Burnley, 905 East Pine
I’m in the process of writing a memoir. This piece is from that effort. I’m posting it now because the Burnley School building has been torn down in the last few days.
It was interview day.
The street was wet with light rain. Gray sky. I’d stopped at the light just across from the school.
A guy in a suit and fedora was getting out of a new T-bird parked in front. Just before shutting the car door, he pulled his raincoat from the back. Long seduced by brands, I guessed London Fog and Stetson Fedora, of course. Thinking, this guy so has it together, they couldn’t be anything else. As he turned, I recognized him as Doug Sandland from the photos in the school’s brochure. I’d studied the brochure intensely and learned that Mr. Sandland was a big-league agency art director. A man’s man in a power role. A role I desired, but one which seemed beyond reach.
A shiver of fear swept through me as I thought I’d never be that cool.
In hindsight, there was more than envy in my feelings. I wanted to be him –– afraid I couldn’t be him –– and somehow, knowing that much about the life he represented wasn’t right for me, even as I lusted for it.
In preparation for the interview, I’d driven past the school on Seattle’s Capitol Hill the night before to be sure I knew where Burnley was. Passing the entry, I felt a shiver of excitement seeing the elegant serif typography spelling out ‘The Burnley School of Professional Art’ in the doorway.
Today was the big day. I had prepared my samples for review and checked out the location, but I wasn’t prepared for the feeling of the risk of not measuring up unleashed inside me.
Seeing Mr. Sandland go through that door, I felt the sweat beginning in my armpits.
The guy behind me honked, pulling me back into the now. The light had turned green. I pressed down the gas pedal easing my car forward. Gotta find a parking spot.
Mr. Fujii had given me an oversized envelope to hold my work and helped pick out what to show. Fujii was my high school art teacher. Not only had he guided my progress for all four years, he’d pressed Mom to support my application to Burnley. She, in turn, had persuaded Dad to pay for the first semester. A very big deal in our frugal household. A year earlier, Fujii had convinced her to enroll me in the Famous Artists study by mail course. That, too, was a big step forward.
I was only seventeen, Mr. Fujii worried that I was too young to get into Burnley –– concerned I’d be outclassed by applicants who’d completed college or were older and already in the field –– as many tended to be. He suspected Burnley’s limited number of entry spots would be given to students the school felt would be most likely to succeed professionally, thus boosting the school’s reputation.
But, thanks to Mr. Fujii, I still had hope.
“You can draw, Leonhardt, that’s your advantage,” said as he carefully picked out what he felt was my best work. As he sorted through, he said he only wanted me to show pieces suggesting I had “promise.” Not too many, just enough to show I had the skill and the will to do the work. And that I’d stick with it even though young.
Fujii was very aware of Mr. Cauthorn’s demanding reputation and discerning eye. Cauthorn owned and managed the school and personally selected all incoming students.
The work Mr. Fujii picked included line drawings of an abandoned model-T and a sketch of a dead grasshopper I’d done on the farm where I’d worked the previous summer. He also included a pencil rendering of myself as a boxer –– I’d done from a Polaroid –– a watercolor of an urban alley, and a color pencil sketch of a little grass hut in the South Pacific, done from a LIFE photo –– and a speedball pen lettering exercise I’d done in his class. The speed ball work wasn’t great, but he thought including some lettering was important.
It was spring, and graduation from high school was just a few weeks away.
My mother had made the appointment with Mr. Cauthorn. I wished she hadn’t. I desperately wanted to be my own man on this, but I was afraid of making the call, so I hadn’t protested.
So here I was, seeing Sandland get out of his new T-bird and walk with purpose through that door. At that moment, I knew with clarity that Burnley could be my ticket to the future. It also reminded me that fear could freeze me in place.
Despite Mr. Fujii’s encouragement and coaching, I wondered if I really had what was needed.
The mist had turned to a downpour as I parked.
On the drive, the big envelope had slipped to the floor, spreading my work across the backseat and the floor. I carefully reloaded the envelope, stepped out of the car, locked the door, and broke into a run, holding the envelope tight to my chest, hoping it wouldn’t get too wet.
It’s a long three blocks, far enough that I’m dripping sweat reaching the school –– wet and out of breath.
Opening the entry door, I see the staircase for the first time.
The steps were covered with a natural textured material the color of a paper bag, with a narrow black strip on each side. The walls were painted dark brown. A bright light at the top of the stairs beckoned. Someone had carefully considered the experience of entering.
The stairs broke into a landing halfway up, where I stopped and examined my envelope –– relieved that the wet hadn’t gotten through. But my sweaty palms had left prints.
On up the stairs to a counter where a girl –– an older student, I supposed –– greeted me. She checked a list, found me on it, and showed me to a folding chair. I was early. Sitting, I hoped the wait would allow my envelope to dry along with my armpits.
Students pass through, some with paint-stained clothes, others with proper black portfolio cases, all utterly comfortable in this exotic world. I tuck my feet under, trying to be unseen with my sadly damp, embarrassing envelope.
Down the hallway to my right, I could see art hanging on the walls. As my sense of the place grew, I thought I’d get up and take a look. Just then the office door opened and a young man with black hair, a chiseled face and a beautiful long leather coat exited the room caring one of those handsome black portfolio cases I envied.
Shutting the door carefully, he stopped at the counter and chatted with the girl who had greeted me. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I could see her blush as he smiled, turned, and headed down the stairs. That’s what I’m up against, I thought, as I settled back into my chair –– guys who have it all, looks, and the kind of comfort in the world that only money brings.
Then, the office door opened, and all my fears came rushing back as Mr. Cauthorn stuck his head out and asked, “Mr. Leonhardt?”
I nodded, and he gestured me inside. As I picked up my envelope, the seam opened, and my samples almost got away from me. Awkwardly containing my work in the now useless envelope as best I could, I followed Mr. Cauthorn into his light-filled office. It had a high ceiling, white walls, and large windows.
Mr. Cauthorn was wearing a pin-striped shirt, narrow tie, and suspenders. He was taller than I was and serious in his demeanor.
“Please take a seat,” he said as he rounded the desk.
I sat. The seams of my envelope having given way completely I held it as best I could, waiting. Not knowing what to say. Knowing this was one of those lifechanging moments. Pass this test, and I could be that man with the London Fog and the new T-bird. Fail? I couldn’t face it. Failure could mean a life of sweeping floors or driving a truck. Things I did as part-time jobs.
“Let’s see what you’ve brought.” He was still standing. So, I stood and put my envelope on his desk, hoping it wouldn’t hurt the papers below. It was mostly dry at this point.
He chuckled a bit as he separated the envelope at the seams, saying, “I’ll get you a dry envelope…” And he began to ask questions about each piece.
I told him about my work in Mr. Fujii’s class and how he’d encouraged me to take the Famous Artists course, my work on the farm, boxing, and how West Side Story had inspired me to paint watercolors of Seattle’s alleys. Now feeling better with his careful examination and thoughtful questions, I relaxed as the interview turned conversational, and I began to feel as though I was a fellow, not merely an applicant.
Then Fred Griffin—I knew it was Griffin, the design teacher, from the brochure—stuck his head in with, “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, would you take a look at this…”
My heart soared. “I’m in,” flashed through me.
Fear evaporating –– chest releasing its tension –– I turned and smiled at Griffin as he approached, not looking at me but at Cauthorn.
And then my heart sank as Cauthorn picked up and handed Griffin a portfolio from behind his desk, saying, ” Take a look at this and get back to me.”
My heart sank. My fear rose.
Cauthorn asked me a few more questions, and I recovered enough to answer.
And then it happened.
“We’ll be seeing you in the fall, Mr. Leonhardt. Keep up with your drawing and mail order course,” he said with a smile.
With that, he pulled a new oversized envelope from a cabinet and carefully helped me put my samples away.
I was in.
As I exited Mr. Cauthorn’s office, I almost stopped to flirt with the girl behind the counter. Hearing my approach, she turned and smiled at me, and I wilted, thinking, “She’s far too pretty.”
Down the stairs and out to the street, the sun was shining, and I really felt the impact of what had just happened. I was good enough for Burnley. I was in. I was on my way.
Dad paid for the first semester, and I paid for the second with part-time work. Burnley School paid for my final two years and got my first job.
I never thanked Mr. Cauthorn enough.
4 Comments
NO! Tell me it’s not gone… I am broken hearted. Some of my best days were in that building. Learning to be a hard worker, learning that I could accomplish, making my way to adulthood. That was a special, special place. Sob…
Thanks for your comment, Kirsten. I agree. It feels like a part of me is gone. I loved that building.
Thank you for taking me back to the day that you interviewed with Mr C. at Burnley. You made each detail so alive from the description of entering the building to the nervous sweat even though it was raining. I had my interview with him in the late ‘70s and experienced many of the same emotions and insecurities.
Congratulations on your successful path empowering others and writing about your experiences. I look forward to reading more of your blogs.
Thanks, Larry. One of the things I’ve discovered working with creatives much younger than I is that honest stories about my fear and self-doubt help them understand and deal with their own struggles. I have 25 clients at the moment, and at least a third of them are in their twenties. All of them struggle with the same stuff we worried over, but in their own ways, naturally. Thank you very much for your comment. Comments keep me fired up. I’m switching my mailings to Substack, by the way: https://tedleonhardt.substack.com