Authors: Rosamond Bernier
Some of My Lives (13 page)
I
came back to Paris in my new capacity of reporter writing about the arts in general. I had no training, no directives. I simply lit out toward what seemed to be of interest.
came back to Paris in my new capacity of reporter writing about the arts in general. I had no training, no directives. I simply lit out toward what seemed to be of interest.
It was in this capacity that I went to Geneva to meet the hard-drinking Albert Skira, whose publications were the sensation of postwar art books circles. There followed a number of long evenings spent with Albert in Geneva nightclubs, I nursing a single scotch while Albert dove into the hard stuff.
But it was worth it. It was Albert who arranged an introduction to Picasso. And later, also invaluable, an introduction to the Swiss printers who were to print the magazine I founded,
L'ÅIL
.
L'ÅIL
.
“Don't wear a hat,” Skira warned me, about meeting Picasso, “and don't ask any questions.” I was surprised about the hat veto because Picasso had created so many fanciful, if not outrageous, hats for his favorite sitters.
At that time, 1947, Picasso had been living and working since 1937 in the top floors of a large, once-aristocratic building at 7, rue des Grands-Augustins. In earlier years the actor Jean-Louis Barrault had used these spaces for rehearsals.
By an amazing coincidence, this was the very house Balzac chose as the setting for his “Le Chef-d'Oeuvre Inconnu” (The Unknown Masterpiece), which Picasso had illustrated for Ambroise Vollard in 1931. Balzac's story is about a fictionalized seventeenth-century artist whose thirst for the absolute leads him further and further away from representation until finally nothing coherent is left.
I showed up for my appointment with Picasso looking properly inconspicuous and hatless. I walked through a large stone archway,
across a cobbled courtyard, and up two flights of leg-breaking stairs, lit only by the occasional glimmer of a single bulb. A hand-lettered sign by Picasso, “ICI,” was tacked to the door to identify his quarters. There was no bell. I knocked.
across a cobbled courtyard, and up two flights of leg-breaking stairs, lit only by the occasional glimmer of a single bulb. A hand-lettered sign by Picasso, “ICI,” was tacked to the door to identify his quarters. There was no bell. I knocked.
The door was opened reluctantly by a parchment-pale sharp-nosed apparition who peered at me through thick spectacles. It was Jaime Sabartés, Picasso's boyhood friend from Barcelona. He had come to Paris at Picasso's urgent request, in the 1930s, as companion, watchdog, and secretary and had never left. His main job was keeping people at bay who wanted to see the master. He had devoted his life to treading gingerly in Picasso's shadow, adoring him, and complaining every step of the way. Picasso teased him mercilessly but couldn't have done without him.
Sabartés led me through a small antechamber and into a barnlike studio where ancient beams held up the high ceiling. There was a large stove there that Picasso had relied upon during the terrible winters of wartime, when he chose to stay here all through the German occupation.
It was about noon when I went for the first timeâthe hour when he usually got up. Like many Spaniards, he lived by night.
He liked to work late at night and didn't care a hang for natural light. If anything, he preferred the strong projectors that Dora Maar, a photographer, had left behind at the end of their stormy love affair. It is thanks to Dora that we have a photographic record of the evolution of that great work,
Guernica
.
Guernica
.
When I arrived, there were, as usual, about a dozen men standing around, waiting. I never saw a woman at these noonday receptions. There were editors, publishers, dealers, collectors, poets who hoped for illustrations, unemployed bullfighters.
Picasso finally came in, wearing an old brown dressing gown. The first thing you noticed was the extraordinary intensity of those remarkable eyesâthe
mirada fuerte
. I understood what Gertrude Stein meant when she said his dark gaze was so intense he could see around corners.
mirada fuerte
. I understood what Gertrude Stein meant when she said his dark gaze was so intense he could see around corners.
Picasso went around in European fashion and shook hands with each person. He had a ritual greeting, “Please sit down,” but there was no question of that. There were sagging sofas and a chair or two,
but every one of them was completely covered with papers, catalogs, fragments of sculpture, portfolios, not to mention dust.
but every one of them was completely covered with papers, catalogs, fragments of sculpture, portfolios, not to mention dust.
I was extremely nervous, for in spite of his simplicity of manner, one was very conscious of being in the “presence.” But I was in luck, because from all those years in Mexico, I spoke Spanish, albeit with a Mexican accent, which amused him. When he heard his native tongue, he lit up with friendly incandescence.
He was so passionately attached to his native country and its language that from that moment on I felt accepted. He beamed, he asked questions, he used the familiar
tú
form, he stuck around, and before long he began to show me things.
tú
form, he stuck around, and before long he began to show me things.
He was immensely proud of a
Still Life with Oranges
(1912) by Matisse that he had bought during World War II. I know, because Matisse told me himself that he was very pleased Picasso had chosen it. Perhaps in its honor, Matisse would send Picasso a crate of oranges from the south of France every New Year's Day.
Still Life with Oranges
(1912) by Matisse that he had bought during World War II. I know, because Matisse told me himself that he was very pleased Picasso had chosen it. Perhaps in its honor, Matisse would send Picasso a crate of oranges from the south of France every New Year's Day.
I got a glimpse of some other paintings that Picasso had collected (they are now in the Picasso Museum in Paris). One was a self-portrait by the Douanier, Rousseau.
Then Picasso led the way to an informal arrangement of recent work, balanced somewhat precariously on a scaffolding. One was a grim still life dominated by an ox's skull that dated from the occupation years. “I didn't paint the war,” Picasso said. “I'm not that kind of a painter, but the war is right there in the work.”
I was introduced to Picasso's Afghan hound, Kasbec, whose elongated snout turned up on some of Picasso's more devastating female portraits.
All around was the astounding accumulation that became part of Picasso's décor wherever he lived and worked. He could never bear to part with anything. Every book, every magazine, every catalog, every piece of wrapping, and every last length of string lay where it had fallen, together with flea-market finds, a stuffed owl, bulging portfolios of drawings and engravings. If anyone ever left anything behind, there was no hope of getting it back. It stayed on to enrich the loam.
There was no visible line between junk and treasure. Picasso's incessant compulsion to turn one thing into something else filled
what he called his “museum,” with such objects as former cigar boxes made into miniature theaters with pin-sized actors, pipe cleaners turned into jaunty figures. There were towers of empty cigarette boxes glued together waiting their turn for another incarnation. He smoked incessantly until late in life, when his doctors forbade it.
what he called his “museum,” with such objects as former cigar boxes made into miniature theaters with pin-sized actors, pipe cleaners turned into jaunty figures. There were towers of empty cigarette boxes glued together waiting their turn for another incarnation. He smoked incessantly until late in life, when his doctors forbade it.
Sabartés gave a vivid description of Picasso as pack rat in his
Picasso: An Intimate Portrait
:
Picasso: An Intimate Portrait
:
When he finally gets out of bed, he would take the letters and papers and pile them on the buffet or a chair, or a table, or even in the dining room or bathroom. This new pile is added to another begun some other time: everything has been placed here or there in order not to mix here or there with this or that, with the intention of going over it more carefully, but he always receives new mail and never finds time to reread any of it.
He has a mania for collecting everything, without rhyme or reason. His pockets testify to this: filled with papers, nails, keys, pieces of cardboard, pebbles, pieces of bone, a pocketknife, a small knife, notebooks for his literary lucubrations, matchboxes, cigarettes, cigarette lighters without fluid ⦠letters and bills, very crumbledâirretrievably ruined because of his fear of losing themâseashells, a stone which suggested something to him on seeing it on the ground, pieces of string, ribbons, buttons, an eraser, pencil stump, his fountain pen, etc. Of course his coat is very heavy and his pockets bulge and split.
Then Picasso brought out a bookâAragon's translations from Petrarchâthat had a frontispiece by him. He opened it and put it on the floor so that we could all take a look. On a blank page at the back, he had drawn a girl's head in colored crayons with five stars across her forehead. It was lovely and he knew it. “
Très jolie
,” he said in his rolling, Spanish-accented French. It was my first look at his new love, Françoise Gilot.
Très jolie
,” he said in his rolling, Spanish-accented French. It was my first look at his new love, Françoise Gilot.
Then, with an incredibly mischievous look, he went and got out another book: poems by Tristan Tzara with black-and-white illustrations
by Matisse. Picasso had colored all the illustrations. Sometimes the color accompanied the drawing. Sometimes it destroyed it, riding across the lines, creating a completely new entity. He knew that I knew Matisse. He shot me a glance: “Matisse doesn't know about this.”
by Matisse. Picasso had colored all the illustrations. Sometimes the color accompanied the drawing. Sometimes it destroyed it, riding across the lines, creating a completely new entity. He knew that I knew Matisse. He shot me a glance: “Matisse doesn't know about this.”
Not long after my first visit, I heard rumors that Picasso was working in Antibes in an old fort. No one was allowed in. Naturally, there was great curiosity everywhere about what he was doing.
Just then, I heard Picasso was back in town briefly. So I went to see him. There was the usual noonday cast, and Picasso made the usual round. After a while he came over to me and said, “You're the only one here who hasn't asked for something. What would you like?”
One had to jump fast when Picasso was in a good mood, and shut up when he wasn't. I said I was longing to know what he was up to in Antibes.
To my surprise he said, “Why not come down and see for yourself? You have all my benedictions.”
S
o I went down to Antibes and got a first look at the outside of the medieval fortâthe Château Grimaldiâthat dominates the harbor and that guarded the secret of Picasso's new activities.
o I went down to Antibes and got a first look at the outside of the medieval fortâthe Château Grimaldiâthat dominates the harbor and that guarded the secret of Picasso's new activities.
Thanks to his unpredictable generosity, I was the first person from the outside world to see what he had done there, and to publish it. But it wasn't easy.
At that time Picasso was living in very ordinary rented rooms, right over the main highway to Cannes. He never cared about décor or his surroundings. He took his meals at the café, Chez Marcel, across the street, which is where we were to meet.
I went and waited. Finally, Picasso came down the road with Françoise, looking strong and very brown, in white shorts, red-and-white T-shirt, and sandals. I could tell right away that he was in a bad mood. It turned out that an American dealer had been to his studio, and by mistake Sabartés had let him buy certain pictures that Picasso didn't want to sell.
I knew better than to even mention seeing the new work. Picasso was very polite and seemed glad to see me, but he acted as though he had no idea why I was there.
Eventually, I discovered how it had come about that he was working in the old fort. Picasso was a Mediterranean by birth and by temperament. He loved the sun, the beach, and the sea. Once Paris was liberated, he couldn't wait to get back to the south of France. Nor could he wait to get away with his new love, the beautiful twenty-six-year-old Françoise, but he had no house, no studio, no place to work except those crowded rented rooms.
At this point a local teacher of Latin and Greek who doubled as
curator of the Grimaldi fortress had a brilliant idea. (His name was Jules-César Dor de la Souchère.) The fortress had been a somewhat halfhearted regional museum before the war, with a scattering of Greco-Roman remains, dolls wearing Provençal costumes, and Napoleonic souvenirs, but it had not reopened.
curator of the Grimaldi fortress had a brilliant idea. (His name was Jules-César Dor de la Souchère.) The fortress had been a somewhat halfhearted regional museum before the war, with a scattering of Greco-Roman remains, dolls wearing Provençal costumes, and Napoleonic souvenirs, but it had not reopened.
There were splendid empty spaces at the top. Why not, the curator reasoned, offer them as a studio to Picasso? There was always a hope that if he went to work there, he might leave something behind.
That is exactly what happened, after quite some hesitation on Picasso's part (he always hated having to make up his mind). What he left behind is to this day the great attraction of Antibes. The old Grimaldi fortress became the Antibes Picasso Museum. But I wasn't able to storm that fort for an agonizing week. Picasso was a specialist in such trials, as his future biographer Roland Penrose, an old friend of mine, knew all too well.
The day after my arrival he invited me to join him at the public beach. In those days, he used the beach as his salon, giving appointments there. The group consisted of Françoise Gilot; two Barcelona nephews; his thirty-year-old son, Paulo, whose main interest was high-powered American motorcycles; his great friend the poet Paul Eluard; and a few hangers-on. Sometimes Olga, still legally Picasso's wife, although they had been separated for many years, would stumble along too. According to French law, if they had divorced, Olga would have been given half of his studio and its output, so he didn't remarry (Jacqueline) until Olga died in February 1954. At the time, Françoise referred to Olga as “my mother-in-law.”
Picasso reigned over this scene in blazing sunshine, while supplicants and/or dealers from Paris tried to protect themselves with makeshift arrangements of shirts. Picasso, of course, enjoyed their discomfort.
We would swim, eat bouillabaisse at two hundred old francs a plate at either Chez Toutou or Chez Nounou, and hunt for interestingly shaped stones on the beach. Competition was fierce for these, with Picasso intent on the chase. Once he picked up a pebble, looked at it, and said, “Oh, we know that one. I saw it last year.” And he threw it back.
Walking on the beach, I was astonished at the amount of gossip Picasso knew: just who was sleeping with whom, who was leaving whom. When I mentioned this to Ãluard, Paul said, “But of course, everybody tells him. You can hardly expect people to talk to Picasso about art!”
This went on for about a week. It was entertaining but nerveracking. Picasso knew very well why I had comeâafter all, he had invited me. I knew I should not be the first to say anything. Finally, casually, as though he had just thought about it, he asked, “Shall we go and see the paintings?” but he added quickly, “Although, bathing is much more fun.” Incidentally, he claimed that he was the only man who could make love underwater. I am not in a position to verify this.
So I finally saw the Antibes paintings. At the time of my first visit to the improvised studio, there were twelve paintings on panels, none of them signed.
“Are they finished?” I asked. Picasso smiled: “As long as there is a picture around and I'm anywhere near, it's in danger.”
Antibes had originally been settled by the Greeks, who called it Antipolis. In the vast spaces of his attic studio, Picasso had dreamed up a mythical population of early settlers: pipes-playing fauns, gamboling centaurs, well-endowed mermaids, and, queen of the scene, Françoise, with exuberantly flowing hair.
In their honor, and to mark his intentions, he wrote “Antipolis” on many of these paintings and drawings.
“It's a funny thing,” Picasso commented. “I never see fauns and centaurs in Paris; they all seem to live around here.”
Nothing ever curbed Picasso's endless powers of invention. That summer, there was no canvas to be had in Antibes and no proper paints. Picasso didn't care. Before the necessary supplies arrived from Paris, he improvisedâas he always loved to do. “This is a port,” he said. “They must have good marine paint, and that paint is meant for wood.” So he got plywood board, housepainter's brushes, and went to work.
Naturally, the delicate question arose as to what would become of the Antibes series. Picasso's habit was to cram a place where he worked to the bursting point, then turn the key and move on. He
owned a number of studios in and around Paris, and bank vaults too.
owned a number of studios in and around Paris, and bank vaults too.
But this wasn't his property. To make up his mind about anything was always a major hurdle. He first announced his intention of “lending” the series, keeping everyone on tenterhooks. Finally, after much discreet but considerable prodding, he agreed that the works could stay where they were.
So there they are, the pride of what is now called the Antibes Picasso Museum.
So I finally saw the Antibes paintings, and wrote about them and had them photographed for
Vogue
. This was a considerable coup in art circles and publishing circles.
Vogue
's reaction: Mrs. Chase took me to tea at the Paris Ritz and said gently, “My child, I hear you are not in the office much of the time.” I answered that it was difficult to be gathering fascinating material in Antibes while sitting in the Paris office. She thought that over, then said, “But you must remember that if people are nice to you, it is only because of
Vogue
.”
Vogue
. This was a considerable coup in art circles and publishing circles.
Vogue
's reaction: Mrs. Chase took me to tea at the Paris Ritz and said gently, “My child, I hear you are not in the office much of the time.” I answered that it was difficult to be gathering fascinating material in Antibes while sitting in the Paris office. She thought that over, then said, “But you must remember that if people are nice to you, it is only because of
Vogue
.”
And from Condé Nast headquarters I had a message from the then editor of
House & Garden
: “Since you are on such good terms with Picasso, ask him to send us color suggestions for autumn decoration.”
House & Garden
: “Since you are on such good terms with Picasso, ask him to send us color suggestions for autumn decoration.”
I had another world first of which I was understandably proud. Matisse himself had invited me to visit him at Vence, where he told me all about his plans to decorate the chapel that is now world famous, Sainte Marie du Rosaire.
Vogue
published my text and accompanying illustrations with no author's name up front; my name appeared in very small type in a turn at the back of the book.
Vogue
published my text and accompanying illustrations with no author's name up front; my name appeared in very small type in a turn at the back of the book.
I realized that I was producing too rich a fare for
Vogue
and that I should think of another outlet. It took some years to bring it about, but the first issue of my own magazine,
L'ÅIL
, hit the stands, very quietly, I admit, in January 1955.
Vogue
and that I should think of another outlet. It took some years to bring it about, but the first issue of my own magazine,
L'ÅIL
, hit the stands, very quietly, I admit, in January 1955.
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