GRACE GIFFORD GAZED surreptitiously at her fellow passengers on the tram, trying to gauge if any of them were new students like she was, bound for Dublin’s Metropolitan School of Art. She should have been returning to school in September like the rest of the girls in her class at Alexandra College, but she had somehow managed to persuade Mother and Father to let her continue her studies at the famous art school instead. She had no interest in studying maths or Latin or geography but just wanted to spend all her time painting, drawing and sketching, and now she had the opportunity to do just that.
Gabriel and Ada had both studied art at the college and Mother always boasted to them of how she had met Father at the evening art classes there. Now it was Grace’s turn.
She tried to hide her nervousness as she entered the art school building on Kildare Street. In an effort to make herself appear older than sixteen, she had pinned up her long, golden-red hair neatly and wore a dark-green skirt, white blouse and her fitted navy jacket, borrowing a brown leather satchel of Ada’s to hold her pencils and pads. She joined the crowd of students pushing and shoving in the hall as they checked the large noticeboard with the college’s enrolment list, searching for her own name among the Gs.
A girl from the tram was standing beside her, looking down the columns of names.
‘Gray,’ she said aloud, searching, her long, thin finger running down the sheet. ‘There I am!’ she added triumphantly.
She blushed suddenly, aware of Grace’s gaze. ‘I’m Hilda Gray,’ she introduced herself.
Falling into step, Grace and Hilda made their way up flight after flight of stairs. On the second floor there was a large lecture hall and they slid into seats beside each other, chatting as the room filled up. A striking girl called Florence flopped down beside them.
Richard Henry Willis, who had only recently been appointed head of the School of Art, stood in front of them. A well-respected artist, with a long beard and kind eyes, he made it clear that his tenure would bring some changes to the school.
‘We may be part of the great British tradition of art schools, but to my mind there is no denying the influence of our Gaelic and Celtic heritage, an influence that I hope will now be encouraged and fostered here in the Metropolitan School of Art. We want all our students to develop expertise and knowledge in an area of art which satisfies them creatively and also to gain the technical skills that form the basis of any good working art discipline.’
Grace paid full attention as Mr Willis outlined the curriculum they would study, which included not only all types of painting, sculpture, charcoal, etching, stained glass, enamel work, mosaic and design, but even traditional Irish lacemaking. It all sounded exciting and new to her, and she was determined to learn as much as she could.
‘Are there any questions?’
A few brave people put up their hands, but Grace kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead as one young man near them asked question after question about the use of a private studio and then, unabashed, wanted to know when they got to paint nude models.
Grace could see a few of the girls blush at the mention of the word ‘nude’. The college principal looked momentarily uncomfortable.
‘All life-drawing classes are segregated,’ he reassured the young ladies present. ‘Now I want to introduce you to Mr Child, who will advise you of your daily and weekly lecture schedule and bring you on a tour of the school of art.’
Grace took out her notepad and wrote furiously as he launched into the day-to-day classes they would attend, then the exam timetables and the broad list of lectures that would be held here in this hall and which they would be expected to attend.
‘Non-attendance is frowned on,’ he reminded them firmly.
An hour later they were conducted on a tour of the buildings – a real rabbit warren of rooms, studios and offices.
‘I don’t know how we are expected to remember it all,’ groaned Hilda dramatically. Grace had always prided herself on a good sense of direction and made a mental note of the layout as best she could.
The class was split into groups and soon afterwards she found herself in a bright, sunny studio faced with a composition of fruit and a jug laid out on a wooden table. She opened her sketchpad and began to draw exactly what she saw before her.
‘Nothing is what it seems,’ their tutor reminded her. ‘Consider the light on the apple, the shade, the shadow on the jug, the slight decay already evident on a few of the grapes. Use your eyes well before you even begin to draw a line.’
Embarrassed, Grace turned over to a new page and began again.
The weeks passed quickly and Grace was happy to spend hours and hours with sketchpad and pen or pencils. They had fine lecturers and tutors and she considered it a particular privilege to study under William Orpen, the celebrated portrait painter who worked between London and Dublin. She hated antique drawing with a vengeance – she hadn’t the patience for it, far preferring to draw and sketch people. She also enjoyed design and lettering and the formal use of black and white. When she attended a few classes on printing, she discovered to her surprise that she enjoyed designing patterns. Stained-glass work was difficult, but she loved the effect of creating simple shapes and patterns in various glass colours under the guidance of Mr Child and Miss Purser.
Grace cycled into Kildare Street most days like many of the students. Soon she made a few friends and was finding the Metropolitan School of Art a far happier environment than her old school. She suddenly felt grown up and, attending a lecture given by her father’s friend John Yeats at the Royal Hibernian Academy after Christmas with her parents, brother and sister, she was delighted when he and his family congratulated her on joining the illustrious world of art.
Everyone was full of talk about the opening of the new Abbey Theatre two nights earlier in the old Mechanics’ Institute building on Abbey Street, which, thanks to the generosity of benefactor Miss Horniman, had been transformed into a very fine theatre. It had opened with two of John Yeats’s son William’s plays and one by Lady Gregory, all of which had received a great reception from the packed audience.
‘We most definitely will get tickets,’ promised Father and Gabriel.
To Grace’s annoyance, Mother deemed her too young to attend the Abbey and its programme of what she considered Irish nationalist-type plays.
Grace decided to attend the college’s evening classes in sculpture. It was an area she knew little about: she loved sculptures but had no experience with working in clay and plaster and was curious to discover the process from model to mould to bronze or from stone to statue.
The students who attended the evening classes often worked and used the opportunity to study after their day’s labours. She was full of admiration for them. The age group was generally older and the students more serious.
‘Tonight we all make a horse,’ announced their teacher, sculptor Oliver Sheppard. ‘Take your clay in your hands and begin to model.’
‘Here, better put this on,’ advised the student sitting next to Grace, passing her an apron. ‘You don’t want to destroy your clothes.’
Grace was about to protest that she was fine, but already she could see the table was spattered with clay, so she pulled on the protective apron and tied it.
She watched enviously as the young man with the floppy dark hair beside her worked easily and soon had a perfect horse standing on the table in front of him. Its ears, head, fetlocks, back were all perfect, she thought, as she clumsily tried to shape her own strange equine creature.
‘Too small, and the clay is difficult to work with,’ advised her neighbour. She tried to make it bigger. ‘And now too big, and those long legs will fall off.’
Aware of his scrutiny, she took a deep breath and concentrated on letting her fingers work as finally a small, stocky horse took shape.
‘Your beautiful horse is a racehorse and mine, I suppose, is a carthorse,’ she suggested.
They both burst out laughing, and the young man politely introduced himself as Willie Pearse.
‘My father is a stonemason so I usually work with marble and stone,’ he explained, ‘but it’s tempting to try bronze and using the foundry. There is much to learn from someone like Mr Sheppard.’
Willie was very involved with the Gaelic League and he taught Gaelic language classes in the art school which were becoming very popular. Grace and her friends immediately signed up to attend them. Grace found it difficult to learn this new language, which they had never studied in school, but over time she managed to learn new words and sentences which she tried to use. Mr Willis himself sometimes joined them.
She far preferred going to the ceili dances that Willie Pearse and his friends helped to organize. They were lively affairs, with everyone joining in and being swung around the room to traditional fiddle music. Mother and Father objected at first, saying she was too young to attend college socials and the famous Nine Arts Ball, but thankfully her brothers and sisters interfered on her behalf and they relented, giving her permission to go along with the other young ladies in her class.
Grace was happier than she had ever been before, studying and drawing during the day and in the evening attending a constant round of concerts, exhibitions, lectures and dances with Hilda and Florence and her friends.
Returning for her second year the following September, Grace felt more confident and assured as she re-entered the milieu where she felt most comfortable and at ease. But like all the other students she was shocked and saddened to discover that the head of the art school, Mr Willis, had died only a few days previously. A born teacher, he had transformed the college and would be sorely missed at their ceilis and classes. Old Mr Luke, appointed to take over his position, was by all accounts set in the old traditional ways of teaching art. However, both students and lecturers were determined that the new spirit of Gaelic culture that Mr Willis had introduced would never disappear from Dublin’s Metropolitan School of Art.