Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1919-06-10
BY MANYA RUDINA,
NOUS New York Artists Model

&61nOUS new OK AxI1BU'S NAOWe@
[ was dancing on table at no
many Marie's in Greenwich Village at
midnight when ] met the man who
brought both happiness and misery
into my life.
Romany Maries is the most inter-
esting place in Greenwich Village. l
like the cozy room, with it's open fire.
place with cushions on the floor, and
plain benches with long tables, and
on the walls sketches and paintings
and on the shelves funny antiques. The
tables are SO close that even strang-
ers must speak to each other. People
there are free to discuss things nat
urally. They act as they feel. Those
who feel like singing, sing; those who
feel like reciting, recite their own
poetry, and SO on. The people who
go there are artists-quite unconven-
tional.
When I first came in I noticed one
man sitting by himself in a corner;
He looked like a real artist. He sat
quietly all the time and watched me.
He had wonderfully expressive eyes.
My friends asked me to dance. 1 felt
like dancing, inspired by the atrno-
sphere. AS there was no place on
the floor, got up and danced on the
table.
Dancing pleases
My dance, taken from the Spanish,
consisted mostly of poses, because
there was no room for many steps.
The ceiling was so low, that when |
stretched out on. my toes. my head
reached it, and I looked as If l were
suspended from the ceiling.
When I had finished the dance, ev-
eryone crowded around and congratu-
lated me. The man I had noticed
came also, and told me in a. very fine
1fyoty fnfnrnSfpd m know
my profession.
When I told him was an artists
model, ne was delighted. and said: IL
was just going to suggest to you that
you become a model after watching
the poses that you took in the dance
on the table"
That is how we began to converse.
saw that he was q man who would
understand me. We sat together at
table and talked a long time. l
told him about my disappointments
and how my illusions had disappear
ed, and ns how my one I'd. desire nt was W to do
All the time he watched my ges-
lures and at times it seemed he did
not even listen to me.
I said: 81 am boring you with
all my conversation: L see that
you think Of something else"
II am listening" he said, and
for a piece of work I want to do"
He told me that he was a sculp-
tor. I did not know his name,
nor he mine. We were so much
interested in each other that names
seemed not to matter. Then he told
me who he was. I recognized the
name at once as that of famous
American sculptor.
Would I pose. for him? I was
delighted. I felt that here, began
the coming true. Of my dreams
my memory.
Then we talked of his work and
what he expected to do. -.
my work is everything to me-"
he said. you know that 1 am
married. but my wife does not
understand my art. She is jealous
entertaining and being entertained,
while I care nothing for that"
We made an appointment and L
went home happy and full of hopes.
Wife Becomes Jealous
A woman's jealousy turns on small
things. I was once the innocent
cause Of the parting of a husband
An artist should never marry.
Few women can understand an ar
fist. He cannot be q so-c ;
when the inspiration may come to
work? How can he pay strict at
tention to dinner hours, and keep
nunctua1ly engagements with his
wife? How does he know when he
will disturb the routine OF the house
hold by insisting on working al
night, or in wandering about all day
seeking inspiration?
And there are few women indeed
who can really and truly trust
husband TO work alone all day in the
studio with another woman--a model
1t is said that doctors wives are the
most jealous of women. but I think
artists wives are worse.
When I went to pose for the ar
t'st whom I had met at Romany
Marie's I was filled with gladness.
ITa was great sculptor. He told
me his idea OF the work he wanted
to do.
Some artists" he said, do not