Magnificent Splendor

Art and friends. Is there a better formula for lovely times? I think not. Works splendidly for me, since art and friends are two major components of my life. Last Saturday was an occasion of loveliness. Lunch at the Met with my mom, and our friends Damian, Kathi, and Susan. Fabulous day, delightful conversation, and a post-lunch stroll through the museum galleries to top off a perfect afternoon.

At Kathi’s encouragement, we went to the the Charles Engelhard Court to view a work of art that inspires her. It was Harriet Whitney Frishmuth’s sculpture, “The Vine”, and boy was it worth it. Good call, Kathi! This 1924 bronze piece dances, bends, and undulates in the center of the gallery, a spectacular marriage of artistic grace and athleticism. Flaunting the mother of all backbends, the Vine sculpture commands that room. Feminism at its finest Here she is, the gorgeous star of the museum’s American WIng:

I copied the text description because it was an excellent read and provides a brief history of sculptor/dancer collaboration in the 20th century:

In the early twentieth century, sculptures of dancing women were produced in great numbers, inspired in part by the popularity of Isadora Duncan, Loie Fuller, and Anna Pavlova. Frishmuth often turned to dancers for her sculptural themes and employed them to pose for her with musical accompaniment. Shown stretching upward and outward in imitation of a living vine, this lyrical nude balances on tiptoe in the ecstasy of performance, a grapevine suspended in her hands. The first version of the work, a statuette eleven and a quarter inches high, was enormously popular, cast in an edition of 396. In 1923, Frishmuth enlarged the sculpture to monumental scale, using Desha Delteil of the Fokine Ballet as her model.

The Vine girl from the other side:

Desha Delteil was an amazing dancer and model, famous for her work with Frishmuth and her ability to hold unbelievably challenging poses. But I had to break away to offer humble reverence to the great, GREAT muse just a few feet away. The one and only, New York’s own Audrey Munson, hanging on the wall, carved into the Melvin Memorial. Rock on, Audrey:

Still in the American Wing, more dazzling splendor, in the form of glass mosaic by Louis Comfort Tiffany. I took three pictures of this display, left side, center, right side:

The Metropolitan Museum ensures that you are surrounded with beauty at every moment. That includes the lobby, where fresh flower arrangements are displayed every day to greet you when you enter and bid you farewell when you leave. We had sunflowers on Saturday! Somewhere in heaven, Vincent Van Gogh was smiling:

Modigliani Madness

I don’t make any money off this blog, and I plan to keep it that way. But if, hypothetically, I did make money off this blog I would be obliged to share a portion of the revenue with the estate of Amadeo Modigiani. Like all bloggers, I check my traffic and stats regularly, and I’m still amazed at how frequently “Modigliani” appears as a search engine term. Every single day . . . Modigliani, Modigliani, Modigliani. Hundreds of people have found Museworthy thanks to him. And he’s the reason that my old post on Modigliani’s muse Jeanne Hebuterne is the top Museworthy post, and still going strong. Sometimes that year-old post gets the highest traffic in a daily breakdown, surpassing even the newest one!

So what’s with all the Modigliani madness? Well, he’s enormously popular that’s for sure. But do we know why? Is it a “cult-following” phenomenon, fueled by the romanticism and mythologizing of another tormented, misunderstood, “bohemian”? That probably has a lot to do with it, as Modigliani fits that archetype to perfection. I can’t say anything definitively. I can only offer my amateur, semi-informed analysis. Modigliani’s work is not especially profound or complex. His subject matter is not weighty or thought-provoking. He had a seemingly limited range as an artist, and wouldn’t be described as versatile or extremely significant as a 20th century figure. Modigliani may have been a contemporary of Picasso, but Picasso he was not. No art historian will dispute that.

But stylistically, Modigliani’s art is very appealing. Strongly influenced by primitive sculpture and African tribal masks, he used those shapes and features – exotic and elongated- and adapted them into a sleek, distinct modern look. Therein lies his genius. The result was something highly seductive: simplified forms, graceful lines, sensuous female subjects. People are attracted to it. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Stroll over to the Modigliani section of the Met and you can see it for yourself, as there is always a crowd congregated around his paintings, any day of the week.

I remember feeling terribly sad after I wrote the Jeanne Hébuterne post. The story is so tragic and heart-wrenching. She was far too young and vulnerable to be involved with a difficult man like Modigliani, and she paid with her life. Fortunately not every woman who crossed paths with Modigliani had her life devastated. Some of his other models were stronger, more independent women than Jeanne.

Lunia Czechovska met Modigliani through his art dealer and they became lifelong friends. She apparently had a somewhat stabilizing effect on him but tolerated his ways only up to a point. Lunia claimed that although their relationship was close, it never became sexual. Considered Modigliani’s most important model, Lunia sat for him many, many times and is the subject of both nudes and portraits. This is Lunia from 1919:

South African-born Beatrice Hastings (a pen name) was a writer, poet, and critic whose work was published regularly in the British literary journal “The New Age”. While living in Paris, Beatrice moved in the artsy Bohemian circle which included French painter/poet Max Jacob and, of course, Modigliani, whom she famously described as a “swine”. They had a two-year affair during which they shared an apartment in Montparnasse and plenty of hashish. This is Modigliani’s Portrait of Beatrice Hastings:

And since it was the story of Jeanne Hébuterne which began all the Modigliani madness here on Museworthy, I’d like to honor her again in closing. This is Modigiani’s Portrait of Jeanne Sitting:

Precipice

If there’s any constructive thing that can come from struggling with the beast, or enduring any difficult personal times, it’s this; you discover who your true friends are. I’ll leave it at that.

Lately I’ve been relating a lot to the art of Edvard Munch, and I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. I have always been a Munch fan, and last year wrote a blog post about his famous muse Dagny Juel. But there’s a world of difference between simply admiring art for art’s sake and identifying with its themes to a degree that goes well beyond metaphor. With all due respect to the guy, if looking into Munch’s world feels like I’m looking in a mirror at my own, then I must be in deep trouble.

A new muse entered Munch’s life in 1910, after his mental breakdown and subsequent recovery in a clinic. Just 17 years old, Ingeborg Kaurin represented a new kind of model for the Norwegian artist. Instead of a female subject who serves merely as an archetype, a human paradigm for a particular myth, message, or symbol, Ingeborg was a real flesh and blood young woman. And Munch, in a departure from his pre-breakdown years, depicted her as such. She was not required to act as a player in the artist’s storytelling or assume a fictitious role. She had only to be herself. Real rather than theoretical.

A plump, full-figured peasant girl, with a long dark mane of hair, Ingeborg came to life on Munch’s canvas in swirling brushstrokes, in a setting no more theatrical than life itself and the emotions it brings. After all, that is drama enough for an affecting work of art, isn’t it? Munch was extremely fond of Ingeborg and gave her the nickname “Mosspiken”, which means “Moss girl”.

If I wanted to share a Munch painting that reflects my current mindset, I also could have posted The Scream. That would fit the bill just fine. But I’ve chosen this one instead, as it’s even more accurate. These days I could easily be the model for this painting. But it’s Ingeborg Kaurin of course. From 1913, this is Edvard Munch’s Weeping Nude.

I’m not doing well at all, my friends (as if you couldn’t tell). I apologize for being this way. I’m not achieving any relief from this beast episode and am finding it almost impossible to get out of bed in the morning. Again, I apologize to everyone

Mr. Happy – The Love of Marc Chagall

“Only love interests me, and I am only in contact with things that revolve around love.”

- Marc Chagall

That sounds heavenly! I wish I could do that. Live a life infused with love and nothing but love. I envy Marc Chagall for his unwavering positive attitude. It was one that would make Norman Vincent Peale proud. A rarity among famous artists, Chagall refused to submit to his inner neurotic (assuming he even had one) or convey the world as a bleak, cynical, miserable place. It’s even more impressive for a guy who grew up poor in a Jewish ghetto under imperial Russia, yet still described his childhood as “happy”. Then came adulthood, and a surveilled life in St. Petersberg that required all Jews to carry permits and obey restrictions. And then, years later, fleeing Paris to escape Nazi persecution. Such harsh adversities would engender considerable and justifiable anger, fear, and bitterness in most people. But not Marc Chagall.

When he painted people, he depicted them happy, carefree, in love with each other and the world around them. Bursting color, whimsical abandon, and childlike innocence distinguish his work. In Chagall’s vision, love is the answer, the reason for being, just as it was in his off-canvas life. When he met Bella Rosenfeld, a jeweler’s daughter, Chagall said it was love at first sight. They married in 1915, and their bond remained strong and unbreakable for 30 years. When Bella died in 1944 from a viral infection, Chagall was devastated. He had lost his artistic muse, companion, mother of his daughter Ida, and his best friend.

We should all be motivated by love, whether romantic love, platonic love, love of life, laughter, hopes and dreams, art and music, love for family and children, love of earth and animals. My writing of this post, for example, is inspired by love for a dear friend, Stephanie. She is a Chagall fan, and my love and affection for her, and the memories we share, inspired this blog entry

This is Chagall’s Above the Town. Now that looks like a great date. Talk about being swept off your feet!

Three Candles:

Again, Chagall does the euphoric “floating in air” thing. Bella was his model for this painting. She flies like a kite, buoyed by jubilation and youthful exuberance. And check out that big crazy grin on the man’s face! This is Promenade:

Today, Chagall’s paintings fetch upwards of $6 million at auction. His work is popular and beloved by many for their vivid, lively spirit and enduring charm. It’s nice to know that happiness never goes out of style

*Note to my readers: I’m heading out of town for the weekend to attend my cousin’s graduation from Clark University. Yay! I’m so proud of him. So me and the family are driving up to Worcester, Massachusetts on Saturday morning, and returning on Sunday night. I’ll be back blogging either Monday or Tuesday, with new posts and comment responses. Will miss you all, and have a great weekend!!

Claudia

Goya and The Duchess

Artists and aristocracy have been collaborators for a long time. Throughout history, such relationships have been brilliantly synergistic. The artists benefit from having wealthy patrons and famous painting subjects while the aristocrats enjoy the attention, self-aggrandizement, and personalized custom artwork. Are both players using each other in these scenarios? Absolutely. Are they both pleased with the arrangement? You bet.

The Spanish painter Francisco de Goya benefitted from wealthy patronage probably more than any other artist. The darling of Spanish monarchs, Goya was appointed First Court Painter by King Charles IV. The King and his wife, Queen Maria Luisa, sat for the artist themselves many times, donning flamboyant costumes and royal regalia. Goya received countless portrait commissions from other high-ranking government officials, requests for altarpieces for churches and cathedrals, and was made a member of the Royal Academy of Fine Art. But of all of Goya’s many prominent sitters, one stands out above all the others.

Her full birth name was María del Pilar Teresa Cayetana de Silva Alvarez de Toledo y Silva Bazán. A member of Spanish nobility, Maria held the title of 13th Duchess of Alba. When she married José María Alvarez de Toledo y Gonzaga, the 15th Duke of Medina-Sidonia, she became the wealthiest woman in Spain. Known to be eccentric, beautiful, and strong-willed, the Duchess clearly charmed Goya during one of their earliest encounters, at which she asked the artist to apply her makeup. Goya wrote in a letter, “the Alba woman, who yesterday came to the studio to make me paint her face, and she got her way; I certainly enjoy it more than painting on canvas, and I still have to do a full-length portrait of her”. Well, what do you know? Francisco Goya – makeup artist!

Of course Goya did get around to painting the Duchess in full length portrait. One of many, this is The White Duchess, 1795. Notice that pointing right finger:

When the Duke died in 1796, the Duchess was widowed at the age of 34. She went into mourning, dressed in black, and hid away in her estate near Cádiz, a city in the beautiful Andalusian region of southwestern Spain. It was during this stay in Andalusia that Goya painted most of his works of the Duchess. This arrangement prompted a great deal of gossip and innuendo, leading many to believe that the artist was having an affair with the grieving widow. But it has never been proven. Although it’s possible that the relationship between Goya and the Duchess was strictly platonic, a male artist (a married one) and his charismatic female muse (vulnerable from a recent loss) holed up intimately together, creating paintings on the magnificent Spanish coast, does sound like a recipe for illicit romance, does it not? We’ll never know for sure.

Goya self-portrait, circa 1775:

Goya’s Mourning Portrait of the Duchess of Alba, also known as The Black Duchess. Again with the finger-pointing!

Contrary to popular belief, the Duchess of Alba was NOT the model for Goya’s scandalous Maja series. The woman in those paintings was more likely Pepita Tudó, the mistress of the Spanish Prime Minister Manuel de Godoy. That Godoy was the first recorded owner of the Maja works lends credibility to the theory. It’s also been considered that the “model” for Maja was really a composite of several women that Goya “pieced together”.

The Duchess died at the young age of 40, which fueled suspicion that the cause of such a premature death must have involved foul play, such as poisoning. Who would want to poison the Duchess? The aforementioned Queen Maria Luisa who was known to despise her. In 1945, heirs to the House of Alba arranged for the Duchess’ body to be exhumed and autopsied in hopes of putting the rumors to rest. No evidence of poisoning was found, and the death has been officially attributed to tuberculosis. Interestingly, the Duchess bequeathed in her will a substantial annuity to Goya’s son Javier.

Lydia Delectorskaya – Matisse’s Last Muse

A nude woman, one who stirs creative inspiration, locked in a studio with a male artist, growing closer and more intimate each day, is a recipe for a sexual affair. It’s happened countless times. So it’s logical to assume that a model-dependent artist like Henri Matisse spent equal time seducing his models as he did painting them. Seems to come with the territory. But unlike many of his peers (namely the predatory Picasso), Matisse abstained from sexual affairs and kept his relationships with his models largely platonic. This is not to say that Matisse was an angel or devoid of a sex drive. He just wasn’t particularly lascivious and exercised comparatively more self-control than you-know-who

This was not, however, any comfort to Madame Matisse, who was still threatened by her husband’s close relationship with Lydia Delectorskaya. A golden-haired beauty from Siberia, Lydia was orphaned at a young age, and managed on her own wits and mettle to flee Russia in its tumultuous post-Revolution years. Somehow she ended up in Nice, France, broke, with no job or connections. As luck would have it, Lydia found employment in the Matisse household as both a studio assistant and domestic.

Matisse’s gentle and civilized manner was a welcome tonic to Lydia’s rootless and itinerant early life. She had met many unkind and untrustworthy people along her journey and endured some hard times, but in the company of Matisse, she found solace and a beneficial, positive influence. Hilary Spurling’s acclaimed and exhaustively researched biography on Matisse, contains great insights into the relationship between Lydia and Matisse. Here’s an excerpt:

It was not for another three years that the painter asked her to sit for him. Lydia was 25, Matisse was 65. She thought of him as a kindly and polite old gentleman because (unlike previous artists, who had taught her to detest modeling) he never pawed at her or tried to take off her clothes. “Gradually I began to adapt and feel less ‘shackled,’ ” she wrote, “ . . . in the end, I even began to take an interest in his work.” . . . Matisse said he came eventually to know her face and body by heart, like the alphabet. The collaboration they established together gave Lydia a new sense of power and purpose.

Matisse’s famous 1947 portrait of Lydia:

Although Lydia insisted that the relationship was strictly platonic, Matisse’s wife was jealous nevertheless. A spouse’s intimate bond with another, even if purely professional or emotional, is often greater cause of jealousy than sex. And the already rocky marriage of Matisse and Amelie was put to the test. Given an ultimatum, “It’s me or her”, Matisse chose his wife over Lydia. The issue was settled, right? Wrong. Madame Matisse still could not get over her feelings of betrayal, and in 1939 she left her husband after 40 years of marriage.

Lydia in the studio:

Lydia returned to her role as Matisse’s studio assistant, and the two friends together braved the turmoil of World War II, and the German invasion of France. They were the closest companions for the rest of Matisse’s life, with Lydia acting as both caretaker and assistant, doting on Henri, seeing to his comfort, keeping him vital, and supporting his later artwork, notably his historic paper cutouts.

Toward the end, the faithful Lydia tends to the frail, aging Matisse:

The bond between Lydia and Matisse proved to be unbreakable. Steadfast, she stayed by his side until his last breath. Again from Spurling’s excellent book, this quote describes their last tender moment, the artist’s final sketch of his trusted and devoted muse:

Matisse died on November 3, 1954. He was 84. The day before, Lydia had come to his bedside with her newly washed hair wound in a towel turban, accentuating the classical severity and purity of the profile Matisse had so often drawn and painted. He sketched her with a ballpoint pen, holding the last drawing he ever made out at arm’s length to assess its quality before pronouncing gravely, “It will do.”

Sexaholic

“All art is erotic” – Gustav Klimt

I don’t know if that’s true for guys like Monet or Gainsborough or Norman Rockwell, but for Klimt himself truer words were never spoken. Arguably one of Austria’s most formidable artistic figures, Gustav Klimt had, as they say, sex on the brain, and everywhere else no doubt When he wasn’t choking cats, he was creating lusty, seductive images of women in the throes of passion.

To some degree, Klimt’s life benefited from highly providential circumstances. He was in the right place at the right time in history. Vienna, at the turn of the century. A bona-fide cultural capital of Europe. While not quite as cutting-edge as Paris, Vienna still offered fertile ground for artistic expression. It was the city of Sigmund Freud and Arnold Schoenberg, theaters, cafes, music, nightclubs, literature, architecture. It glistened during that shining period of European history known as Belle Époque (“beautiful era”). An artist like Klimt couldn’t have asked for a more conducive milieu. If Klimt was in Paris, he might have been just another avante-gardist. But in Vienna he was THE avante-gardist. Better a big fish in a smaller tank, right?

But life didn’t start out so gloriously for Gustav Klimt. Born the second of seven children just outside Vienna in 1862, Klimt grew up in a poor, struggling family. His father, an engraver, had difficulty making ends meet. As a result the family frequently moved from place to place. Like it often does, art school presented a way out of obscurity, and the fourteen year old Klimt entered Vienna’s School of Arts and Crafts on a scholarship. There he immersed himself in the meticulous, decorative techniques of mosaic and fresco. Soon, commissions for public art projects around Vienna came flowing in.

Given Klimt’s propensity for overt sexual imagery, it was only a matter of time before he offended a client. In the 1890s, he was commissioned to create three large paintings on the wall of the University. He did, and was vehemently criticized for their perceived scandalous nature. Klimt was accused of creating “pornography” and using “excessive perversion”. Needless to say, Klimt had an epiphany as a result of the experience. He realized that public work assignments in the government’s employ would never afford him the artistic freedom he required. By 1900, he was out on his own. That meant female models. Nude female models. All day, every day. Let the fun begin!

The studio had the feel of a harem. Klimt’s models strolled around casually in the nude, lounging, napping, stretching, gossiping, each one ready at a moment’s notice to provide erotic poses and explicit sexuality for the intense Klimt. The man himself wore a long, loose-fitting robe and sandals. Mizzi Zimmerman was among those models, and she became pregnant with his child. In true Klimt form, he painted her in her pregnant state, erotically of course.

It’s not an accident that most of Klimt’s models are redheads. He had a thing for them. Here are a few, floating around in blissful, wanton surrender. Water in Motion from 1898:

Klimt became known as “Vienna’s painter prince” and he enjoyed the moniker. Many of the city’s socialites and upper class women approached him for commissioned portraits, friendship, or more. Klimt attempted to seduce every last one of them, with varying success. Among them was Friederike Maria Beer, daughter of a wealthy nightclub owner. Friederike described Klimt as having “animal magnetism”. Klimt also met and had a tempestuous affair with Alma Schindler, the future wife of composer Gustav Mahler. But without question, Klimt’s most famous “rich lady” friend and painting subject was Adele Bloch-Bauer, wife of a wealthy Viennese industrialist. Klimt’s renowned gold-embellished portrait of Adele hangs in the Neue Galerie here in New York. In 2006, Ronald Lauder’s purchase of that painting for $135 million generated such an insane level of hype in this city I have no words to describe the madness. It was nuts.

But it was Klimt’s studio models who were his most exciting and willing muses. Portraiture aside, no Vienna society lady would pose for – let alone pull off – something like this. One of my favorite paintings, this is Danae. If it reminds you of a sleepy, dreaming woman in an orgasmic state, then Klimt did his job well. Girl is feeling goood

Klimt did many drawings, some as preparation for paintings. This is Woman Semi-Nude. Nice view!

Klimt rarely, and I do mean RARELY, used male models. But he clearly needed one for this drawing, Recumbent Lovers. As a drawing it’s nothing spectacular, but I thought my blogosphere fellas would enjoy it. So here you go, guys. A little missionary action for ya’.

Let’s get horizontal again shall we? Only this time we’ll dispense of heterosexual love and explore homosexuality. For a man like Klimt that meant one thing: lesbians. This is his treatment (one of many) of lesbian eroticism. From 1907, Water Snakes II:

Klimt was a hypochondriac. Obsessive about his health, he lifted weights to stay in top physical condition and suffered paranoid fears of diseases, both of body and mind. But there was one disease that Klimt could not protect himself from, not even with the strictest health regimen: syphilis. He contracted it, inevitably, after years of promiscuity and countless affairs.

Comparisons are naturally drawn between Klimt and his Austrian compatriot Egon Schiele. Younger than Klimt by almost 30 years, Schiele reached out to Klimt and became his protege. Like his older mentor, Schiele created art that was considered by many as lewd and pornographic. But Schiele’s sexual imagery seems to have a repellant, debasing effect, while Klimt’s are more sensuous, vivid, and aesthetically engaging. (In my opinion, a parallel between Klimt and Rodin is a more apt comparison artistically).

When asked why he never painted a self-portrait, Klimt explained that “there is nothing special about me . . . whoever wants to know something about me ought to look carefully at my pictures”. That’s an honest, rather than evasive, answer. Look at the pictures, just like the man said. And if “a picture paints a thousands words”, we can safely say that we know Gustav Klimt pretty darn well. We know, above all else, that no subject inspired him more than the female form.

I take issue with this last image. It’s The Virgin from 1913, and I’m ashamed to admit that when I lost my virginity it neither looked nor felt anything remotely like this. What gives? I want a do-over! (too late for that). This is obviously an idealized male fantasy of what a girl’s “transformation” is like. But a gorgeous, decadent panting nonetheless. It glimmers and shimmers, in trademark Klimt style:

You can find more images and information about Klimt, and things I didn’t cover here – his participation in the Vienna Secession, the “Beethoven Frieze”, and his long term relationship with Emilie Flöge – on this excellent site. Beautifully designed, informative, and visually stunning, it was of great help to me organizing this post.
And as for Museworthy, our horny boy Klimt will be back for sure

Rosina Ferrara – Sargent’s Muse of Capri

The word “exotic” is thrown around rather indiscriminately when describing women’s looks. Someone called me exotic once, and although I took it as a compliment, I’d say the adjective was a little over the top in reference to me. How “exotic” is a middle class, subway riding, public school educated girl from Queens? Sure I’m of Armenian ancestry and have deep set eyes, but come on. Exotic? That’s pushing it.

The word “exotic” encompasses more than just a somewhat unconventional physical appearance, like in my case. It includes culture, language, geography, traditions. A true exotic figure might be described thusly: “the tawny skinned, panther eyed, elf-like, wildest and lithest of all the savage creatures on the savage isle of Capri”. Now THAT sounds exotic! And who is the enigmatic woman behind that description? A 17 year old native Capri girl named Rosina Ferrara.

Capri is an Italian island off the coast of Sorrento, located in the southern part of the Gulf of Naples. During the 19th century, Capri attracted artists, musicians, and writers from all over the world, drawn to its beauty, friendly inhabitants, and inspiring, rustic ambiance. Olive trees and vineyards dot the landscape, wild boars roam the countryside, and fisherman toil in the harbors. Greeks, Romans, Moors, Arabs, Normans, and Spaniards all settled on Capri at various times throughout the island’s history, and that diverse mixture of ethnicities blended into a unique Mediterranean culture.

Born into a working class family in 1861, Rosina Ferrara was first discovered by the French artist Edward Vaux, and soon after became the regular model for Englishman Frank Hyde. Beguiled by Rosina’s nutty brown complexion, frizzy textured hair, and sweet disposition, Hyde drew powerful inspiration from the native girl, described often as an “Arab/Greek type”. But Hyde’s exclusive possession of Rosina would be disturbed with the arrival of another artist in search of fresh inspiration. Enter John Singer Sargent.

He came to Capri in 1878, and the hot, sticky weather almost prompted Sargent to turn around and go right back to Paris. In letters he wrote to friends, he complained about the humidity and the bugs, claiming to be “bitten from head to toe”. But fellow artist Frank Hyde took mercy on the suffering Sargent and offered him a place to stay. There, in Hyde’s studio located an abandoned monastery, Sargent was introduced to the young model and local girl, Rosina. And he was instantly captivated by her uncommon beauty, Arabic features, and dark skin. An artist had met his muse.

This 1878 Sargent painting of Rosina is extraordinary. An artistic “home run”. I love everything about it, from the clothes, the gesture, the brush strokes, and Rosina’s natural, uninhibited, seemingly spontaneous movement. Sargent captures it all brilliantly. I’d take this painting over that stiff, bourgeois Madame X anyday. That painting is cold, staged, dripping with affectation. This one is warm, genuine, and spirited. Rosina is earthy and unselfconscious. And just look at that smile:

By all accounts, Rosina was a superb model whose posing abilities rivaled any of the professional models of Paris. And the inspiring energy she radiated is evident on the canvas. Some of the Capri natives, however, had reservations about Rosina, or any of the local girls, posing for visiting foreign artists. They were concerned, rightly I’d say, that the men were seeking to exploit and take advantage of the young ladies who were somewhat naive to the ways of the world. I was very disappointed (that’s putting it mildly) to discover that Sargent never paid Rosina for her modeling. What a fucking dick! (Sorry).

In 1883, Rosina gave birth to a daughter, Maria Carlotta. The father’s identity is unknown. After a relationship with Belgian artist Alfred Stevens, Rosina eventually married the American muralist George Randolph Barse in 1891. They moved to the United States and lived in Katonah, Westchester County, just north of New York City. A prominent, respected man, Barse was a member of the National Academy of Design, the Salmagundi Art Club, the Century Club (I work at all those places ), and the Society of American Artists. The marriage was a happy and healthy one, and lasted for 43 years until Rosina’s death from pneumonia in 1934. Barse was devastated by the loss of Rosina and never fully recovered. Unable to go on, he took his own life just three years later. On a cold February afternoon, he sealed himself in his garage, ran his car engine, and died from inhaling carbon monoxide fumes.

From Neapolitan girl of Capri to wife and mother in the New York suburbs, Rosina Ferrara’s life took a fascinating arc. Along the way, she did a lot of modeling, inspiring and . . . dancing. Though works of her have fetched a hefty price at auction at Christie’s, though she settled into a comfortable life in America, I doubt that Rosina ever forgot her youth and innocent roots. In her heart, she was still always the exotic girl who once danced the tarantella on a rooftop in Capri . . .

Rosina Ferrara Dancing the Tarantella, 1878, by John Singer Sargent:

Farewell Dina Vierny

Many thanks to Bruce, Bill, and Fred, and two anonymous blog readers, for sending me the New York Times obituary of Dina Vierny, the great muse of sculptor Aristide Maillol. She passed away on January 20th at the age of 89.

Like Bruce expressed in his email to me, the relationship between Maillol and Vierny is touching on many levels. I was particularly moved by how the introduction of the then 15 year old Vierny revived the stagnating artistic career of the aging 73 year old Maillol. Never underestimate the power of inspiration, or the galvanizing effect of when the perfect muse walks into an artist’s life. It is a catalyst in the truest sense of the word.

In her adulthood, Vierny became deeply involved in the French resistance during World War II. Jewish herself, Vierny took on the dangerous work of secretly transporting fleeing refugees of Nazism into Spain. Whenever she was arrested by the French police, Maillol protected his beloved muse, and used all his connections to release her from jail and pay for her lawyer.

I recommend everyone check out the whole New York Times article. It is a wonderful read. Of course my favorite passage is this one about Vierny encouraging the elderly Maillol to tackle nude work, describes the delightful affinity they felt for each other, and explains Vierny’s eventual acceptance of modeling:

“Ms. Vierny, who was intent on studying physics and chemistry, took to the role of artist’s muse reluctantly at first, posing during school vacations and glancing sideways at her schoolbooks on a nearby stand. The generous modeling fees and Maillol’s sense of fun won her over.

For the first two years, though, she kept her clothes on, not out of modesty — she and her friends belonged to a nudist club — but because of Maillol’s timidity. She herself later proposed that he try some nude studies. “Since he never asked, I figured he would never have the courage,” she told National Public Radio last year.”

This is the voluptuous Dina in Maillol’s The River, 1943. Really intense figurative sculpture:

Dina went on to become one of the most prolific art collectors of the 20th century, approaching it with the same passion with which she did modeling, politics, and human rights. In the 1970s, as a profound tribute to her friend and mentor, she founded the Maillol Museum.

I am saddened that another great muse has left us, but what a legacy she leaves behind. Goodbye Dina . . .

A Woman Among Men – Berthe Morisot and the Impressionists

Few female artists managed to infiltrate the boy’s club that were the French Impressionists. American painter Mary Cassatt was one. French painter Berthe Morisot was another. A bourgeois lady who led a charmed life, Morisot’s biography, unlike so many I often write about, is remarkably drama-free. No table-dancing, no promiscuity, no children out of wedlock, no alcoholism, no nervous breakdowns. Whoa, whoa, wait a second, this is Museworthy, isn’t it?

Berthe Morisot is largely well-known and recognized as a model subject for Edouard Manet. He painted her a total of eleven times, and the two forged a close friendship of mutual respect and affection. Manet mentored and supported Morisot although she was never his formal “pupil”. A unique French beauty, Morisot’s image is captured by Manet in this famous painting from 1872. I alternate between hot and cold when it comes to Manet, but I think that this work exemplifies portraiture at its finest. The eyes, the clothing, the brushstrokes, it’s as close to perfect as it gets:

Morisot and Manet moved in the same Impressionist circle, both becoming well-acquainted with Monet, Renoir, Pissarro and the gang. But Manet resisted the Impressionist label and refused to exhibit with the group. Morisot, on the other hand, was a true believer in the Impressionist mission, and exhibited with them regularly. A loyal adherent, Berthe promoted and participated in all the Impressionist shows, and even organized the group’s swan song in 1886.

An upper class bourgeois girl through and through, Berthe grew up in privilege and claimed an impressive bloodline. She was the granddaughter of the prolific Rococo painter Jean-Honore Fragonard. Her father was a prominent, high ranking government official who provided his three daughters with the best tutors, best homes, best of everything that 19th century Paris had to offer. And after all her education and advantages, young Berthe chose art as her life’s calling. Lucky for her, she had her family’s full support.

Morisot’s Hide and Seek:

Under the earlier influence of her friend Camille Corot, Morisot spent many years painting plein-air (outdoor) subjects. She then moved on to themes common for female artists of the day; picnics, domestic scenes, children, family members – all the tame, “safe” subjects expected of feminine “lady artists”. Men rarely appear in her work, and very few nudes. But it seems that Berthe was comfortable in the role, as she was a firm advocate of the philospohy that artists should paint the subjects with which they are most familiar, images of their daily life. So it’s no surprise that Morisot’s work reflects the pleasant, comfortable existence of a proper, bourgeois Parisian lady.

Interior:

In 1874, Morisot married Manet’s younger brother, Eugene. They had a daughter, Julie, in 1878. Julie would become one of Morisot’s favorite models. In this painting, Morisot depicts Julie with her pet greyhound, and the open composition, bright colors, and loose brushstrokes typify the Impressionist aesthetic. Looks a lot like a Renoir:

Eugene Manet died in 1892. In her widowed years Berthe Morisot continued to paint, exhibit, and maintain her friendships with Monet and Degas. Her daughter was her closest companion until Berthe died of pneumonia in 1895. The respect she had earned over her lifetime was expressed by these words from her friend Camille Pissarro upon hearing of her death, “You can hardly conceive how surprised we all were and how moved, too, by the disappearance of this distinguished woman”.

As the beneficiary of her mother’s work and legacy, Julie Manet ensured that Berthe Morisot’s place in art history was recognized, as that of a faithful disciple of the French Impressionist school.

One-Woman Show

Forget the Met. Forget MoMA. Forget the Guggenheim. They ain’t got nothing on Spring Studio in SoHo. Right now, the most anticipated and inspiring art exhibit in New York is on display at Spring, and it holds great personal significance to many in our city’s art community. Spring Studio director Minerva Durham has worked tirelessly these past few weeks to organize and curate this show in memory of her dear friend, the eminent New York artist’s model Aviva Stone, who passed away a year ago. I wrote a post in her honor, accompanied by a striking, now-famous portrait of Aviva by Fred Hatt. She was adored, admired, and respected. Over this past year, she has been deeply missed. I am glad to have known Aviva personally and can say that I never once encountered her in a mood that wasn’t warm, sweet, and positive. I also felt a kinship with Aviva in that she and I were among the few “full-timers” in the art modeling profession. We are a rare breed!

Advance reviews on the show, which officially opens Sunday, December 7th, are unanimous, unmitigated raves. One of the finest Minerva has ever assembled, they’re saying. Artists were invited to submit their best drawings of Aviva, and now they are all together in one room. I can’t wait to see it myself!

A note to artists everywhere, and pay close attention: when 30 or 40 works, by different artists but of ONE model, hang in a gallery/art space all at the same time, that my friends is a “one-woman show”. An art model’s one-woman show. Yeah, that’s right. Just a reminder that the term is not the exclusive domain of artists. It doesn’t even require a flexible interpretation of the phrase or semantic trickery on my part, mind you. What’s going on down at Spring really is a one-woman show :raises pumped fist in art model solidarity:

Raymond Smith, a New Jersey-based artist, has two pieces of Aviva in the show. You can view them here, along with the rest of his online gallery. Also, my friend Jean Marcellino has a gorgeous charcoal drawing of Aviva in the show. Just a sample of the many expressive, creative, and affectionate portrayals of Aviva Stone on display in her tribute show, this is Jean’s depiction of the legendary muse:

Visit my Events and News page for more info on the Aviva exhibit.

Online memorial site for Aviva Stone.

And Aviva speaks for herself in this video profile.

The Passing of a Muse

It’s a sad, sad day. Sad for many, but uniquely sad for those of us who work as models at the New York Studio School. Royalyne Ward-Davis, our dear model coordinator, passed away last night after a hard-fought battle with cancer. I don’t even know how to approach, let alone begin, this post in her memory. I’m probably writing it too soon, since I only found out the tragic news a few hours ago. Even though we all knew this was imminent, after watching her waste away for months, it doesn’t alleviate the grief. I last saw her, spoke to her, and hung out with her on an unseasonably balmy night on 8th street in Greenwich Village a few weeks ago, at the opening reception for her art exhibit at the school.

Royalyne was as wedded to the New York Studio School as a person could be. She started there as a student many years ago, then a model, then the model coordinator. In other words, she painted there, posed there, and administrated there, her heart and soul inextricable from the school itself. She carried out her model coordinator duties, doing bookings and organizing models’ schedules, up to the last day she was capable of doing it. It was only several weeks ago that I answered my cell phone to hear Royalyne’s distinct raspy voice and north Florida accent at the other end, calling to inquire about my availability. We discussed it, then discussed chemo, then discussed the school, and then a little bit of life itself.

She was blunt, she was honest, she was genuine, she was funny as hell, she loved art with every fiber of her being, and she understood art models and their “issues” like no one else. One time last year, Royalyne and I had a verbal argument about bookings. She was being stubborn, I was being stubborn, and in disgust I slammed my planner book closed very hard in front of her face, like a giant bitch. (really wish I could take that back). When I saw her the next day, it was like the whole altercation never happened! Royalyne made a very funny joke (which I won’t share because it’s between her and I), laughed, and beamed her contagious smile (which never changed in spite of hollowed cheeks and an ashen complexion). It made me smile and laugh back. We roared in her office over our respective temperaments, the oddities of the school, and the art modeling profession in general. And we bonded in that indescribable way that models bonded with her. i can’t really explain it accurately, I’m sorry. It was just Royalyne. She was an individualist. She was memorable. She was a singular person in every way. Her personality was unlike any other.

Royalyne posed for artist Joe Santore, her longtime good friend. I have posed for Joe as well and I am profoundly honored, and humbled, to follow in Royalyne’s footsteps. I didn’t ask Joe for permission to post this image, but I highly doubt he will mind, since it is in tribute to Royalyne. And we are all very, very sad that she is no longer with us. Just trying to cope.

Royalyne, by Joe Santore, 1995:

But Royalyne has gone home. Safe trip, friend. Safe journey. Your pain is gone. Rest in peace . . .
Crying. Missing you. I’m booked at the Studio School on Wednesday. Will be there at 9 AM sharp

A Life in Visuals – Tina Modotti, Politics, and the Power of Photography

Words can’t describe the positive feedback I’ve received from readers for this blog over the past year. I’m touched and overwhelmed by it. What has moved me the most is that such a wide variety of creative folks have responded with so much enthusiasm, from all corners of the globe. Among them are fine artists, illustrators, art models (and aspiring art models!) cartoonists, writers, graphic designers, sculptors, and, lately, a surge in photographers and fine art photography models. It’s amazing, and awesome! Common threads. Shared enjoyment. Collective inspiration. I read and respond to every single comment on this blog and read and respond to every single email. It gratifies me almost as much as art modeling itself.

So what is at the root of our united interest? Why do so many of us gather here on a semi-regular basis? I look at my blog stats, and I am absolutely baffled. Thrilled, but baffled. I say that with sincerest humility. I’d like to flatter myself and claim that it’s my personality , and although that might be a tiny part of it, I know it’s not at the crux of Museworthy’s attraction. No, what’s at the heart of all this is the graphic aspect. The life forms. The expression of humanity through the visual arts. Body, flesh, face, limbs, souls, and spirits. The pleasure of looking at life, whether through paint, pencil, plaster, ink, clay, or photography. The latter takes center stage today.

Yes, this post is my little “shout out” to the photographic artists and their life subjects. They are the documenters, the chroniclers, the diarists. They’ve been stopping by Museworthy, and I’m so honored to have them here. Although I don’t do photography myself, I realize more than ever how interconnected our respective fields are. Who knows? They might even liberate me from my “film phobia”.

So what better way to begin yet another new chapter for this blog than with a woman who filled both roles, and filled them with tremendous passion and intensity. She was Tina Modotti. And while I usually take the time to do thorough, detailed biographical research on my post subjects, I’ll be somewhat brief this time only because I am blown away by the images and am eager to put them up. Plus it’s late and I’m working a lot the next couple of days and refuse to let Museworthy go too long without a fresh post. Yes, I’ve developed an insane fear of “dead blog air” and have become fervent about steady blogging momentum and activity. Yeah, I know. I’m nuts.

Tina Modotti was born in Italy in 1913 and emigrated to the United States – California specifically – when she was a teenager. There she met the man who would represent the most significant relationship of her life – photographer Edward Weston. Tina became his apprentice, assistant, and lover. Together, they settled in Mexico City.

Weston photograph of Tina. Her total inhibition and comfort with her nude body before the camera jumps right out at you. She’s not just posing. She’s fully and completely there. Plus, she looks damn good.

A Communist, Tina became heavily involved in radical politics and the Mexican Communist Party. Moving in those circles she inevitably befriended who else but fellow die-hard Communist, Mexican muralist Diego Rivera. She became not only one of Diego’s favorite art models, having posed for several of his murals, but also a close friend and comrade. Yes, lover too.

Another Weston picture of Tina, White Iris. Haunting and beautiful:

I’m probably stretching here a little, but she looks – just a little – like me. Maybe? Possibly? Ah, just a tiny bit. I see a little something similar. The nose is off. But I’ll take it, whatever it is

Tina’s own photographic output occurred for a relatively brief period, between 1923 and 1930. Her commitment to political and social causes eventually consumed a great deal of her time, along with her complicated romantic life. She liked men a lot, and made no secret of it. But the one thing for which she had greater affinity than male lovers was the plight of laborers and the indigenous people of Mexico. They are the ones she chose as the predominant subjects for her photography. Daily life of the impoverished and disenfranchised.

What symbolizes hard work, struggle, and oppressed labor more than human hands? Nothing. The observant Tina knew this. Here is her photo Hands Washing:

Woman with Olla:

By the 1930s, Tina was fully immersed in radical, revolutionary politics, and surrounded herself with dissidents, avant-guardists, and vocal activists. In 1936, she went to Spain to participate in relief missions during the Spanish Civil War. She eventually returned to her beloved Mexico.

In 1942, Tina Modotti died under very suspicious circumstances. Her old friend Diego Rivera was convinced that she was murdered because of her political activities. Regardless, Tina Modotti was undoubtedly one of the most fascinating, passionate, talented, and visionary women of the 20th century.

I’d like to conclude with what is considered Tina’s most famous photograph. It’s titled simply Roses. In 1991, it was sold at auction at Sotheby’s for $165, 000, the highest price ever paid for a photograph up to that time:

Photography friends of Museworthy. Beauty. Art. Nudity. Images. And, most importantly, life subjects:

Exposed for the Shadows

Fluffytek

Terrell Neasley

Brooke Lynne

Michael Vasquez

Misfortunes of a Mistress – Marie-Thérèse Walter and “Le Reve”

In 2001, Las Vegas casino mogul Steve Wynn paid $42 million for Pablo Picasso’s famous 1932 painting Le Reve. A few years later, in 2006, Wynn was proudly showing off his prized art possession to a group of friends when, in a fit of exuberance and wild arm gesticulations, he banged his elbow into the painting, leaving a silver-dollar sized hole puncture in the canvas. What a jerk! Among the startled onlookers were Barbara Walters, and writers Nora Ephron and Nicholas Pileggi. In Ephron’s eyewitness account of the incident, she recalled that Wynn’s immediate words were, “Oh shit. Look what I’ve done!”. You know what they say, “What happens in Vegas . . . ” But wait, it gets better.

Just the day before the elbow mishap, Wynn had finalized a deal to sell Le Reve to hedge fund billionaire Steven Cohen for a whopping $139 million! Had the deal gone through, it would have been the highest price ever paid for a single work of art. But after Steve Wynn tore a gash into the painting, Cohen, naturally, reneged from the deal. Can you blame him? Would you pay 139 mil for a painting with a patch job? Wynn spent $90 thousand to repair the damage, which his insurers, Lloyd’s of London, refused to cover. Wynn sued them, and the matter was later settled out of court.

So what’s the big deal about Le Reve anyway? Well, here on Museworthy, the big deal is that the model for the painting was Picasso’s long-suffering mistress Marie-Thérèse Walter. Picasso met the pretty young blond in 1927 at the Galeries Lafayette in Paris. She was 18 years old. Picasso was 45, and still married to his wife Olga Khokhlova. Immediately, Picasso became infatuated, and he and Marie-Thérèse began a secret affair. Soon, she would become arguably Picasso’s most famous muse.

Le Reve, or “The Dream”, is said to have been painted in just one afternoon. With simplistic lines and brash colors, the painting is representative of how Picasso saw Marie-Thérèse; as an object of sex. Not an equal, not a life partner, not a wife, not even as a friend, but a plaything, a source of sexual arousal and gratification for the middle-aged artist. Picasso is hardly subtle about it either. Look closely at Marie-Thérèse’s face in the painting. What do you see there in the split at the top? Looks like a penis, right? Picasso’s penis! Classy touch there, Pablo. Ok, you’re horny for the girl. We get it! And notice that it’s she who’s doing the “dreaming”, apparently of Picasso and his member. Give me a break.

If I may throw in my two cents and offer my humble opinion, I personally don’t find this one of Picasso’s better works. I am a huge fan of Picasso, I’ve made that clear on this blog several times (don’t like the man, love the art). And when you look at the entirety of Picasso’s prolific work, especially his earlier pieces and the Blue Period, his depth, his range, etc, you are reminded, lest you forget, of what the man was truly capable of. In contrast, this painting looks weak. Garish and tacky. It looks like he’s putting one over on us and laughing his ass off. It also mocks and demeans and objectifies his muse, and that’s not cool in my book. But again, just my ever-so-humble opinion. Ok, I’ll shut up now.

In 1935, Marie-Thérèse gave birth to Picasso’s child, a daughter named Maya. Although Olga had been in the dark about Picasso’s young mistress for years, word of the baby soon got to her through a friend. It was the last straw. Olga left Picasso and moved to the south of France. Picasso, however, refused to divorce Olga, not out of his love or devotion to her mind you, but simply to avoid having to comply with France’s “division of property” divorce laws. It wasn’t until Olga died in 1955 that Picasso was “free” of her, and his money was safe.

Although Picasso maintained contact with both Marie-Thérèse and Maya and supported them financially, they never existed as a family unit. Marie-Thérèse was forever on the fringe after she had his baby. Shunted aside. Perhaps her appeal as a fresh, youthful, eager and unencumbered mistress had lost its luster as she matured and became a mother. Eventually, Picasso would meet Dora Maar, and that burgeoning relationship symbolized the official end of any significant role Marie-Thérèse would have in Picasso’s life.

In 1977, four years after Picasso’s death, Marie-Thérèse Walter hung herself in the garage of her home in France. She was 68 years old.

Jane Avril – Muse of the Moulin Rouge

An absent father. An alcoholic, abusive mother. A misdiagnosed mental illness and a stint in an insane asylum. Such cruel adversity to be hoisted upon a young girl in Paris. What would become of her? On paper, the neglected girl would seem doomed for a life of anonymity, unhappiness, and destitution. But a girl with tenacity and a will to survive could overcome the odds.

Born out of wedlock in the Belleville section of Paris, Jane Avril suffered brutal beatings at her mother’s hands. Although her father was a wealthy Italian aristocrat, he abandoned Jane and her mother and took no responsibiilty for his daughter’s welfare or upbringing. At the age of 16, Jane fled her home and lived in the streets, a scared and troubled runaway. When she was picked up by authorities, they determined that she was mentally impaired and placed her in the pysch ward of Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital.

But it was in that psych ward, of all unlikely places, where Jane discovered purely by chance that she possessed a certain talent; a talent for performing, for movement, for dance, for showmanship. The hospital workers organized a party for the patients. At that party, the teenage Jane got up and danced. Her spirited routine impressed everyone, and the hospital staff realized then that Jane was not mentally ill after all, but just a girl who had suffered through tremendous stress, neglect, and ill-treatment, and had to cope with it all alone. She had been deprived of love, nurturing, and an outlet for her expression. Now she had found one.

Jane was released from the hospital but did not return to her mother’s house. And who can blame her? Instead, she seized her freedom and explored Paris, determined to find her way. She performed in the dance halls and cabarets of Montmartre, and worked any day jobs she could find, such as a cashier at the World’s Fair, until she finally ended up at the creme de la creme of Paris nightclubs; the Moulin Rouge.

The timing of Jane’s arrival at the famed Moulin Rouge could not have been more opportune. The celebrated cabaret dancer Louise Weber – known by her stage name “La Goulue” – was finally stepping down after years as reigning headliner. In need of a replacement, the Moulin Rouge hired the young newcomer Jane Avril, and took a chance that she could fill the formidable shoes of the famous Louise Weber. Jane was more than up to the task and filled those shoes with ease.

Unlike the bawdy and bodacious Weber, Jane’s style was more graceful and feminine, her body more thin and lithe, her steps more nimble and smooth. Her obvious charm and appeal were an instant hit, and the regulars of Parisian nightlife warmly embraced her. Among those regulars was the artist Toulouse-Lautrec.

Jane and Lautrec would become very close friends, and possibly brief lovers. Lautrec was attracted not just to Jane’s stage presence and dance talent, but to the sadness he saw inside her, the wounds she had sustained during her difficult youth. He recognized that Jane was inherently a loner in spite of her popularity and lively profession. Jane and Lautrec were both outsiders in some respects, and this was possibly the reason they formed such a strong bond. Some of Lautrec’s most famous posters and lithographs feature Jane Avril as the subject.

Toulouse-Lautrec poster of Jane:

Toulouse-Lautrec used Jane as a model offstage as well. Here, in Divan Japonais, Jane is posed not as a dancer, but a woman dressed elegantly in black, sitting in the audience at the Divan Japonais cabaret. The Divan was a brand new club in Montmartre, decorated with a Japanese theme. The club’s owner commissioned this poster from Toulouse-Lautrec to advertise the new establishment. Lithographed posters saw a surge in popularity during the 1890s and 1900s, largely due to developments in color printing techniques. I really like this poster. I think it’s one of Lautrec’s best, and Jane makes a terrific subject:

Jane gave birth to a son and in 1910 married artist Maurice Biais. She quit dancing and moved out of Paris to live a quiet domestic life. But it was not to be. Jane’s marriage was an unhappy one, and Maurice often disappeared for days at a time. When he died in 1926, Jane was left penniless. It seemed like she had come full circle, back to a life of anonymity, poverty, and tough times. She was the lonely runaway girl all over again. Or was she?

In 1941, the elderly Jane Avril was tracked down by a persistent group of admirers. They pulled her out of obscurity to honor her with a “grand-finale” tribute in Paris. At that bittersweet event, white-haired Jane – former can-can girl and artists’ muse – got up on stage and once again performed a dance to an appreciative audience. Once again, she dazzled the crowd. Just like she did regularly at the Moulin Rouge. And just like she did back when she was 16, in that hospital pysch ward. She did it again . . . Jane did it again Can you imagine what that moment must have been like for her? To realize that she was not forgotten, that her name and career still meant something to people, that her spirit was still alive? If it were me, I’d have been a wreck! Falling apart emotionally and crying my eyes out.

The Nicole Kidman character in the 2001 film Moulin Rouge is based on Jane Avril. The real Jane died in a nursing home in 1943. She was 75 years old. She is interred at Pere-Lachaise cemetery in Paris.