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As an Actor Frank Godwin
Jim
I didn't hear Anna. I was steeped in Histrionic Art. Being tender-hearted, I hated to think of putting Jack Barrymore and Lon Chaney in lesser places
He
By Himself
EVERY man and woman harbors, secretly or otherwise, the belief that he or she could, if given the chance, be a truly great actor or actress. But I — I am as one set apart — one singled out by the gods and placed instantly at the top. No "breaking in" for me — no "lean years" about which the stars write — not I. One day I was just a plain, plodding illustrator — the next I was a leading man playing opposite a great star.
None of them have anything on me — no sir! — I know how it all feels — except the salary — I never quite got to that — I was a plain plodding illustrator again too soon.
But listen — here's how it happened:
One warm, rainy Sunday evening Hezi Tate, Hollywood's reddest-headed director, called for me at the hotel and asked me if I would like to go to a party.
"Yes," says I. "All right," says he. "Step this way."
Whereupon I was ushered or whisked (or whatever it is) into his car and we sallied forth into Hollywood's seething lanes of traffic. After ten narrow escapes from Eternity (my nerves were all shot from orange juice anyhow) we stopped before a house on a hill.
"Roadhouse? " I asked. "Jimmy Craze's," said Hezi Tate, and we went in. There were a great many people there, but just what they were all doing, I'm not sure, but they were moving about a great ileal.
Hezi introduced me to as many as he could stop (Hezi knows as many people as Howard Chandler Christy). The ones I remember were Hebe Daniels, Hetty Compson, James Cruze, Lew Cody, and — •
so
-:~\>
TV/TEET Frank Godwin. The boy threw a ■"-»■ wicked brash for years in Philadelphia and New York until he fell for the California climate. Now he's painting portraits of Los Angeles society folks with his expensive oils. A lot of the movie gals were models of his in days gone by, and Frank is one of the favorites of the colony. He was a flop as an actor, but he likes the folks, and every month will see his work in PHOTOPLAY. Incidentally the kid can write like a veteran.
JAMES R. QUIRK.
gosh! I don't know how many
others. Anyhow, very suddenly
somebody, some lovely female
voice cried, "Frank Godwin!" I hid behind an overstuffed chair, but instantly
remembered it was just
a party and there
wouldn't be any process servers there, and
the thought stole over
me, "Somebody here
knows me."
As I slowly rose from
behind the chair I saw
from whence came the
voice — and — to show
my skill at repartee — I — with
out an instant's hesitation re
plied. "Anna Q. Xilsson!"
And I was right. You see
Anna used to pose for me in
the days when artists' models charged fifty cents an hour and
usually got a quarter, so the artist would have a quarter left
to eat with.
They do most things quickly in Hollywood. I don't remember any conversation between that meeting and a few moments' later when I had been rushed to another room, hurled into a chair before a mirror and was having my hair curled by Betty Compson and Anna Q. — My hair is very peculiar. James Montgomery Flagg says it is black marsh grass — so I knew they couldn't make it worse. I had been clean! y
Betty