San Francisco, the largest city on the Pacific Coast, simply bustles with life. With the biggest port, it has become the most important financial center despite the Charles brothers’ assertion that San Jose would eclipse its northern neighbor. San Francisco has been called the Paris of the West, and it houses the California School for Mechanical Arts. In my wildest dreams I study in Paris with Julia Morgan, but in reality I love being in San Francisco where I can be near a school I might actually attend.
To my overjoyed astonishment, Lil agrees to come to the city with me, asserting she can be a journalist anywhere. I am humbled by her generosity and that of her parents. Unable to stomach Fannie’s pressure to marry, I moved in with the Palmers shortly after Papa’s death. They are my wonderful second family, supportive and encouraging. I had no idea parents could be so. Lil and I, with her parents’ help, find a place in the city on 14th Street, just off Van Ness. It’s not Russian Hill, but still a respectable neighborhood in the Mission District. This will be our home as we work our daily jobs and encourage each other to pursue our dreams. An added benefit is that the perpetual cool fog seems to calm my asthma. Hopefully it won’t worsen over time from the damp.
At first, we glory in being residents of the most exciting city in the world. We ride the cable cars, sip steam beer on the wharf, and watch the ferries arrive at the Ferry Building. Alive and connected to every country on Earth, San Francisco’s people, food, fashion, and most importantly the architecture, blend many cultures. San Francisco is an industrial port city, very dirty and yet, so beautiful. Lil and I temporarily set aside the fight for our future and just enjoy the present.
I continue to write to Bernard Maybeck, and we quickly become pen pals. I have read about his work in magazines while we have been corresponding, and when he invites Lil and me to visit him at the Berkeley campus I am thrilled.
“He’s known for his eclectic designs,” I whisper to Lil as we approach Maybeck’s office.
“We should be eclectic enough to appeal to him,” she says, smiling indulgently. Her arm rests comfortably around my waist, and her thumb traces circles on my back. Dear Lil never shows impatience with me even though I fill her head with tidbits about this great man all the way from our Mission District home.
The man himself appears eccentric. His grizzled beard, white and unkempt, is still fuller than the wispy strands on his head. He wears the sort of knickers I’ve seen on young boys, with colorful argyle socks. He grins when he sees us, and ushers us into an office crowded with books and papers.
“Lovely of you to come, ladies! Miss Williams, you are interested in architecture?”
He knows I am from our correspondence. I am relieved he is so eager to get to the point of our visit since I don’t have much patience with half an hour of social niceties. I am here to discuss my passion, not flitter about the weather. Yet the first words out of my mouth are vapid. “Was Paris a wonderful place to study, Mr. Maybeck?” Of course it was. I make a face. Lil takes my hand and squeezes reassuringly.
He laughs heartily. “You might say so. All that lovely architecture is inspiring, but no less so than California’s regional forms and construction. Every place has its own style.”
I nod, barely able to contain myself. Hadn’t I said something similar to Terrence Charles years ago? “Your Mission work is eminently suitable for California, but I love the Arts and Crafts style.”
“Remember, young lady,” he cautions, “do not fall in love with one style. Each architectural problem requires an original solution. To be an excellent architect requires solid training and a good eye.”
“Yes, well, that solid training has been a problem,” I say.
He waves away my words. “I know you’ve applied again to your school. If you don’t get in, please consider Berkeley. I would love to have a passionate student such as yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.” His words surprise me. I have never considered Berkeley. The course is rigorous there, many years instead of a few months at the San Francisco school. It is also much more expensive.
He turns to Lil. “And what is the nature of your passion, Lillian?”
“I am inspired by California’s sunshine,” she responds. “As a journalist I have traveled the state a bit. There’s a quality to the natural light that I wish to capture and bring inside.”
“What is your medium?”
“I would like to learn more about working in copper. There’s so much I don’t know about its temperament. I just know that copper lamps will be stunning.” Frustration echoes in her words.
“Lil is a gifted copper artist,” I tell him. The pride shines from my words, and Lil smiles at me.
“The role of an educator is to take passion such as yours and channel it so you can reach your full potential. It saddens me that in this enlightened age students capable of great things, such as yourselves, are not even being allowed entrance to our finest schools.”
I don’t dare to disagree with him. It’s not the entrance to a good school that’s the issue, but the course of study allowed once you are enrolled. I have, after all, attended fine schools such as University of the Pacific as well as Stanford. The California School for the Mechanical Arts is not a university, nor is it an educational institution of the caliber of the others, but it offers the training I want in a concise program. I believe Berkeley would accept me if I applied, and Mr. Maybeck would support my choice of coursework, but I doubt my father’s money will cover a four-year program.
We discuss specifics of different architectural styles, and he includes Lil easily. We take our leave and chatter excitedly all the way home. Mr. Maybeck has relit the fire that propels us. We await only a direction.
Late in 1901, I receive a letter from the California School of Mechanical Arts.
Dear Miss Williams,
It is with great pleasure that I am able to offer you a position at our school for the term beginning in January, 1902. I hope you will be able to take advantage of this offer and are still interested in attending our school.
Yours truly,
George Merrill, Director
California School of Mechanical Arts
San Francisco
All strength leaks from my body, and I sink onto the sofa. With shaking hands I hand the letter to Lil. My opportunity has arrived.
She scans the note and looks at me with shining eyes. “Oh Em! This is too wonderful for words! We must have dinner tonight at the Palace Hotel to celebrate!”
She knows the Palace Hotel’s Beaux Arts style reminds me of Julia Morgan and the Paris school.
“But, Lil, what about your dreams?” The idea of her sacrificing her career to be in San Francisco with me is overwhelming. I burst into tears.
She takes me in her arms and strokes my hair. “Em, my darling, you must be pleased. I am so happy for you, I couldn’t bear it if you were sad. At the worst, I will continue as I have been. I’ll work as a journalist until my path reveals itself.” Gently, she kisses me. “Hush now. This is cause for celebration. Just think—when I get my break, we can celebrate again.”
She continues holding and reassuring me until I can stop crying. I know our strength together will see us both through the next months.
Just after the new year dawns, I present myself at the California School of Mechanical Arts as a student. Impeccably dressed in properly conservative dark clothing, the male students sweep wide of me like a river with a boulder in its midst. They are too polite to stare with their eyes, but they stare instead with their stiff backs and too-carefully averted faces. I don’t need their approval or their regard. I square my shoulders and find a seat in Chemistry.
My first ray of hope that first day begins to shine when my Chemistry teacher introduces herself. Miss Bridgman’s eyes locate me immediately, and she acknowledges her only female student with a smile and a nod. Part of her introduction to us is a statement that she has designed her own house in Berkeley. To the other students that may merely establish her credentials, but to me she’s a mentor. I cannot wait for class to be over so I can approach her privately.
That night, Lil is treated to a barrage of words about my day, most of them about Miss Bridgman. “Lil, she designed her own house! She’s not actually an architect, certainly not licensed, but she has the skills I need. When I talked to her, she was very encouraging, like Mr. Maybeck. The house she designed is in Berkeley, and she knows Mr. Maybeck. He helped her with the concept!”
Lil is smart enough to know that the parts of the day that I gloss over are the ones that are difficult, but she doesn’t speak of them. “I’m so proud of you, Em!”
After a couple of weeks of hearing about the wonderful Miss Bridgman, though, Lil grows impatient. “Surely you are taking classes other than Chemistry?” she snaps.
I recoil, shocked. “Well, yes.” My mind recalls drafting class, where no one sits at my table because I am the only woman, where I scramble inelegantly atop the stool designed for men in pants, where I consistently outscore the men who spend their time staring and sniggering instead of drawing. “I have drafting,” I say, my voice dead.
“I’m sorry, Em,” she says, contrite. “It’s just all you have spoken about for weeks. I know every little detail of the amazing Miss Bridgman’s life. Oh, what did she have for breakfast this morning? You omitted that tidbit in today’s recitation.”
I take in her flashing eyes and heightened color. “Why Lillian Palmer! Are you jealous?”
She flushes, immediately denying it, and I forebear teasing. Instead, I ask her about her work. She has been working part time as a journalist, which she enjoys as a hobby, while looking for a coppersmith to take her as an apprentice. Lil is confident she can teach herself to work with the copper, but it’s an expensive hobby. She wants to get on with an established shop.
By the end of February, my male classmates accustom themselves to ignoring me and don’t have to work so studiously at it. I am content to avoid the need to be polite while still not encouraging suitors. Occasionally a professor requires students to work together on a project, but I am always alone. Some professors mark me down for not working as a member of a team, but Miss Bridgman never does. She continues to encourage me, and I ravenously consume every bit of information that comes my way in my classes.
Lil waits. She never complains and seems content to run our tiny house, leaving me to concentrate on my studies. Her time will come, though. We both believe that.
In May, I receive a letter from my niece, Eva.
Dear Aunt Emily,
I hope you are enjoying San Francisco because I miss you and wish you were closer to Santa Cruz. I am writing to tell you that I have been presented with a baby brother. His name is Carl. My parents are over the moon, but I have yet to render a verdict. He cries a lot.
Study hard at your drafting school and visit soon.
Yours truly,
Eva VanValkenburgh
I show the letter to Lil and we chuckle over it. Independent little Eva has been too long alone. Carl will be good for her. My niece is already tough and has the potential to be a very strong woman. She clearly has the backbone of her grandmother, Ellen VanValkenburgh. I adore Eva and hasten to respond.
My darling Eva,
Having a brother can be a wonderful thing. I should know, I have three. I was fifteen when your Uncle Paul was born, and to my regret we are not as close as I am to my twin, your Uncle Ed. That is to be expected, I suppose. Nonetheless, take good care of Carl and help your mother care for him. You will come to love him, I am sure.
When I am next in Santa Cruz, I have so much to tell you about San Francisco. It is an amazing place to live and go to school.
With all my love,
Emily Williams
Just a few days after I send off the letter to Eva, my school term ends. I have completed the classes I need to become a junior architect, but I hesitate to apply for a license.
“Why did you bother with school if you weren’t going to try for a license?” Lil asks.
“I have the knowledge I need now, Lil. What I need is experience.”
“No one will hire you without a license.”
I laugh. License or no, I won’t be welcome in many architectural firms. To my knowledge no women work in any such firms in California, not in any capacity. Julia Morgan, the great female hope, is still in Europe. I must blaze my own trail. “I will send off the license application tomorrow, Lil. And as soon as I put it in the post, I will begin looking for a place as a draftsman.” The words make my head swim with trepidation, but I have wanted this too long.
Lil throws her arms around me. “Good for you!”
I pull back, and nose to nose I glare at her. “And now it’s your turn. No more delays.”
She laughs and demurs, but I am firm. If there is an architectural firm in San Francisco that will hire a woman, surely there is a coppersmith who will do the same.
It soon becomes clear that there is no place in San Francisco for either of us. The architectural firms’ names blend together into an amalgamate of men’s initials and surnames.
At one such firm I am ushered into the inner sanctum by a male secretary. The name on the door says C. Field, and I wonder if it is Charles Field, son of Mr. Field who was an associate of my father, the same Charles Field that Fannie once thought was husband material. I recognize him immediately as he enters the room full of apologies for being late for our appointment. Thirteen years have added a bit of distinguished gray to his hair even though he is probably not yet forty. His face registers shock, and I am unsure if it is because he recognizes me or because I am a woman. I have put E. Williams on the application.
“I was expecting Ed,” he tells me in consternation.
“My brother is no architect,” I tell him primly.
He drops into the chair behind the desk. “And you are?”
I have managed to remain unflustered by much harsher interviewers. “I hope to secure a position as draftsman and eventually earn my license.”
He leans forward and puts his elbows on the desk. “You do realize you are a woman?”
“Yes, Mr. Field, I do. I believe a woman’s perspective will change the face of architecture in this new century.”
He is already shaking his head. “I respect your family, Miss Williams, but this firm does not hire women and is not likely to ever do so.”
“Do you lack vision, Mr. Field?” I have maintained my equilibrium, but he quickly loses his.
“Now look here. It is not my vision that is in question. I completed my schooling and have worked hard to establish myself here. As a junior partner, I am tasked with bringing aboard employees who will work hard and garner prestige for our firm.”
I say nothing, waiting for him to hear his own words.
“No, Miss Williams, I do not believe you fit the bill. You will bring unwelcome attention, gossip and speculation, not respect. If you are serious about becoming an architect, go build something to show you can do it. Maybe then someone will take you seriously.” He turns away, dismissing me.
“Give my regard to your parents,” I jab at him on the way out.
I trudge up the steps into the house with a particularly heavy heart. I stand at the kitchen door and watch Lil for a moment. She stands at the stove, stirring a pot of something that will be supper. A few tendrils of fuzzy black escape from the pile of thick dark hair on her head. An apron covers her finely made dress, but it’s not the clothes I admire so. The tilt of her head and the curve of her back are beloved both for their familiarity and their steel. She is no less a woman because of her strength of character. I see the same trait in myself. Apart we are strong, but together we are invincible.
She sees me then and smiles, her entire face lighting up with welcome. The smile fades when my eyes don’t respond. “Em? Everything all right?”
“I am tired, Lil.” I enter the room and take the spoon from her hand. “Today I was told that if I were a man, I wouldn’t beg for a job I’d just go build a house to show what I could do.” I dip the spoon into the pot and blow on it, tasting the red sauce that will no doubt top the meat in the oven whose odor permeates the kitchen and makes my stomach rumble.
Lil retrieves the spoon and stirs the pot. “That’s really not a bad idea.”
“Really? And where would I get the property and the materials to build a house?”
“First, do you have a design idea to work up?” She begins to be excited by the idea, but I have not yet embraced it.
“Of course. I have been thinking of nothing else for months.” My tone dismisses her, but Lil persists.
“Where would be the best place for this venture? Not San Francisco. We need a smaller community, one that appreciates art. Maybe Santa Cruz?”
“I would love to work in Santa Cruz. I’ll write Nina after our meal.” In spite of my many misgivings, I warm to the idea.
Lil says nothing more on the subject, wisely allowing the idea to simmer. We sit down to supper and discuss the day’s events, avoiding any talk of my future or hers. Around our careful words, my thoughts zoom at an amazing speed. In my mind I can see my first house, a small cottage really, with windows to let in light. Maybe I could push the windows out a bit. They’d stick out from the side of the house, but it would give the illusion of more interior space. I’ll have to use natural materials, to blend the house into the landscape. Oh, I hope the site we find has rocks for a natural rock chimney. That would make the place quite charming.
I look up to find Lil smiling knowingly at me from across the table. She’s been reading my thoughts again. I grin, guilty. “I think we can do this if we do it together,” I tell her.
She whoops with delight. As she clears up the supper dishes, I pen a letter to Nina. The rest of the evening, and late into the night, Lil and I spin dreams of snug cottages tucked among the redwoods, all cheerily illuminated with stunning copper light fixtures.
We are unable to wait for Nina’s response. Our excitement over the idea of building our own house together takes over, and the very next day we are on a train to Santa Cruz. Feeling guilty that we do not plan to stop and visit Nina and her family, I urge Lil to continue past Santa Cruz. I can’t bear Eva learning I am in town and I don’t visit her. But we have a task before us, and it is paramount.
The Southern Pacific locomotive steams its way south along the coast. Ocean spray leaves salty crystals on the windows, and puffy clouds of steam hang in the air. July on the coast is cold. The fog blankets everything, coming down to the ground in the early morning and rising barely high enough to improve visibility during the day. Today is truly spectacular, one of the rare days when the sun has broken through the fog and the coast looks like a picture postcard.
When the train pulls into Pacific Grove, I know we have found what we seek. “Lil, this is perfect,” I tell her, peering out the windows at the wild natural beauty of Lover’s Point. The artist community, small enough to support our efforts, sits on a gorgeous rocky point covered in cypress and pine trees.
Lil nods and stands up. We leave the train and stand on the ocean side of the tracks. Lover’s Point juts out into the Pacific Ocean. Mighty waves crash against gray boulders. A handful of the ever-present artists sit with easel and paints trying to capture the image on canvas from every possible angle. Across the tracks and Ocean View Boulevard a row of bath houses offer heated salt water pools. The ocean itself, as I know from personal experience, is shockingly chilly year round.
The stiff breeze grabs my hat and threatens to tear it from my head. The sun shines bravely, but the ocean’s cold wins today. The majestic vista glitters in the sun, but the temperature does not invite lingering outdoors.
Lil rubs her cold arms. We ran out of the house without coats like children, even though we know all about the coastal weather. I laugh at the red roses on her cheeks, knowing mine are the same. Our exhilaration overflows, and we stand in the wind on Lover’s Point laughing like lunatics.
California School of the Mechanical Arts, circa 1910
From the Lick-Wilmerding High School website, 2011