins of the family were fairly well established in business. So I was given a ticket (the sum duly recorded with the steamer passage!) and I was sent on my way. The cousins were not entirely cordial in their welcome; the influx of new arrivals from Europe was wearing thin their hospitality and their finances. But a place was made for me in the bedroom of the younger children and I was told I might stay there until I found work. Several days tramping about the city brought no results; boys with little knowledge of the language and the customs were not in demand. Finally the family triumphantly produced a solution. I wanted to be an artist — well, here was my opportunity. At that time there was a vogue for colored photographs — the black and white image touched up with color. A photographer had need of someone to help him in this work. It was a good business and I would eventually be able to make photographs and color them on my own. So I was taken to the photographer, and he consented to take me on trial.

He showed me a pile of photographs and told me to color the cheeks pink. I looked them over; they were mostly portly dowagers. My soul revolted — this was a mockery of art; I could not lend myself to it. When a customer came in and the photographer was busy with him I put the pile of photographs back, and stole out of the shop. All day long I wandered about the streets, a stone weighing on my heart, tears close to my eyes. I dared not return to my cousins’ house; they would be angry at me; how could a penniless immigrant refuse the opportunity they had found for me. But I was determined, and then and there I decided that I would never do anything that would violate my ideals of art. I would go back to Sioux City, find a job — any job — I would paint in my spare time, and sometime, in a year — 5 years — 10 years — when I had saved enough money, I would say goodbye to this world of business and seek a place where I could live only for painting.

It was late at night when I softly opened the door of my cousins' house and crept up the stairs, to stretch myself out on the bed for a few brief hours of sleep. Then up early in the morning to pack my few belongings, and leaving a note on the dining room table, to walk out of the house and to the railroad station, to take the first train back to Sioux City.

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