Form in Space – Giacometti, His Models, and the Human Condition

If Samuel Beckett had been a sculptor instead of a playwright, he would have been Alberto Giacometti. The Swiss-born artist has sometimes been called the “visual Beckett”, and the comparison is not just some scholarly metaphor. The two men were, in fact, very good friends and kindred spirits in many respects. When Beckett asked Giacometti to create the set design for his landmark play Waiting for Godot, Giacometti obliged, and the result was a single, lone tree. Add French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre to Giacometti’s circle of intimate friends, and you have quite the gang of intellectual thinkers, forever contemplating the human condition and man’s place in the universe. Ah, those crazy existentialists!!

Giacometti was, and still is, a significant figure in 20th century art. In my art model’s “eavesdropping” education (which is a great one, by the way), I hear him referenced quite often in studio lectures and discussions. After navigating his way through Cubism, Surrealism, Dadaism, and all the other “isms” of the art lexicon, Giacometti eventually found his trademark style in the postwar years; that style being sculptures cast in bronze, depicting thin, elongated, attenuated human figures. Devoid of mass or volume. Isolated. Alone in their space.

Like all artists, Giacometti grappled with the concept of “reality”. Is it merely pereception? And if so, whose? The viewer’s or the artist’s? Or does it have nothing to do with perception at all, but rather, the thing itself? On this metaphysical subject Giacometti said, ” The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity”. Shit. Now I know why I got a C in philosophy. (No, it wasn’t me! It was that damn Kierkegaard! Hated that guy.)

But if you want the truth about “reality” and “intensity” with regard to Giacometti, his models would offer up their own no-nonsense definition, one that neither Beckett nor Sartre could ever elucidate. By all accounts, the great sculptor was a notorious taskmaster. The grueling posing sessions went on for hours and hours and hours, terminated only when Giacometti himself was ready to call it quits. The model is tired? Needs a stretch and a break? Not a chance. Get back on that stool, bitch! Ok, I made up the “bitch” part, but you get the idea.

Giacometti’s compulsive behavior extended beyond his treatment of models. His stubborn, obsessive nature dictated all aspects of his life, from his 80 cigarettes a day smoking habit, to his insistence on keeping his small, cramped, squalid studio even though his financial situation could have afforded him better, to his refusal to take a doctor’s advice when, in 1938, a car ran over his foot on the Place de Pyramides. The accident broke several bones, and his doctor urged Giacometti to stay off the foot so it would heal properly. He didn’t. The foot didn’t heal properly. And Giacometti walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

Giacometti’s first models were his mother Annetta and his sister Ottilia. When he moved to Paris with his brother Diego as his faithful apprentice, Giacometti continued to work from life. Flora Mayo, an American, became his model, muse, and lover. Isabel Nicholas also modeled for him, as did professional model Rita Gueyfier. But by far Giacometti’s most reliable model was his wife Annette, whom he married in 1950. She endured his arduous sculpture sessions with patience and forbearance, and it’s thus no surprise that Giacometti’s most productive artistic period took place during those years.

Standing Woman, bronze, 1959:

Later in Giacometti’s life, a new model entered the scene. She was a Parisian prostitute named Caroline, and Giacometti was clearly infatuated with her, much to Annette’s displeasure. Caroline didn’t take Giacometti’s shit, and even extinguished a cigarette right into the canvas of a painting he was working on. Although Giacometti and Annette are believed to have had an open marriage, Caroline’s presence placed an enormous strain on the relationship. In 1965, when Giacometti was on his deathbed, Annette was by his side in the hospital. When Caroline showed up unannounced, the wife and mistress had a heated confrontation, during which Annette allegedly slapped Caroline. Doubtful that Giacometti’s philosophical and intellectual explorations were of any use to him at that moment. You can’t think your way out of a predicament like that.

Black Magic from Magritte

When he was just 14 years old, Belgian surrealist Rene Magritte was forever traumatized. Suffering from depression, Magritte’s mother, Regina Bertinchamp, took her own life by drowning herself in the Sambre River near their home in Chatelet. The night of her suicide, the Magritte family walked through the darkness, following Regina’s footsteps to the river’s edge. There, the young Rene watched as his mother’s lifeless body was fished out of the water, her wet nightgown hiked over her head, covering her face. The year was 1912.

Whether you’re a fan of surrealist art or not, it’s hard to deny that the imagery and symbolism they employed have a haunting, indelible effect. Metaphorical, allegorical, and often irrational, surrealism dwells in the subconscious, inside the darkest dreams, where memories lurk, fears and neuroses run amok, and nothing is quite as it appears. I’ve always found it appropriate that the surrealism school coincided with the 20th century Sigmund Freud revolution in psychoanalysis, dream interpretation, and the like.

Shortly after his mother’s suicide, Magritte met a young girl at a local town fair while riding the carousel. They would randomly meet again years later at a botanical garden in Brussels. She was Georgette Berger, and she would eventually become Magritte’s wife, model, and muse.

During their marriage, Magritte supported Georgette and himself by designing wallpaper patterns and advertising posters. But he soon abandoned the decorative and commercial arts to pursue his own inspirations. The grief and psychology of his youth played an important role no doubt, with Magritte having produced many works of people with their heads covered in cloth. Much like the painful memory of seeing his mother being pulled from that river. A good example is his famous Les Amants.

Georgette modeled for many of Magritte’s works, among them La Magie Noire, or “Black Magic”. What an unusual painting, and one can’t help but wonder what it is Magritte is trying to communicate. Amateur that I am, I see in the “split” figure of Georgette, half earthly and half celestial. Unless the bottom half is not earth, but perhaps blood?

From 1935, this is Magritte’s La Magie Noire:

Although their marriage was far from perfect, Rene and Georgette stayed together for 45 years. They lived at the same address in Brussels until 1954 when they moved to the Paris suburbs. They had no children.

Interestingly, in spite of the tragic loss from his childhood, Magritte is considered the least “dark” of the surrealists, often incorporating irreverent humor and everyday objects – such as pipes, hats, and apples – into his work. He eschewed the hellish, nightmarish themes of his counterparts. In fact, Magritte’s imagery is so much more palatable and accessible than those of other surrealists, that his work achieved even greater popularity in the 1960s and 70s by entering the realm of pop culture. Magritte reproductions appeared on rock album covers and his name was mentioned in song lyrics by Jethro Tull and Paul Simon, just to name a few. And this is my favorite; Paul McCartney, a big admirer of Magritte, claims that it was the artist’s work who inspired the name choice “Apple” for the Beatles record label. Don’t you just love it when art and music “come together”? <— clever Beatles reference

Sapphic Muses

My male readers – of which I have many – are going to love me for this post. Absolutely, positively LOVE me! I happily accept all forms of gratitude, with hugs and kisses most appreciated. Ah, but you guys love me already, right? Believe me, I love you too. Very, very much

This is probably irrelevant, but I’ll mention anyway that I am straight. Yes, plain old straight. Boringly straight. Rigidly and exclusively straight. Wholly hetero. Me likey men!! Woohoo!! :sends a clumsy, awkward lapdance out to male readers through blogosphere:

But straight as I am, I’m still uninhibited enough to feel completely comfortable posing nude with other female models. I’ve done it a few times and have gotten pretty touchy-feely in the process. All in the name of art, yes? I don’t have to reiterate the nearly universal opinion that the female form is considered the epitome of beauty (except by Michelangelo, but we covered that). And if one female form is beautiful, then why not two? And then why not two embracing, kissing, and caressing passionately? Sounds like the makings of a memorable, sensual, and erotic work of art. The best kind I say.

Lesbian subjects have a long, distinguished presence in art, having inspired many artists over the centuries. I found a few notable ones to share, and it’s interesting to see the different moods and varying expressive styles, determined of course by the individual sensibilities of the male artists. I personally don’t find any of these to be exploitative, but then again I don’t know the inner motivations of the artists. They were men, after all. And the subject is titillating. But I’m willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and assume that the sensuality is the inspiring element here. Unleashed, unselfconscious, liberated. And very beautiful.

One of Rodin’s famous Eros sketches, this is Temple of Love:

Toulouse-Lautrec spent an inordinate amount of time in the brothels of Paris. He was well-acquainted with the ladies there and observed a lot of intimate activity. He produced several lesbian works, and this one is discreetly titled Two Friends:

In both style and subject matter, Egon Schiele was as explicit as they come with regard to sexuality. This is Two Women Embracing:

Although I am not a fan of Gustav Courbet, I would be terribly remiss by not including him in this post. I saw this painting, The Sleepers, at the big Courbet exhibit at the Met last spring. I’d say there’s a little more than sleeping going on

Andrew and Helga

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I will state again that artistic muses can be found anywhere. On this blog I’ve profiled muses who were “discovered” in varying settings and with differing relationships to the artists themselves. Many of the great works of art have featured subjects who were sometimes fellow artists, prostitutes, dancers, aristocrats, wives and lovers (or in some cases the lovers of other artists), milliners, peasants, small-town girls, dressmakers, and even professional artist’s models :yay!: It’s a mistake to define who a muse should be. That’s up to the artist to decide. There’s only one common denominator; the feelings dictate that the creative impulse must be carried out. An artist is compelled to “examine” a subject, develop intimacy with a subject, put that subject on canvas or, in the case of Andrew Wyeth and Helga Testorf, many canvases.

So who is Helga Testorf? She is a Prussian-born immigrant who was a caregiver to one of Wyeth’s neighbors near his home in rural Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania. She was 32 years old when Wyeth first met her in the early 1970s, and something about the blond beauty stirred the artist in a very profound way. They were merely acquaintances for a while until finally Wyeth asked her to pose. Helga had never posed before but was willing. From the years 1971-1985, Wyeth produced over 240 works of Helga. Although known as a master in egg tempera, Wyeth used various mediums, and posed Helga in various settings; indoors and outdoors, nude and clothed.

The work sessions with Helga were carried out in secret, unbeknownst even to Wyeth’s own wife and Helga’s husband. The pairing proved to be a fertile artistic relationship, and Wyeth’s stunning output rocked the art world when it was finally revealed in the mid 1980s, even making the cover of Time magazine.

Wyeth’s portrait of Helga, Braids:

In his represenational style, employing a controlled technique and subtle palette, Wyeth depicts Helga often in a state of isolation. How perfectly that mirrors the private, behind-closed-doors nature of their work sessions, which were literally hidden from the outside world.

A nude Helga in Overflow:

Helga has said that this piece, titled Letting Her Hair Down, is her personal favorite of the series:

The Helga works are arguably the most famous series of a single sitter in all of art. While I was gathering information for this post, I came across some pretty rude and cynical articles, written of course by uppity, judgmental, arrogant “art critic” types, who get off on ridicule and salacious speculation. I can’t stand those people, mostly because none of them are artists themselves and certainly have never been muses to anyone (which is why I try, whenever possible, to eliminate their petty “critiques” from this blog). For all their so-called “knowledge”, they seem so ignorant about the nature of creative inspiration and the relationship that evolves between an artist and his model. If only they understood the thrilling experience of an imagination stimulated, a soul nourished, emotions kindled, and a deep bond developing between two people. Sometimes I think they just don’t get it. But I’ve been there. I know how it feels.

Andrew Wyeth and Helga Testorf remain close friends to this day. Their relationship, and the art created as a result, has endured over many, many years, so I’d say they have the last word. The Helga series is artist/muse embodied to perfection. And every artist should be so lucky to find his Helga.

Suzanne Valadon – Muse, Artist, Heartbreaker

French women. What is it about them? Not only do they make great muses, but they seem to live passionate, unbridled lives, defined by independence, strong will, and self-determination. I’ve had to delve into several of their biographies for Museworthy posts, and each time reveals women who love the men they want to love, follow the paths they want to follow, and do things on their own terms. And they do it all unapologetically. No one tells them what they can or cannot do. The word “conformity” is not in their vocabulary, and the social mores and conventions of the day play no part in their decision-making process. Although I like to fancy my own life as one defined by passion, independence, and inspiration, when I juxtapose mine to these women’s, I feel comparatively banal. Yes, banal. Me! Holy crap.

Whether it’s the tortured and devoted Jeanne Hebuterne, the disciplined and talented Victorine Meurent, or the tough as nails survivor that is Francoise Gilot, French women possess an admirable spirit. And to think I haven’t even gotten to Camille Claudel yet! Don’t worry, she’s coming. But until then, Suzanne Valadon will fit seamlessly into the annals of formidable French bohemian ladies.

Born in 1865 near Limoges, France, the illegitimate daughter of a laundress, Suzanne Valadon started working at an early age, taking any job she could get. Her disadvantaged childhood and lack of formal education would not stop her from making something of her life. She became a circus performer in her teens, but had to quit after sustaining an injury from a trapeze fall. So she moved to Montmarte and became an artist’s model.

Suzanne posed regularly for some of the most important artists at the time, such as Auguste Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, with whom she had an affair. It is believed she had an affair with Renoir as well. Suzanne would have many lovers during her art modeling days in Montmartre, where she partied at the clubs and cabarets, and put her liberal and unconventional attitudes toward sex on full display – attitudes which would soon be expressed in her own artwork. The restless muse would discover that she, too, had things to say on canvas, not as model, but with her own brush.

Renoir’s Girl Braiding her Hair, with Suzanne as the model:

Suzanne as the subject for Toulouse-Lautrec’s The Hangover:

Through Suzanne’s prolific art modeling work she was able to to something I have so far been unable to do; she observed, learned and absorbed art techniques from the artists around her. A better art education one couldn’t ask for. Suzanne soon began to create her own paintings, and Toulouse-Lautrec was among the first to recognize her talent and encourage her. Suzanne’s good friend Edgar Degas did the same. Degas, in fact, was so impressed with Suzanne’s artistic ability that he bought three of her paintings.

Suzanne’s self-portrait, done in pastel:

In 1883, at the age of eighteen, Suzanne became pregnant. She never revealed the father of the child, who would grow up to be the artist Maurice Utrillo.

Suzanne met composer Erik Satie when he was playing the piano at the Auberge du Clou, a Paris nightclub and one of Suzanne’s frequent haunts. The 26 year old Satie was naive and inexperienced to the ways of the world, and the capricious, wild-living Suzanne was probably not the right woman to initiate him into adult romances. They began an intense affair, and Satie, who fell head-over-heels in love with her, is said to have proposed marriage to Suzanne during their first night together. But predictably, Suzanne broke Satie’s fragile heart after only six months. Satie wrote that she left him with “an icy lonliness that fills the head with emptiness and the heart with sadness”.

Suzanne Valadon’s portrait of her lover Satie:

Suzanne abandoned portraiture for a time and focused heavily on the female nude, the subject for which she is most known. Her painting style is frank, lively, and modern. Here are just a few of Suzanne Valadon’s figure paintings. They are bold, almost aggressively nude, very evocative, and decidedly Post-Impressionistic:

Suzanne married stockbroker Paul Moussis in 1896. After 15 years, she left him for an artist 21 years her junior, Andre Utter. That marriage didn’t last either but the relationship was artistically productive for both. Throughout her lifetime, Suzanne’s art career was consistently successful. Her four one-woman shows met with critical acclaim, and she earned a highly respected reputation as an accomplished painter with a keen vision.

Suzanne Valadon died in 1938, and her funeral brought out many luminaries of the Paris art world. Among those who came to pay their respects were Georges Braque, Andre Derain, and Pablo Picasso. Suzanne Valadon’s works hang today in the Musee de Beaux Arts and the Metropolitan Museum, among many others. The poor girl from Limoges made her mark, indeed. Vive Suzanne!

Visit to the Met, and a Picasso Enigma

My friend Bernie and I went to the Metropolitan Museum the other day to see the Turner show. The beautiful, inspiring, elegant Turner show I should say. Seascapes, landscapes, and some of the best watercolors you’ll ever see in your life. It’s the talk of the town not only among art world insiders, but also plain old art-loving New Yorkers who are Met “regulars”. And deservedly so. It’s one of the best Met exhibits of late. Much better than that tacky, overrated and ridiculously overhyped Courbet show a few months back. Hey, what can I say, that just wasn’t my thing. But Turner is glorious. Sensitive, aesthetic, graceful, and sincere. A beautiful artist.

Since I mentioned “Met regulars”, of which I am one, I should point out that it’s a common practice for us to linger in the museum even after we’ve finished viewing the “hot” show. You have to. You can’t just leave, it’s the Met! All of us have to make some kind of detour before we exit the building; a detour that leads us to a personal favorite which consistently pleases us, makes our inspiration soar, and fills us with awe. You guys, my New York friends and artists, all know what I’m talking about. The detour is different for everyone, and that’s fine. As long as you pay a pilgrimage visit to your special work of art while you’re still on the premises. In general, the Met Museum is a hard place to walk out of, it’s that great.

For me, the exit-delaying detour is the second floor, where one can find some of the finest pieces of the Met’s permanent collection, specifically early 20th century European works. Among them is one of my all-time favorite paintings, Picasso’s Woman in White. So after we finished viewing the Turner show, I just had to stop in and see it, for the 800th time.

Bernie accompanied me to the Picasso and we enjoyed it immensely. And while I was looking at it, it occured to me that I have so far neglected to post it on my blog. What an oversight! I should be ashamed of myself! So I’m doing it now. But for Museworthy, I have to discuss the identity of the sitter, which turns out to be shrouded in mystery and confusion. Of course, make my life difficult!

For many years it was held that the model for this painting was Picasso’s wife at the time, Russian ballerina Olga Khokhlova. Now, thanks to the inquiring, investigative minds of Picasso biographers and art historians, it’s speculated that the model may be not Olga after all, but American socialite and expatriate Sara Murphy.

Sara and her husband Gerald Murphy moved to the French Riviera in the 1920s. Active patrons of the arts and “Jazz Age” icons, the Murphys became the central vortex of an impressive clique of friends and luminaries, which included writers such as Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and John Dos Passos, the composer Igor Stravinsky, and artists, most notably Pablo Picasso, with whom they had a close friendship. The Murphys are believed to have been the models for the Nicole and Dick Diver characters in Fitzgerald’s book Tender is the Night.

Although no hard evidence exists of an actual affair between Picasso and the vivacious Sara, he was at the very least, infatuated with her. By all accounts, Sara was a charismatic and somewhat eccentric figure. Attractive and intelligent, she was famous for wearing her pearls while sunbathing on the beach. She had all the captivating qualities of an inspiring muse, that’s for sure.

I’m inclined to believe that the Woman in White is, in fact, Sara Murphy. Poor Olga! But either way, the painting is exquisite, and while I’m happy to post it here on Museworthy, it can’t compare to seeing it in real life, hanging on the wall of the Met.

Francoise Gilot

I employ the word “muse” on this blog always with complimentary intent. I myself am a muse to artists, and I revel in that role, as you all know. I even made sure to incorporate it in my blog title. But the word “muse” alone is woefully inadequate to describe Francoise Gilot, Picasso’s companion for ten years, and the mother of two of his children, Paloma and Claude.

Of all the biographies I’ve had to research for this blog, none has absorbed me, impressed me, and inspired me more than Francoise Gilot’s. I have come to admire her immensely. Fascinating, beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, Francoise is a woman who stands fully on her own. Her “attachment” to Picasso need not define her life, her vision, or her place in history. While I am certainly no expert on Picasso’s psychology (nor would I want to be!), I will go out on a limb and editorialize for a moment. I believe the biggest blunder of Picasso’s personal life was his failure to hold onto Francoise Gilot. He attracted a woman of great depth, ambition, intellect, and artistic talent, and blew it in the end with his abuse, disrespect, and mistreatment. Major fuck up.

You are probably all familiar with Robert Capa’s famous photograph of Picasso and Francoise cavorting on the beach. What a great shot. Francoise is radiant, and I love that Picasso is holding the umbrella for her. That’s right, Pablo. Treat her like a lady!

Born in the Paris suburbs in 1921, Francoise knew at the age of five that she wanted to be an artist. While her mother and grandmother were supportive of her aspiration, her autocratic father, Emile, was not. His own dreams for Francoise included law school and a prestigious career in the mainstream. She dutifully attended classes and exhibited solid academic ability. She earned a degree in philosophy from the University of Paris and a degree in English Literature from the British Institute. But Francoise doggedly held onto her artistic pursuits throughout her youth, and had to do it all covertly so as not to anger her father. She learned etching and drypoint. She sought out art classes and instructors to give her guidance and support. She set up an art studio in her grandmother’s attic. She appeased her demanding, despotic father by attending law school, all the while knowing that her passion for art would not, and could not, be quelled.

In 1940, Francoise joined other students in Paris for a rally at the Arc De Triomphe to honor the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and commemorate the armistice of World War 1 – a brazen, impudent act since Paris, at that time, was already under German Occupation. Needless to say, the German soldiers didn’t take kindly to the students’ activism. They harassed them, a melee ensued, and many were arrested. Francoise found her name placed on the “watch list” and was considered a hostage. She was “trapped” in Paris for months, and had to report daily to the local police station.

Picasso’s drawing, Portrait of Francoise, from 1946:

When Francoise finally announced to her father that she intended to devote herself completely to her art, Emile Gilot became livid. He cut her off from the family, and their relationship was irreparably damaged. Resilient, resourceful, and determined, Francoise moved in with her sympathetic grandmother, and supported herself by giving horseback riding lessons in the Bois du Bologne.

In 1943, Francoise was in Paris for an exhibit of her art at the Madeleine Decre Gallery. She and her good friend Genevieve were sitting in a cafe when they spotted Picasso at a nearby table. Although he was with his then companion Dora Maar, that didn’t stop Picasso from approaching the young women with a bowl of cherries and asking his friend for an introduction. The friend obliged, and presented Genevieve as the “pretty one” and Francoise as the “intelligent one”.

Francoise had invited Picasso to her art exhibit and, to her amazement, he came. He then reciprocated by inviting her to his studio. After a courtship dance of studio visits, walks through Paris, afternoons at the museums, and drawing sessions, a May-December romance started to develop between the 61 year old artistic giant and the independent 21 year old free spirit. But Francoise did not jump impulsively into a relationship with Picasso. She likely had some trepidations. So Picasso had to chase her – a predatory role-play he no doubt enjoyed.

Another photo of Picasso and Francoise. Although he is positioned in the background, ostensibly like a subordinate, he seems to be eyeballing her, like the control freak he was:

Picasso and Gilot’s circle of friends included some very prominent figures of the 20th century cultural scene. Among them were George Braque, Marc Chagall, Jean Cocteau, and Picasso’s longtime good friends, Gertrude Stein and Henri Matisse, both of whom were very fond of Francoise.

Picasso and Francoise in Antibes:

They were happy for a time, their greatest source of joy undoubtedly their two boisterous children. They both drew inspiration from the kids and created art which featured the children’s spirits, curiosity, and playfulness around the home.

A charming Picasso family portrait:

But the good times wouldn’t last. Francoise became increasingly frustrated with Picasso’s domineering ways, oppressive temperament, and infidelity. He was jealous of her friendships, as they represented time and attention taken away from him. Once, in an angry rage, he burned a cigarette out in Francoise’s face.

The breakup was inevitable, and ugly. Francoise left with the two children. Upon hearing that their home had been ransacked by Picasso, Francoise returned to discover that Picasso had indeed emptied the place and taken many of her belongings; her book collection, drawings he had given her, letters and correspondence from Matisse. But the final vindictive blow came when Picasso used his considerable influence to have Francoise dropped from her gallery.

So by the still young age of 31, Francoise Gilot had already endured more than her share of totalitarian forces, from every which way; her personal relationships and a wartorn Europe. All trying to keep her down, manipulate her, and break her will. But they failed. Throughout it all, Francoise evolved as an artist, fed her passion, raised her children, and kept her sanity! Amid war, controlling men, and a tumultuous European 20th century.

A 1956 trip to Tunisia inspired this painting by Gilot, Entering the Souk. It depicts a busy marketplace:

Figure drawing by Francoise, The Pink Veil:

You guys didn’t think Monet had the exclusive rights to paint waterlilies, did you? Here they are a la Gilot:

I am so pleased that unlike many of Picasso’s female companions (or most of the other muses I discuss here) Francoise Gilot did not live a “post-Picasso” life of misery and loneliness, or meet with a tragic demise. What a relief! She continued to evolve as an artist, worked tirelessly, exploring new themes, and mastering diverse media. In 1970, Francoise met and married Dr. Jonas Salk, discoverer of the polio vaccine. The marriage was solid, extremely happy, and lasted 25 years until his death from congestive heart failure.

Francoise Gilot is alive and well, living in New York, still working, exhibiting, lecturing, writing, and as vital as ever. Her legacy is breathtaking; painter, illustrator, lithographer, author, and, perhaps most challenging, mother. Any woman who could survive and withstand both the Nazis and Pablo Picasso is officially my hero.

The website which served as an invaluable resource for me in composing this post was the Francoise Gilot Archives. There you can find detailed biographical information on Francoise and incredible images of her life and art. It’s an overall excellent site, and I highly recommend it. The extraordinary life of an extraordinary woman.

Also, YouTube has an hour long interview with Francoise on the Charlie Rose Show. Unfortunately the sound quality is terrible. I watched it, but it was disappointing for that reason. If you’re willing to give it a shot click YouTube-FrancoiseGilot

Venus Envy

It’s due time I get out of the 20th century on this blog, artwise at least. Matisse and Rodin and Picasso and Dali and that whole gang have been running the show for many posts now. But the Renaissance is calling, haunting me in my sleep, harassing me in my dreams, and nagging me to acknowledge the musworthiness of the great Florentine age. Also, the stimulating art history discussions over at The Best Artists blog recently has inspired me to get with the program. So get with the program I will.

Great art by a great artist from a great muse will mark my long overdue foray into the Renaissance. You all know Sandro Botticelli. And you all know his 1482 masterpiece The Birth of Venus. But do you all know the life model for this famous piece? You will now. She was Simonetta Cattaneo de Vespucci, wife of Marco Vespucci (distant cousin of Amerigo Vespucci) and mistress of Guiliano de Medici who was the younger brother of Lorenzo. They called her “La Bella Simonetta”, and I’m jealous already. Considered the most beautiful woman in all of Florence, Simonetta attracted the admiration of every Medici man, Florentine man, and Botticelli himself, who was beyond smitten.

One of Botticelli’s portraits of the lovely Simonetta:

While organizing this post, I learned a couple of things I never knew about The Birth of Venus. One is that it was done in tempera. Nice. Also, because Simonetta died tragically young at the age of 22 – probably from tuberculosis – Botticelli didn’t complete the painting until years after her death. He had to finish it without her – the exquisite muse he adored.

Simonetta Vespucci was very likely the model for Botticelli’s Primavera, and a host of other works. Like I’ve said so many times on this blog, when an artist bonds with a muse and derives powerful inspiration from her, he will use her as his subject over and over again. The old saying about variety being the spice of life, doesn’t apply to artists and their models. For them, the perfect one is preferred over an average many. Never mess with chemistry.

In an era when Catholic themes dominated the major works of art, Venus is markedly pagan. It’s miraculous that the painting escaped the wrath of Savonarola, the zealous, fanatical Dominican priest who initiated book burnings and the destruction of all art he deemed sinful and sacrilegious. Here she is, the goddess Venus emerging from the sea, with the revered, idealized image of Simonetta front and center:

Modigliani’s Muse – Jeanne Hebuterne and the “Rock Star” of Montparnasse

Live fast, die young. Although that phrase was not coined by the 20th century sculptor and painter Amadeo Modgliani it certainly could have been. History, culture, and the arts have given us many of those “tortured genius” cult figures who indulged recklessly, lived decadently, and throughout the wild times, created passionately. Then they die far too early, and soon the myth – the iconography – rises from the ashes. Think James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison. Modigliani can be called a bohemian, a lothario, the dark, moody prince of Paris. But to hell with all that. Here at Museworthy we prefer to call him the troubled lover of Jeanne Hebuterne.

Rather than examine the accuracy of the Modigliani legend – whether he really was as debauched and depraved as the myth would have us believe – let’s just assert some known truths about Modgliani. He was an alcoholic. He was a drug addict. He was sickly. As a youth in Livorno, Italy, he was afflicted with several serious illnesses; pleurisy, typhoid fever, tuberculosis. His infirm health would plague him throughout his adulthood and provide some rationale for his fatalistic attitude later in life. Modigliani was also a womanizer, which makes pretty good sense, as his dark, handsome, brooding good looks attract women even today.

A young Modigliani, around 1904:

Jeanne Hebuterne was born in Paris into a strict Roman Catholic family. She aspired to be an artist and was introduced to the vibrant Montparnasse artist community through her brother Andre, who was himself an artist. She modeled for several painters and sculptors, but soon enrolled in the Academie Colarossi for her own artistic training. There, in the spring of 1917, she met the charismatic Modigliani, who was called “Modi” by friends. Almost immediately, the couple fell deeply in love. He was 15 years her senior.

Before he met Jeanne, Modigliani had had more than his share of lovers and affairs. It was as if no woman in Paris could resist his charm and sex appeal. But with Jeanne – a shy, gentle, delicate, innocent young woman – Modigliani found the person who would come closest to a true companion, and presented his best hope for a deep and meaningful relationship. Whether his destructive habits would allow that relationship to prosper, however, was a different matter.

This is Jeanne Hebuterne. Quite a magnetic, almost confrontational, gaze for a girl described as “shy”:

Jeanne had much to deal with in addition to the high-maintenance lover that was Amadeo Modigliani. Her conservative family took tremendous issue with her romantic involvement with Modi. They objected vehemently for a few reasons. First, he was a penniless artist. Second, he was a wild living degenerate. Third, he was a Jew. So what did young Jeanne do? Did she capitulate to her family’s wishes and abandon the man she loved? Or did she defy her family to be with him? Do I even have to answer that question, folks? I think you all know the answer. Disowned by her family, off she went, to love Modigliani completely, faithfully, and ultimately to her own devastation.

Unmarried, Modi and Jeanne moved in together. They had a child, a daughter, born in November of 1918. Jeanne sat for over 20 works by Modigliani, and still found time to devote to her own art as well.

Here is one of Modigliani’s many portraits of Jeanne, in the trademark Modigliani style of elongated shapes, oval faces, and swaths of color:

And this is Jeanne’s portrait of Modigliani. For a change, the artist seen through the eyes of the muse:

If only Jeanne and Modi could have lived this way; as commonlaw husband and wife, raising children, painting and creating their art, fulfilled, inspiring each other. But there was no happily ever after. Modigliani’s drinking and substance abuse effectively sabotaged any hope for such a life. Jeanne made heroic efforts to achieve that life, to foster things of meaning, the things worth living for; children, art, and the man she loved.

Those aspirations died with too many public incidents of Modi’s bad behavior. In one particularly egregious instance, Modigliani’s temper exploded to a point where he dragged Jeanne by her hair and proceeded to bang her head into the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens. He smoked hashish, drank to excess, experienced alcohol-induced blackouts, and passed out on the streets of Paris until he was picked up by the police.

By 1920, most of Modigliani’s friends in Montparnasse were fed up with him, deserting him as hopeless and incorrigible. Only one friend refused to abandon him. That one friend was Jeanne. On the night of January 24th, the Modiglianis’ downstairs neighbor at Rue de la Grande Chaumiere, knocked on their door after not seeing them or hearing from them for days. The neighbor discovered Modigliani in bed, delirious with fever, shaking, barely conscious. Lying in bed next to him was Jeanne with her arms wrapped around him in a desperate embrace. Modi was dying of tubercular meningitis. The distraught, frightened, and confused Jeanne had not sent for a doctor. She refused to leave his side.

Modigliani passed away. He was 35 years old. Jeanne was shattered and overcome with grief. Like the bottom fell out from under her. The prospect of life without Modi was unimaginable. Or intolerable. Or both. Less than 48 hours after Modigliani died, Jeanne, who was nine months pregnant with her second child, threw herself out a fifth floor window. Actually she walked out . . . backwards. Both she and her unborn child died in the fall. Jeanne Hebuterne was just 20 years old. Her suicide was her final act of allegiance, of protest, of determination. The shy, delicate, demure girl was not so submissive after all.

Jeanne had made her wishes known that she wanted to be buried next to Modigliani. Of course, her still indignant family defied her wishes and, in yet another spiteful act against the girl even in her death, buried her in Cimetiere de Bagneaux cemetary outside of Paris. It wasn’t until ten years later that the Hebuterne family finally relented, and had Jeanne’s body moved next to Modi’s in Pere LaChaise cemetery. Who is among Modigliani’s “neighbors” in Pere Lachaise? None other than his profligate “rock star” successor Jim Morrison.

After Jeanne’s suicide, Andre Hebuterne was said to be tormented with guilt for ever having introduced his sister to Modigliani in the first place. He felt responsible for all the tragedy that ensued. And of course, over the past several decades, Modigliani’s reputation has soared, his lifestyle glamorized, his persona romanticized, all at the neglect of the woman he abused, took for granted, and couldn’t be a man for. That stops here, on the pages of Museworthy.

This is for YOU, Jeanne. Not Modi.

Audrey Munson – Woman in Stone

It’s time for a reality check. Although I am both a born and bred New Yorker and a busy, professional artist’s model all around town, I’d better disabuse myself of any foolish notion that I am in any way the quintessential art model of this city. Because I most certainly am not. Not by a longshot. Sure I have hung on the walls of galleries, studios, and arts clubs throughout the city. But nowhere do I appear in the historic Beaux-Arts architecture of New York. My image and figure are not immortalized atop the 40 story Municipal Building. Nor are they sculpted into the arch of the Manhattan Bridge. Neither are they in the Metropolitan Museum, outside the Customs House in Bowling Green, in the lobby of the Hotel Astor, atop the Pulitzer fountain at the former Plaza Hotel, on the Mercury dime, or outside the New York Public Library. Furthermore, I have never been named “Queen of the Artist’s Studios” or “Miss Manhattan”. Those honors belong to one model, and one model alone: Audrey Munson. SHE was New York City’s artist’s model.

If any art model tries to win a “battle of credentials” with Audrey Munson, she will lose big time, as Audrey beats all of us hands down. One of my readers, Robert, a sculptor and fellow blogger over at Dorset Sculpture, commented here recently about art models being “immortalized”. He’s right. And the great Audrey Munson embodies that idea to an incomparable degree. We are talking about a woman whose gaze stares down at this city of millions from every corner – north and south, east and west, high above, carved in granite and marble, commemorating and memorializing events both solemn and celebratory. In art and architecture, in gildings and arches and almost every public square, Audrey Munson owns this city.

Audrey Marie Munson was born in 1891, in a small town in upstate New York called Mexico, near Rochester. After her parents divorced, Audrey moved to the city with her mother where she was discovered by a photographer. He asked her to pose at the young age of fifteen. Pose nude, that is. The photographer then introduced Audrey to the sculptor Isador Konti and he too asked her to pose. Soon the young girl from upstate New York was the most popular, in-demand artist’s model in the city.

Audrey Munson, 1922:

It seems that every prominent sculptor in New York was clamoring to work with her, and Audrey Munson achieved a significant level of celebrity. She even wrote a newspaper column for a time. In 1915, American sculptor Alexander Calder selected Audrey as the featured model for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, which was held in San Francisco. Munson posed for an astonishing 3/4 of all the sculpture at that event.

Here is Audrey as The Star Maiden, one of Calder’s most famous works of her:

What’s most impressive is Audrey Munson’s role as the symbolic figure of New York City’s civic glory, it’s splendid grandeur as a vast, powerful, burgeoning metropolis. Here she is as the model for Civic Fame, the statue that sits atop the Municipal Building on Centre Street. Constructed of copper sheets over a steel frame, Audrey’s flowing figure holds a five-pointed crown in one hand to symbolize the five boroughs of New York. In the other hand she holds a shield and a laurel branch. This is the second largest statue in the city. What’s the first? Oh just a little thing called The Statue of Liberty:

This is Audrey in the Fireman’s Memorial at 100th Street and Riverside Drive. It was created of pink marble by Italian stone carver Attilio Piccirilli in 1914. I have seen this sculpture in person and it’s really beautiful:

The Melvin Memorial by Daniel Chester French, honors soldiers who died in the Civil War. It’s on view at the Metropolitan Museum:

Here is Audrey in Memory, the memorial sculpture in Straus Park at 107th Street and Broadway. It honors Ida and Isador Straus who died on the Titanic in 1912. Augustus Lukeman was the sculptor:

The Pomona Statue, by Karl Bitter, atop the Pulitzer Fountain in Grand Army Plaza, 59th Street and Fifth Avenue:

Audrey Munson went to Hollywood and tried her hand at silent films. She was the first woman to ever appear nude in a film. Her role was, appropriately, that of an artist’s model. Talk about typecasting! The name of the film was Inspiration, and that is just too perfect for me, my blog, and for art models everywhere! Inspiration indeed. Here is a still from that film:

However, Audrey’s career in films fizzled out quickly. She returned to the east coast and found that the unfair, fickle nature of fame had already “retired” her. The Beaux-Arts construction boom was over. And Audrey was left behind, forgotten so fast it was almost as if she never existed. She and her mother lived in a NYC boarding house, where Audrey took up an affair with their married landlord, Dr. Walter Wilkins. Wilkins murdered his wife to free himself for Audrey. Although Audrey and her mother had already left town and had nothing to do with the murder whatsoever, the police still tracked her down to question her. She was cleared, of course, but was forever stigmatized, the mere association of her name with the scandalous events ruined her completely. Wilkins was convicted and sentenced to die in the electric chair, but he hung himself in his prison cell before the sentence was carried out.

Back upstate in Mexico, Audrey was alienated and alone. She sold kitchen utensils door-to-door. It is speculated that the conservative-minded small town didn’t approve of the local girl who had “posed nude”. Whispers, snickers, and self-righteous moral judgments might have been too much for Audrey to handle. Feeling like an outcast, she attempted suicide, but failed. She was subsequently confined to a psychiatric facility and remained there for the rest of her life. In 1996, Audrey Munson died in that institution. She was 104 years old.

In the cruelest of ironies, Audrey Munson, the great sculptor’s model and muse, is buried in an unmarked grave in upstate New York. Yes, you read that correctly. An unmarked gravestone. Since the crime of that oversight bothers me a great deal, I will close this post with Audrey’s own words. I want her to have the last word, because her sensitive, eloquent statement expresses the purpose and heart of this blog far better than any of my own in all my posts. Her words struck me in a profound way, as if a prophesy from my predecessor. They are the perfect articulation of why I conceived Museworthy in the first place; to honor people like Audrey Munson, and the hard work and inspiration they provided to artists everywhere, lest they be forgotten. She wrote this in one of her newspaper columns:

“What becomes of the artists’ models? I am wondering if many of my readers have not stood before a masterpiece of lovely sculpture or a remarkable painting of a young girl, her very abandonment of draperies accentuating rather than diminishing her modesty and purity, and asked themselves the question, ‘Where is she now, this model who was so beautiful?’”

Blog site devoted to Audrey Munson
New York Times article “The Girl Beneath the Gilding”

Rodin and the Cambodian Dancers

National governments, and their heads-of-state, like to show off. They like to prance around on the world stage. They like to give the appearance of “cultural exchange” (with cultures they are, most likely, oppressing). They like fanfare and pageantry, state dinners, and all kinds of ballyhoo to promote their reputations, dominance, and grand civilizations. For most of us who hold a fairly cynical view of government, we know that the majority of this ostentatious stuff is bullshit. It borders on propaganda, and is sometimes even painfully embarrassing. Did anyone see President Bush drumming and flailing around like a fool with that African music troupe a while back? Enough said.

But thankfully, there is at least one very cool story to have emerged from such an occasion. The year was 1906. French President Armand Fallieres was presiding over the Colonial Exposition, a huge hullabaloo which attracted over 2 million people. One of the official guests was King Sisowath of Cambodia, who brought with him the Royal Ballet of Cambodia. The group performed classical Khmer dance and had received rave reviews in Marseilles a few days prior. So all of Paris was eagerly anticipating their performance at the President’s garden party as part of the Exposition entertainment. Now here comes the cool part. Auguste Rodin, the phenomenal French artist and sculptor, showed up at the garden party to see the much talked-about Cambodian dancers. He had his ticket in hand, but was turned away for not wearing a tie!! WTF?? So the 66 year-old, badass that he was, got justifiably pissed. Pissed, but undaunted.

The old man was determined to see the dance troupe and tracked their appearances. He finally saw them perform at the Bois du Bologne. And it was worth it. Rodin was utterly captivated by the dancers- their unusual short hair, fleet-footed steps, and distinct arm movements. Rodin was blown away. The dancers became his muses, and he couldn’t get enough. The group was scheduled to stop back in Marseilles for a short time before they returned to Cambodia. Rodin followed them there. I love this guy. He’s a badass AND a stalker! Rodin’s decision to follow the group was so impetuous and passionate, so driven by all-consuming artistic inspiration, that he forgot to bring his drawing paper with him. So he got some paper from a local butcher shop and worked on that. In just one week’s time, Rodin did a staggering 150 drawings and watercolors of the dancers, and enjoyed a sportive and lively rapport with them.

Here is a wonderful photo of Rodin, sitting on a park bench, drawing one of the young dancers:

Dancers are not an unusual subject for art, as we all know. I have done a post or two on Degas and Matisse and their “Dancers”. And let’s consider how very different they are. It’s incredible. I’ve also written and posted, as an art model, about gesture, and how it represents the very essence of the human body in movement. And the body is always in movement. And the variation of movement, of gesture, of rhythm, and the shapes and lines created by movement, are virtually infinite. Dance is all about gesture and movement. It’s clear why artists want to capture it.

By his own words, Rodin was completely entranced and mesmerized by the Cambodian dancers. With regard to his “stalking” trip to Marseilles, he said “I would have followed them all the way to Cairo”. Wow. It sounds like the man was in love! But I suppose an artist gripped by an inspiring muse is “in love”, in a way.

Art historians will find this Rodin experience, and the work created, especially fascinating because Rodin was a distinctly “modern” artist. The Cambodian dancers, in contrast, were distinctly traditional. So a unique alchemy took place between the trailblazing, sensual, visionary Western artist and the old-world, ancestral art of an ancient Eastern culture. I am certainly not up to the task of discussing it in depth, but those qualified to expound on the topic are more than welcome to comment away. In the meantime, here are just a few examples of Rodin’s “Cambodian Dancers”:

In spite of the big 1906 Colonial Exposition, no one cares or remembers dick about Armand Fallieres or King Sisowath. But Rodin is remembered. He lives on. And because of his art, the Cambodian dancers live on too.

Dagny Juel – Siren of the “Black Piglet”

Would an absinthe-swilling, free-love espousing, tabletop-dancing Norwegian wild child make a good artists’ model? You bet your ass she would. Expressionist painter Edvard Munch certainly thought so. A local beer hall is as good a place as any for an artist to meet his muse.

The year was 1893. The place was a tiny Berlin bar called Zum Schwarzen Frekel, or “The Black Piglet”. Munch was in town for an exhibition of his work and while there, befriended Swedish playwright August Strindberg and Polish poet and occultist Stanislaw Przybyszewski. Typical of avante-garde circles, the group congregated in a drinking establishment to discuss art, philosophy, and the human condition (and get sloshed in the process!).

Enter Dagny Juel. The well-educated daughter of a Norwegian doctor became a regular habitue of The Black Piglet, and instantly seduced the artsy clan with her nonconformist attitude and beguiling qualities. Dagny was reportedly “thin and flat-chested”, but had a beautiful smile and infectious laugh. And she could handily drink the men under the table. Her capacity for absinthe was almost inhuman. (I tried that stuff once and it is rough!) Dagny commanded attention, had virtually no inhibitions, and was quite the hell-raiser down at The Black Piglet. Her magnetic presence and personality inevitably led to intimate involvements with the male bohemian crowd. And harrowing times would follow for everyone.

Photo of Dagny:

Munch is of course most famous for his painting The Scream, but the titles of his other works present an insight into his angst-ridden psychology. They include Ashes, Jealousy, The Sin, and Death in the Sick Room. Yes, this guy was all about darkness and pain and anguish. But he had good reason. Both Munch’s mother and sister died young of tuberculosis. Another sister suffered from severe mental illness. And his father was a stern man who repeatedly warned the young Edvard, himself a sickly child, that he would burn in hell for his sins. So it’s no surprise that Munch’s outlook on life was oppressed with pessimism and despair. He said of his childhood, “Illness and madness and death were the black angels that stood at my cradle”. That is unbelievably sad. I really feel for the guy.

The depressive Munch was powerfully drawn to this independent, free-spirited 25 year-old femme-fatale. And he was not alone in his attraction to this young woman. Strindberg had a brief but volatile affair with her. German writer Adolph Paul was also infatuated with her, as was Przybyszewski whom Dagny would later marry. It is unclear whether Dagny and Munch had a sexual relationship, though we can speculate that it’s more likely than not. What we do know for sure is that Dagny was the model for some of Munch’s most significant works. Here she is in his painting Madonna, a most unorthodox portrayal of Mary, mother of Christ:

This painting was among the pieces stolen in the 2004 art heist at the Munch Museum in Oslo. Luckily it was recovered, but with some tears, holes, and other minor damage.

Here is Dagny again, in Munch’s Ashes. Not only is this a vivid window into a man’s dark, tormented soul, but it’s a powerful illustration of the chemistry between artist and muse, and the potent art that is created as a result:

Despite whatever turbulence, sexual liasions, and obssessive dramas were taking place during those heady times, it’s clear that Dagny and Munch worked very well together. Quite a formidable artistic pairing.

Dagny Juel’s life came to a tragic end. Her marriage to Stanislaw Przybyszewski was disastrous. Although she bore him two children, they both had numerous affairs over the years. And his alcoholism soon became out-of-control and destructive. In 1901, Dagny was murdered in a Tblisi hotel room, shot by a jealous young lover. Her five year old son, Zenon, witnessed the tragedy.

As for Munch, he never married. He suffered a nervous breakdown and in 1908 was confined to a sanatorium for eight months. His treatment apparently worked, as he emerged somewhat healthier, with his anxieties alleviated enough for him to life the rest of his life productively. He continued to paint and, unlike his family history, lived to be 80 years old.

By the way, here’s something I found interesting. Predictably, Munch’s Berlin exhibition back in 1893 earned negative reviews. And outrage to boot. The critics labeled him a “Nordic dauber and poisoner of art”. Even Kaiser Wilhelm himself spoke out against it. As usual, the art establishment got itself all in a tizzy over a bold new artist who addressed dark, disturbing themes. How many times in history does this happen? So yes, Munch had created a huge fury of controversy. But he wasn’t stupid, that’s for sure. His vociferous detractors had done him a great favor. Regarding the big cause-celebre over his art, Munch wrote to his aunt in Norway, “a better advertisement I couldn’t have wished for”. Smart man. Publicity is publicity. Whether it’s 19th century Europe or the 21st century Internet age, it’s funny how some things never change.

Mama Muse

It’s almost Mother’s Day, and Museworthy would like to offer warm Mother’s Day wishes to all my readers’ Moms, my readers who are Moms, and my readers who are soon-to-be Moms (yay, Steph!!) Most of all, I want to wish my mother a happy, happy Mother’s Day. Great lady, great person . . . the BEST! I’m lucky to have her. xoxo

We have art to commemorate the occasion, courtesy of James McNeill Whistler. The American painter was born in Lowell, Massachusetts, and as the “black sheep” of the Whistler family, the rebellious James was expelled from West Point. He left the United States and settled in Europe where he painted and lived the life of an American expatriate. He became good friends with Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, and had close acquaintances with Manet and Degas. Whistler was also an accomplished engraver and produced many etchings, lithographs, and drypoints.

Here is an 1860 Whistler etching of his model and lover Joanna Hiffernan:

As usual with artist/model circles and their romantic entanglements, drama ensued when Whistler discovered that Joanna had posed for Gustave Courbet’s notorious erotic painting L’Origine du Monde. Needless to say, both Whistler’s friendship with Courbet and his relationship with Joanna were effectively over.

But Mother’s Day is the theme, and I’m sure everyone knows which image will shortly be appearing in this post. It is Whistler’s famous 1871 painting of his mother, Anna MacNeill Whistler. By the 1860s, Anna was widowed, her children were all grown, and the Civil War was tearing through the United States. Rather than live elderly and alone in war-ravaged America, Anna accepted James’ invitation to come and live with him in London. At first, the straitlaced, matronly Anna was taken aback by her son’s artsy, informal bohemian lifestyle. But she soon got used to it, and, at the age of 67, proudly sat for her artist son, for what would become one of the most recognizable works of art. Whistler’s friend Edgar Degas was among the many admirers of this famous portrait.

Although the real title of the painting is Arrangement in Gray and Black: Portrait of the Artist’s Mother, is has become familiarly known simply as “Whistler’s Mother”. It hangs today in the Musee d’Orsay in Paris:

Happy Mother’s Day everyone!!!!!

Surrealist Sighting

It was sometime in the mid 70′s, and I must have been 7 or 8 years old. My brother Chris was 11 or 12. We were two New York kids, lucky enough to find ourselves in a tiny chocolate shop on 57th Street, a couple of doors down from the old Russian Tea Room. Our fantastic mother was prepared to buy us any chocolates we wanted. Oh . . yes! Wooo hooo! It doesn’t get any better than that! Righteous Mom.

Chris and I were in a chocolate-dipped, toasted coconut, creme-filled, sugar-coated, nuts, nougat, caramels, and sweets heaven, literally like kids in a candy store! What to choose, what to choose. How about a hundred of everything? But my Mom suddenly got distracted by a strange man who was also in the store. A really odd, eccentric looking character. He wore a weird hat, a weird cape (yes, a cape!), and carried a cane. Weird moustache, weird face. Weird all around. Why did my Mommy care about this freak, I thought. We’re supposed to be buying chocolates!!!! How dare she direct her attention elsewhere. The nerve of that woman. But she kept eyeing him. Watching him.

My mother, as I have mentioned before on this blog, is an artist. In addition, she is probably the sharpest and quickest observer of recognizing famous figures in public places of anyone I’ve ever known. She spots people like a hawk. In crowds. In restaurants. On the streets of New York. So clearly she knew who this man was. Ok fine, Chris and I thought. The man is famous in some way. Big whoop. Can we get candy already???? My brother and I were going into sugar withdrawal symptoms at this point! The weird little man paid for his purchase, and walked out of the store with his bag of chocolates. My Mom had not attempted to speak to him, as he was not especially approachable. He just left the store, and walked out onto 57th Street. “That was Salvador Dali”, my Mom said. Huh? Dali who? Neither my brother nor I knew or cared who he was other than the jerk who delayed our candy indulgence. Can we get chocolates now, Mom?? Damn.

Yes, that was our little “brush with greatness”. Encountering Salvador Dali in a tiny chocolate shop which, sadly, is no longer there. Given how our city has changed, it’s probably some wireless T-Mobile store now. Or a Domino’s Pizza take-out.

Like all the famous artists I feature here on Museworthy, Salvador Dali had a muse; his wife, Gala. By all accounts, Gala, the daughter of Russian intellectuals, was a shrewish, domineering woman who was profoundly disliked by most people who knew her. Except for Dali, who was infatuated. He even went so far as to call her “mythological”. Gala certainly inspired him artistically, as we can see in this very interesting nude painting Salvador did of her. I have to say, I’m quite intrigued by it:

 

Gala managed Dali’s career and finances, and did so ruthlessly. Her crafty tactics worked like a charm, and even Dali’s father admitted that while Gala was not the warmest, most sensitive lady on earth, she handled and promoted Salvador’s art career with a great deal of business savvy. He said that were it not for her “my son would have ended up under a bridge in Paris”. Perhaps she is reason that Dali is so well-known not just to art experts, but to the general public. He is not “just another surrealist”, but an iconic art figure of the 20th century.

My research of their marriage was, let’s say, a little discomfiting. They weren’t Ozzie and Harriet, that’s for sure. The Dalis were more like Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald on acid. I don’t know, that metaphor works for me. Just as the Dalis’ marriage seemed to work for them. And who am I to judge? Relationships are forged for all sorts of reasons. And as far as art is concerned, a muse is a muse. When an artist finds inspiration as potent and addictive and compulsive as Gala was for Salvador, you hang on to it. Because you are inexplicably drawn to it. Because you have no choice. And so, you create . . .

The Dalis:

Gala Dali died in 1982. As per her wishes, she was buried in her favorite red Christian Dior dress.
Salvador died in 1989, in his hometown of Figueres, Catalonia in Spain, just three blocks from where he was born. To me, he will always be the peculiar man who bought a bag of chocolates, in that little shop on 57th Street.

Vermeer’s Mystery Muse

The 2004 film Girl With a Pearl Earring explored the creation of the famous portrait masterpiece by 17th century Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer. I really enjoyed the film, and thought the casting of Scarlett Johanson as the housemaid “Griet” was a great choice. British actor Colin Firth portrayed Vermeer. But the truth is that we really don’t know who the sitter was for this celebrated work. And it’s unlikely we ever will. So much of Vermeer’s own life is unknown and shrouded in mystery. He spent his entire adulthood in the city of Delft in the Netherlands and was only a moderately successful painter during his lifetime. When he died, he left his wife and eleven children in serious financial debt.

As a huge fan of historical and biographical movies (love them!), the factual inaccuracies (uncertainties, really) of Girl With a Pearl Earring did not hinder my enjoyment of the film. Nor did it with Amadeus or Pollock and a few others. (Heard a rumor that Al Pacino is planning to star in a biopic of Salvador Dali. I hope that’s true because I’d love to see that!)

So as to the identity of the young lady, there are three possibilities – and they could ALL be wrong. But the choices are that she is either Vermeer’s eldest daughter Maria, or the daughter of his wealthy patron Pieter Van Ruijven, or, as the movie suggests, the Vermeers’ young maid Griet. Of course it is all speculation, and art historians have been grappling with this conundrum for years. You can find an excellent discussion on all this at: Girl With a Pearl Earring, Who Posed?

This is Girl With a Pearl Earring, often referred to as “the Dutch Mona Lisa”, from 1665. To see the real thing, you’ll have to go to the Mauritshuis Museum in the Hague:

Amazing. What a gaze. Looking over her shoulder. And with parted lips which is not typically seen in portraits. The painting itself is as inscrutable as its backstory. Very fitting.

This is a great opportunity to start the first-ever Museworthy poll! So, who was the sitter for Girl With a Pearl Earring?? Hey, I trust the opinions of my astute readers more than any art academic, that’s for sure. You guys are the greatest. But I suppose I should start the voting and throw in my two cents. I will say that it is NOT Vermeer’s daughter, only because it really looks like a commissioned portrait, doesn’t it? Unless Vermeer commissioned himself, it isn’t Maria. Now wasn’t that just the most brilliant analysis?