Some of My Lives (18 page)
Authors: Rosamond Bernier
“You want to deprive me of that screen that I adore,” said Monsieur Degas. “It is Berthe Morisot that we adore, not a screen,” said Monsieur Monet. “And it's her exhibition that matters. Why don't I just try the screen in the other room tomorrow?”
“If you really, truly think that the big room would be better without it ⦔ “Yes, I really do,” said Monsieur Monet. But even then, they couldn't stop arguing. Then, suddenly, Monsieur Degas shook hands with Jeannie [her cousin] and myself and made for the door.
Monsieur Mallarmé ventured to whisper the word “pouf,” only to see Monsieur Degas rush out the door like a flash of lightning. We heard him running along the little corridor. The door banged, and the jury went their separate ways, rather the worse for wear.
I'm not surprised that they were tired out. Hanging pictures can be almost as hard work as painting them. Besides, it's nervous work, and they were four highly strung people.
For Julie Manet, with her impressive memory, these happenings were as present as this morning's mail. But it had been a long interview. “Now let's have tea,” she said, and led me to the dining room.
The table was set with two plates and two pretty blue-and-white teacups. My hostess looked at them and said with a sigh, “They are the last ones left; they belonged to Edouard Manet.”
I
n November of the first year of publication of my magazine,
L'ÅIL
, 1955, we bravely presented an all-Russian issue. This was still the Soviet days, and communications with Russia were extremely difficult.
n November of the first year of publication of my magazine,
L'ÅIL
, 1955, we bravely presented an all-Russian issue. This was still the Soviet days, and communications with Russia were extremely difficult.
We avoided polemics and dove into the subject, starting with glorious fifteenth-century icons. We saluted the collector Tchukin's all-starsâvan Gogh, Gauguin, Matisse, and othersâand devoted a major article to the avant-garde with Antoine Pevsner and his brother Naum Gabo squaring off against Vladimir Tatlin and Alexander Rodchenko. We gave Kazimir Malevich his due.
At the end, there was a heavy-going (visually speaking) section of social realism with heroic soldiers and happy peasants.
A world away from this was the work of the duo Natalia Goncharova and Mikhail Larionov, first as pioneer abstract artists, then as designers for Sergei Diaghilev and his Ballets Russes. I remembered seeing color reproductions of Goncharova's festive drop curtain for the ballet
Le Coq d'Or
, given at the Paris Opéra in 1914, a vertigo of strong color and Russian peasant motifs. A favorite poet of mine, Guillaume Apollinaire, wrote the preface for the program.
Le Coq d'Or
, given at the Paris Opéra in 1914, a vertigo of strong color and Russian peasant motifs. A favorite poet of mine, Guillaume Apollinaire, wrote the preface for the program.
I learned by chance, because they were completely forgotten by 1955, that Goncharova and Larionov were still alive and living in Paris, in extreme poverty. They were holed up in a small apartment, a fourth-floor walk-up on the rue Jacob. I went to see them.
She was small and delicately built with white hair and fine features, distinction itself. He was burly, a stocky peasant, a contrast to her unmistakably aristocratic origins. (I found out, not from her, that her great-aunt was the wife of the poet Alexander Pushkin.)
They had been together since 1900 and finally married in 1955 in order to get French citizenship and be able to stay in France.
They had been together since 1900 and finally married in 1955 in order to get French citizenship and be able to stay in France.
Two small beds and a chair were the sole furniture for their one room that doubled as their salon. They sat side by side on one bed, the visitor, me, sat on the other. They were touchingly pleased and surprised at my interest. I of course was fascinated by them and the opportunity to hear firsthand about the great days of the Ballets Russes. They kept programs of the Diaghilev ballets under one of the beds. I used to bring a large cake when I visited, and I sometimes wondered if this was all they had to eat that day.
One timeâI was as usual sitting on the bed opposite themâthey had a conversation in Russian, which I do not understand. They clearly had a plan of some sort. Larionov fished under the bed and brought out a large early gouache by Goncharova. “For you,” he said. There were great hugs all around. “You must sign,” he said to her, and brought out an ordinary pen. She looked up at him like a schoolgirl for guidance. He dictated in a strong Russian accent:
“Pour Madame Bernier, très charmante.”
“Pour Madame Bernier, très charmante.”
She carefully wrote this out and signed and handed me the gouache.
The following year I went to see the largely and unjustly forgotten Constructivist sculptor Antoine Pevsner. He and his betterknown brother, Naum Gabo, designed the sets and costumes for
La Chatte
, Diaghilev's last ballet.
La Chatte
, Diaghilev's last ballet.
He was living modestly with his wife in a walk-up apartment on the rue Jean Sicard in Paris. He was a small, slight man with very firm opinions, which he was happy to impress on me.
Most of his remarks began
“Moi et Gabo.”
The main point to be emphasized was that the two of them were the
only
Constructivists (forget Tatlin, Rodchenko). The important thing was to destroy the mass.
“Moi et Gabo.”
The main point to be emphasized was that the two of them were the
only
Constructivists (forget Tatlin, Rodchenko). The important thing was to destroy the mass.
I tried to get him to tell me what other sculptors he thought, besides “
moi et Gabo
,” had made a contribution. I tried Rodin. “He brought nothing.” Brancusi? “Someone I respect, but he brought nothing new.” Did he feel that the Renaissance brought nothing new to sculpture? “Nothing. While Giotto and Masaccio brought new concepts to painting, sculptors continued in the same direction
as Praxiteles. Always the same way of treating material, always the same block of marble, that eternal cube.”
moi et Gabo
,” had made a contribution. I tried Rodin. “He brought nothing.” Brancusi? “Someone I respect, but he brought nothing new.” Did he feel that the Renaissance brought nothing new to sculpture? “Nothing. While Giotto and Masaccio brought new concepts to painting, sculptors continued in the same direction
as Praxiteles. Always the same way of treating material, always the same block of marble, that eternal cube.”
Michelangelo? “Just another Greek.”
At this point Madame Pevsner brought in a very substantial cake, bolstered by a bulwark of icing. I couldn't resist asking, “May I destroy the mass?” Nobody smiled.
I
had met the Cuban artist Wifredo Lam in New York some time before I went off to Paris the first time for
Vogue
(1946). He was one of the Surrealists, along with Breton, Matta, and Tanguy, who had immigrated to America during the war.
had met the Cuban artist Wifredo Lam in New York some time before I went off to Paris the first time for
Vogue
(1946). He was one of the Surrealists, along with Breton, Matta, and Tanguy, who had immigrated to America during the war.
He was beautiful: his father was Chinese; his mother Afro-Cuban. He inherited from the former his delicate build, his bronze coloration from the latter.
He never learned a word of French, although he had lived in Paris before the outbreak of World War II. He had been received as something of an exotic bird of paradise. His paintings and drawings, alive with haunted jungle spirits, interested Picasso, with whom he could speak Spanish, albeit with a strong Cuban accent. And he interested André Breton, who welcomed him as a true Surrealist.
At the outbreak of hostilities in Europe, he returned to Cuba. At the end of the war he came up to New York en route to France. He didn't speak any English.
André Breton, who also didn't speak a word of English in spite of having spent the war years in exile here, had filled him with dire warnings about the rough treatment he could expect in America for being dark skinned. He lived in a state of terror. Mutual friends, remembering that I spoke Spanish, put me in charge of him.
I was working at
Vogue
at the time and would emerge from my office in the
Vogue
uniform of silk dress and flower-laden hat (it was full summer) to take him to lunch. To my shame, I discovered he would not be accepted at any midtown restaurant. I solved that by sticking to Chinese restaurants.
Vogue
at the time and would emerge from my office in the
Vogue
uniform of silk dress and flower-laden hat (it was full summer) to take him to lunch. To my shame, I discovered he would not be accepted at any midtown restaurant. I solved that by sticking to Chinese restaurants.
We became great friends and kept in touch. By 1956, we were
both in Paris. I was sitting at my desk in the
L'ÅIL
office, snowed under with work, when Wifredo appeared, sat down, and showed no inclination to leave. He pulled out a batch of unopened letters. They were love letters from various stricken ladies, usually Scandinavian, in English. He had come to have me translate them.
both in Paris. I was sitting at my desk in the
L'ÅIL
office, snowed under with work, when Wifredo appeared, sat down, and showed no inclination to leave. He pulled out a batch of unopened letters. They were love letters from various stricken ladies, usually Scandinavian, in English. He had come to have me translate them.
Some years passed, and Wifredo was married and living in the Paris suburbs with a wife (one of the Scandinavians) and two children. “You must come and see them,” he insisted.
“Son muy bonitos.”
“Son muy bonitos.”
So I went out to meet them. Wifredo asked his wife, in Spanishâhe still didn't speak anything elseâto bring in the children. Indeed, they were very bonny.
“¿Cómo se llaman?”
â“What are their names?” I asked. A look of total confusion came over his face.
“¿Cómo se llaman?”
he asked his wife.
“¿Cómo se llaman?”
â“What are their names?” I asked. A look of total confusion came over his face.
“¿Cómo se llaman?”
he asked his wife.
No wonder. They all seemed to have been named after obscure Norse gods.
I
n 1955, still the first year of
L'ÅIL
, we got the idea that we could use our experience with combining images with text for a new kind of illustrated book. There would be works of art, but it would not essentially be an art book. A profile of a city was what I had in mind. Venice would be an obvious choice.
n 1955, still the first year of
L'ÅIL
, we got the idea that we could use our experience with combining images with text for a new kind of illustrated book. There would be works of art, but it would not essentially be an art book. A profile of a city was what I had in mind. Venice would be an obvious choice.
I had not met her, but of course I had read Mary McCarthy. I thought her sharp eye and analytical mind might make her just the author we needed.
By providential good luck, Mary happened to be in Europe, in fact in Switzerland. She was looking around for an excuse to delay returning to the States and an unresolved matrimonial situation. I went to Switzerland to meet her and explain the project.
After the usual back-and-forth with such discussions, she accepted. “Don't get carried away by Titian and Veronese,” I warned. “The city itself is the star.”
From then on (it was 1956), I was a regular commuter to Venice. I got Mary rented rooms in a private apartment, her subscription to the library, and a few introductions. This was in February and March, not a tourist in sight, but lots of rain.
My job was to direct the small team of photographers: Inge Morath for the black-and-whites (she was not yet Mrs. Arthur Miller), the Swiss German Hans Hinz for the color transparencies, a Frenchman for the color exteriors. There was no one mutual language. The team of Italian electricians and carpenters spoke Italian and only Italian. But being Italian, they warmed to the job and would make suggestions about their favorite frescoed Virgins.
The other part of my job would have required a Talleyrand blended
with a Machiavelli: getting the permits to photograph from both the patriarch's office (San Marco) and the Communist Commune (city government) directly across the plaza. They seldom agreed. A tricky case in point: I wanted to photograph Titian's
Martyrdom of San Lorenzo
, which was in the Gesuiti Church. The painting itself belonged to the Church. But the actual land on which the church stood belonged to the city. One had to get both parties to give their consent; I made many a trek between the two seats of power.
with a Machiavelli: getting the permits to photograph from both the patriarch's office (San Marco) and the Communist Commune (city government) directly across the plaza. They seldom agreed. A tricky case in point: I wanted to photograph Titian's
Martyrdom of San Lorenzo
, which was in the Gesuiti Church. The painting itself belonged to the Church. But the actual land on which the church stood belonged to the city. One had to get both parties to give their consent; I made many a trek between the two seats of power.
I was determined to get a color transparency of the splendidly robust thirteenth-century mosaic of the
Last Judgment
in the cathedral on the island of Torcello. This being February, there was no boat service to the island and no cozy meals at the Locanda, which was closed for the season.
Last Judgment
in the cathedral on the island of Torcello. This being February, there was no boat service to the island and no cozy meals at the Locanda, which was closed for the season.
This meant organizing a miniature Normandy invasionâall via boats for Torcello. We had to load up with wood for the scaffolding, to be built on the spot (the mural was high aboveground), electric equipment, even food for everyone. It was worth it: we got splendid swirling images of angels tootling on wind instruments, a resolute nude riding the waves atop a beast of the apocalypse disgorging unfortunate sinners.
On the level below, a regular ballet of blue devils tossing severed crowned heads into the flames.
Another technical challenge was getting power for the floodlights needed to photograph in the Doge's Palace. We are in 1956, and there was no electricity inside the palace. We had been given special dispensation to photograph there at night, when there would be no public. The only solution was to have generators churning away outside and a hundred meters of cables bringing the power into the palace via the windows. With my minimum Italian and minimum knowledge of technical matters, this was a stretch.
There were some tense moments negotiating with a group of a dozen black-robed Dalmatians for permission to photograph the three Carpaccio panels in the San Giorgio degli Schiavoni (“Dalmatian” in Venetian dialect), still controlled by the Dalmatian fraternity. No interpreter, no other woman. It was about how many copies at what price and when, and there was no evidence of Christian charity.
I had also come to an agreement with the patriarch's office at
San Marco about the same details. At that time, the future pope John XXIII represented the Holy See in Paris. The day of actual publication, I called the nunciature's Paris office to know where I should send the books. I was passed from one voice to another until I heard a sonorous “Ici Roncalli.” It was the future pope himself. When he heard my query, he said, “Send the books directly to me, otherwise a little priest will get hold of them and I'll never see them.”
San Marco about the same details. At that time, the future pope John XXIII represented the Holy See in Paris. The day of actual publication, I called the nunciature's Paris office to know where I should send the books. I was passed from one voice to another until I heard a sonorous “Ici Roncalli.” It was the future pope himself. When he heard my query, he said, “Send the books directly to me, otherwise a little priest will get hold of them and I'll never see them.”
My headquarters was Harry's Bar, completely empty of tourists at this season. The kind owners, besides thawing me out with cups of hot chocolateâthe damp cold was piercingâknew exactly how to go about getting permits and which person should be cultivated and which avoided.
Meanwhile, Mary was working away, at first unexpectedly insecure, worrying about matters such as what she should wear to the contessa's. She had met Bernard Berenson, who held her hand and told her she should write about art. This complicated our editor-author relationship since we had very different ideas.
It ended with a compromise, but the important thing is that the end result,
Venice Observed
, is a superb book and was the bestselling art book of that season. Incidentally, no American publisher would touch it when we proposed it. “We wouldn't know how to sell it” was the usual answer. Once it was a success, everyone wanted a sequel.
Venice Observed
, is a superb book and was the bestselling art book of that season. Incidentally, no American publisher would touch it when we proposed it. “We wouldn't know how to sell it” was the usual answer. Once it was a success, everyone wanted a sequel.
Mary and I remained close friends. She was a stalwart, loyal ally in my legal problems and was an indispensable mail drop.
Many years later, when I came back to Paris to lecture at the Grand Palais, Mary was always in the front row. After the series was over, she wrote me the most glowing, generous text I could use for my publicity. I think of her with warm affection.
We went on to publish a series of books with material from the magazine translated into English, under the general title
The Selective Eye
. Our very first one got off to a flying start with an introduction by the magnificent Alfred H. Barr Jr., founding spirit of the Museum of Modern Art.
The Selective Eye
. Our very first one got off to a flying start with an introduction by the magnificent Alfred H. Barr Jr., founding spirit of the Museum of Modern Art.
Other books
Death of a Fool by Ngaio Marsh
Center Field by Robert Lipsyte
Pure Spring by Brian Doyle
Heroes Lost and Found by Sheryl Nantus
Black Moon (The Moonlight Trilogy) by Teri Harman
Pain and Pleasure by Harlem Dae
Grimm's Last Fairy Tale by Becky Lyn Rickman
Harnessed Passions by Dee Jones
The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine by April Lurie
