Vera Molnar’s Hommage à Klee

Molnar Klee small

From the exhibition Vera Molnar, Affinités particulières: Hommages à Dürer, Cezanne, Klee, on view at the Galerie Berthet-Aittouares in Paris through April 20: Vera Molnar, “Montparnasse, d’après Klee, en bleu, vert et rouge,” 2006. Numéro 3, 17×17 cm, 12 x 12cm. Image copyright Galerie Berthet-Aittouares.

Le feuilleton (the Serial), 2 : “Trompe-l’œil” — Michel Ragon’s ground-breaking 1956 satire of the Contemporary Art Market (in French and English), Part Two

By and copyright Michel Ragon
Translation copyright Paul Ben-Itzak

(Original French version follows English translation.)

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Charles was entering his 18th year. He’d only remotely followed the metamorphosis of his parents and was astonished. His father and mother’s sudden passion for Modern Art bewildered him. By nature a bit slow, a good boy with a below average intelligence, he had trouble keeping up with the evolution of his family. When his father praised Klee to the detriment of Kandinsky, he might as well have still been comparing Mumphy underwear to Rasural underwear.

Charles was not subject to this fever which had consumed his loved ones since the adventure of the Paul Klee paintings had begun: it should be pointed out that speculation wasn’t the only engine driving Monsieur Mumfy’s new attitude. If Monsieur Mumfy had become obsessed with abstract painting, it wasn’t just because he was counting on it — following the example of the Klees — to centuple in value, but also because he liked it. In her role as a good spouse, Madame Mumfy accompanied him in this conversion. She who previously had never set foot in a museum these days wouldn’t miss a single vernissage or cocktail if it had anything to do with abstract art. She even tried her hand at a variety of smaller works about which she didn’t make a big deal, even though some galleries wanted to expose them.

When it was decided that Charles would become a painter, Monsieur and Madame Mumfy threw a cocktail party to which they invited all the critics, dealers, and collectors.

Once more everyone raved about the perspicacity of the master of the house, who’d had the acumen to build such a stellar collection of Klees.

“When one considers,” proclaimed Charles Roy, “that the Modern Art Museum of the City of Paris doesn’t have a single Klee, not even a Mondrian, in its collection, it’s scandalous! It’s up to the private collectors to retain for France a few chefs-d’oeuvre of contemporary art. France owes you so much, dear Monsieur Mumfy!”

Monsieur Mumfy was used to inspiring such homages. Little by little he’d convinced himself that he actually had discovered Paul Klee before the war. In the beginning, he was pretending; now he wasn’t lying. He really believed that he’d always loved Klee — for at least the last 20 years anyway. For that matter, the dates on the paintings on his walls seemed to back up this claim. And given that the art critics, the dealers, and the other collectors who frequented his house were themselves recent converts to abstract art, no one could disabuse him of this notion.

The critic Charles Roy, a specialist in abstract art, had burst into the public spotlight with great fanfare after the Libération. Even though he was already in his 50s, his pre-war activity remained fuzzy. In fact, he’d played a laudable role in the Résistance and he was rewarded by being offered his own platform in the press. As he was absolutely incapable of writing in clear French, or at least of paying any attention to the rules of grammar, he was relegated to the art column. In this post which, on a major newspaper, is usually cloistered and innocuous, Charles Roy had succeeded in carving out a niche for himself thanks to his total ignorance of syntax. No one understood a word he wrote, and as he wrote about paintings that no one understood, people just thought it was a new style. Charles Roy was the veritable inventor of this brand of abstract art criticism which, born at the same time as the Academy of Abstract Art in Paris, made people believe in a concordance of genres when in reality it was just one big critical scam which had encrusted itself like a parasite in the haunches of an art form which merited its own Baudelaire or Apollinaire.

If all the major photographers in Paris were inevitably Hungarian, the big art critics were Belgian. Charles Roy was no exception, and his moniker was obviously a pseudonym. His enemies liked to point this out by punning, “He waffles like a real Belgian.”

Like all Johnny-come-latelies, Charles Roy veered from one extreme to another. A salesman of religious tchotchkes for tourists before the war (voila why he changed his name), Charles Roy now recognized only the strictest form of abstract art. Charles’s artistic coming out party found him once again defending this standard to the boy’s father:

“I admire Klee in a historic sense,” he was saying, “but I don’t approve of his anecdotal aspect. It’s literary painting. Art is only justified today if it doesn’t evoke the least parcel of reality.”

“Ah! Don’t touch my Klee!” Monsieur Mumfy responded in a sententious tone. “You can accuse Miro of being literary, or Picasso of being anecdotal, but when you go after Klee in my presence, it’s as if you’re insulting a member of my family.”

At just this moment a brouhaha broke out in the salon at the entrance sur scene of a dwarf who appeared leaning on a small cane with his bifocals perched on a large nose, a dwarf bearing a surprising resemblance to a Toulouse-Lautrec caricature. The guests parted to make way for the dwarf, who stood on his tip-toes to kiss Madame Mumfy’s hand.

Charles Roy and Monsieur Mumfy fell over themselves to see who could get to the dwarf’s side first.

“My dear Laivit-Canne….”

“Monsieur Laivit-Canne….”

The dwarf sank into an easy chair provided by a servant and announced in a nasal voice:

“I’ve just cut off Manhès!”

This declaration was met with a stupefied silence. The majority of those gathered in the salon turned their heads towards the wall, where five paintings by Manhès stared back at them. They seemed to be looking at them for the first time, even though they were all quite familiar with Manhès’s work. In reality, they were seeking out the little imperfections, the vice which might have earned them the disfavor of Laivit-Canne.

It was finally Charles Roy who broke the silence, ingratiatingly enough, to flatter Laivit-Canne:

“Bravo!, Monsieur Laivit-Canne. Manhès’s style might end up selling well, but in fact it’s already passé. It’s not genuine abstract painting.”

The dwarf, ensconced in his cushions, exuded the surly air of a spoiled child. He resumed in swishing his nose for emphasis:

“I don’t give a fig about abstract painting or non-abstract painting, sellable or non-sellable art …. Manhès insulted me — Manhès who owes me everything, Manhès who’d be dead if not for me –”

“Oh!”

The dwarf nimbly scooped up a petit-four from a passing platter, masticated it with determination, and explained:

“Manhès called me a self-hating Jew….”

This unexpected insult created an unease among the guests. Someone ventured:

“Manhès has always struck me as a racist.”

The dwarf sought out the origin of the voice, squinting his eyes, came up empty, and continued:

“I encourage you, my dear Mumfy, to sell off your Manhèses. Before long they won’t be worth a wooden nickel.”

“There’s no rush, there’s no rush,” joked Monsieur Mumfy with a cheerful bonhomie which broke the tension a little. Then, assuming a stentorian tone, he proclaimed:

“Tonight I’m proud to announce some good news. Charles has decided to choose art over underwear. He’s to be a painter.”

“Which academy will you send him too?” asked one woman, “chez Léger ou chez Lhote?”

“Just don’t tell us he’s going to the Beaux-Arts Academy,” asked another worried woman.

“Don’t be alarmed,” assured Monsieur Mumfy. “He’ll be trained at the right school. I’m going to sign him up for the Abstract Art Academy.”

Big hands started clapping. Those of Charles Roy. The guests formed into groups, depending on their affinities. Many paused in front of Manhés’s paintings, where the conversation was particularly animated. Everyone rushed to shake the hand of Charles, who was starting to get bored.

Version originale par et copyright Michel Ragon:

Charles entrait dans sa dix-huitième année. Il avait assisté à la métamorphose de ses parents sans enthousiasme. La soudaine passion de son père et de sa mère pour l’art moderne le déroutait. D’un naturel un peu niais, bon garçon, d’une intelligence au-dessous de la moyenne, il ne suivit l’évolution de sa famille que de très loin et le souffle coupé. Lorsqu’il entendait son père louer Klee au détriment de Kandinsky, cela lui produisait le même effet que si son géniteur avait fait l’apologie des sous-vêtements Michaud au détriment de sous-vêtements Rasurel.

Charles ne participait pas à cette fièvre qui s’était emparée des siens depuis cette aventure des tableaux de Paul Klee: Il faut dire que la spéculation n’était pas la seul moteur réagissant la nouvelle attitude de Monsieur Michaud. Monsieur Michaud achetait de la peinture abstrait, non seulement parce qu’il comptait bien que celle-ci, a l’exemple des tableaux de Klee, centuple sa valeur, mais aussi parce qu’il aimait ça. En bonne épouse, Madame Michaud l’accompagne dans sa conversion. Elle qui, autrefois, n’avait jamais mis les pieds dans un musée, ne manquait aujourd’hui aucun vernissage, aucun cocktail, concernant l’art abstrait. Elle s’essayait même, comme nous l’avons vu, à certaines petites œuvrettes dont elle avait la sagesse de ne pas faire grand cas et ceci bien que certaines galeries lui aient proposé de les exposer.

Lorsqu’il fut décidé que Charles serait peintre, Monsieur et Madame Michaud donnèrent un cocktail où tous les critiques, marchands, collectionneurs, furent invités.

On s’extasia une fois de plus sur la perspicacité du maître de maison qui avait su réunir une collection de Klee aussi merveilleuse.

— Quand on pense, s’exclama Charles Roy, que le Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris n’a même pas un seul Klee, pas un Mondrian, c’est une scandale ! Il faut que ce soient des collectionneurs privés qui retiennent en France quelques chefs-d’œuvre de l’art actuel. La France vous devra beaucoup, cher Monsieur Michaud !

Monsieur Michaud était habitué a soulever de tels enthousiasmes. Peu à peu, il finit par se convaincre qu’il avait réellement découvert Paul Klee avant la guerre. Au début, il jouait la comédie; maintenant il ne mentait plus. Il était persuadé qu’il avait toujours aimé Klee, depuis vingt ans au moins. D’ailleurs les dates des tableaux sur les murs témoignaient de cette ancienneté. Comme les critiques d’art, les marchands et les autres collectionneurs qui fréquentaient sa maison n’étaient eux aussi convertis à l’art abstrait que depuis fort peu de temps, personne ne pouvait le détromper.

Le critique Charles Roy, spécialiste de l’art abstrait, s’était révélé avec fracas à l’attention du public après la Libération. Bien qu’il fût âgé d’une cinquantaine d’années, son activité avant la guerre restait dans un anonymat très vague. En fait, il eut un rôle très méritoire dans la Résistance et on l’en récompensa en lui créant un fromage dans la presse. Comme il était incapable d’écrire un française clair, ou tout au moins correct, on le relégua dans la chronique des arts. A ce poste, qui, dans un grande journal est en général terne et sans histoire, Charles Roy réussit à se faire un nom grâce à sa méconnaissance totale de la syntaxe. Personne ne comprenant rien à ce qu’il écrivait et comme il parlait de tableaux que personne ne comprenait, on crut à un nouveau style. Charles Roy est le véritable créateur de cette critique d’art abstrait qui, née parallèlement au développement d’une Ecole d’Art Abstrait à Paris, fit croire à une concordance des genres alors qu’il ne s’agissait que d’un cafouillage incrusté en parasite au flanc d’une peinture qui méritait son Baudelaire ou son Apollinaire.

Si, à Paris, les grands photographes sont en général hongrois, les critiques d’art sont belges. Charles Roy n’échappait pas à cette règle et son nom était évidemment un pseudonyme. Ses ennemis disaient même, par un calembour facile : « Il est belge comme pieds. »

Comme tous les néophytes convertis sur le tard, Charles Roy allait d’un extrême à l’autre. Représentant de statuettes du genre Saint-Sulpice avant la guerre (et c’est pour cela qu’il avait changé son nom), Charles Roy n’admettait plus maintenant que l’art abstrait le plus strict. Encore une fois, il se chamaillait à ce propos avec Monsieur Michaud :

— J’admire Klee d’une façon historique, disait-il. Mais je lui reproche son côté anecdotique. C’est de la peinture littéraire. L’art ne se justifie aujourd’hui que s’il n’évoque pas la moindre parcelle de réalité.

— Ah ! ne touchez pas à Klee; répondait Monsieur Michaud d’un ton sentencieux. Vous pouvez me dire que Miro est littéraire, que Picasso est anecdotique, mais lorsqu’on attaque Klee en ma présence, c’est comme si on insultait ma famille.

Il se fit un brouhaha dans le salon et l’on vit entrer un nain, avec une petite canne et des lorgnons sur un gros nez, ressemblant étonnamment à un caricature de Toulouse-Lautrec. Tout le monde s’inclinait au passage du nain qui se haussa sur la pointe des pieds pour baiser la main de Madame Michaud.

Charles Roy et Monsieur Michaud se bousculèrent pour arriver le premier près du nain.

— Mon cher Laivit-Canne…

— Monsieur Laivit-Canne…

Le nain s’enfonça dans un fauteuil que lui avança un domestique et dit d’une voix nasillarde :

— Je viens de couper les vivres à Manhes !

Un silence stupéfait accueillit cette déclaration. La plupart des personnes réunies dans la salon tournèrent la tête vers le mur où cinq tableaux de Manhès étaient accrochés. Elles semblaient les regarder pour la première fois, bien que toutes connussent fort bien la peinture de Manhès. En fait, elles cherchaient l’imperfection, le vice qui leur valait la défaveur de Laivit-Canne.

Ce fut Charles Roy qui rompit le silence, assez bassement, pour flatter Laivit-Canne:

— C’est tout à votre honneur, Monsieur Laivit-Canne. La peinture de Manhès pourrait devenir très commerciale, mais elle est tout à fait dépassée. Ce n’est pas un véritable peintre abstrait.

Le nain, enfoncé dans les coussins, avait l’air hargneux d’un enfant prodige. Il reprit en chuintant du nez :

— M’en fous de la peinture abstraite ou pas abstrait, de la peinture commerciale ou pas commerciale… Mais Manhès m’a injurié, lui qui me doit tout, moi qui le faisais vivre…

— Oh !

Le nain attrapa prestement un petit-four, sur un plateau qui passait, le mastique avec application et dit :

— Manhès m’a traité de Juif honteux…

Cette injure inattendue créa un malaise dans l’assistance. Quelqu’un risqua :

— Manhès m’a toujours paru raciste.

Le nain chercha d’où venait cette voix, en plissant les yeux, ne la reconnut pas, et dit :

— Je vous engage, mon cher Michaud, à vendre vos Manhès, bientôt ils ne vaudront plus rien.

— Ce n’est pas pressé, ce n’est pas pressé, plaisanta Monsieur Michaud avec ne bonhomie enjouée qui dégela un peu l’assistance. Puis, reprenant une voix solennelle :

« Ce soir, je veux vous annoncer une bonne nouvelle. Charles vient de préférer les arts aux sous-vêtements. Il sera peintre. »

— Où l’envoyes-vous, demanda une dame, chez Léger ou chez Lhote ?

— Il ne va pas faire les Beaux-Arts, au moins, s’inquiéta une autre ?

— Ne vous alarmez pas, dit Monsieur Michaud, il sera formé à bonne école. Je vais le faire inscrire à l’Académie d’Art Abstrait.

De grosses mains applaudirent. C’étaient celles de Charles Roy. Des groupes se formèrent dans l’appartement, au gré des sympathies et des antipathies. On allait beaucoup devant les tableaux de Manhés et la conversation s’animait dans ce coin-là. Chacun serait vigoureusement la main à Charles, qui s’ennuyait.

Excerpted from “Trompe-l’œil,” by Michel Ragon, published in 1956 by Éditions Albin Michel, Paris, and copyright Michel Ragon.

Lutèce Diaries / Post-mod American in Paris, 24: Mic-Mac sur le Boul Mich or, Ping-pong paddle wielding journalist armed only with I.F. Stone’s Weekly surrounded by riot police near Luxembourg Gardens + Why the Mass Deportation & Denaturalization of the 1950s makes ICE look like it takes its marching orders from AOC

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Parisians march to demand liberation of American journalist… No, seriously, this is who the “Yellow-Jackets” (as I prefer to call them, even if the translation isn’t literal) like to think they are. Marcelo Brodsky, “Paris, 1968,” from the 1968 series “The Fire of Ideas.” Featured in the Arles exhibition 1968, What a Story! Courtesy of the artist, HFFA NYC & Rolf Art Gallery.

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

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PARIS — Seriously, all I want to do is find a playmate. In addition to fixing my teeth so she’ll be able to see me and finding a way to make what comes out of my mouth (words) fetch (earn) what comes into it, this is why I came to Paris. C’est quand meme assez simple. On Saturday, March 2, I met a pretty dazzling — let’s say awesome — candidate.  Someone who made my heart bouge as it hadn’t done since junior high school. So I returned to the same table-tennis court — at the Jardin des Explorateurs which abuts the Luxembourg Gardens — this past Saturday, paddles and balls in hand (by which I don’t mean les bijoux familial — inside joke), hoping she’d be back.

Lest you think me an obsedé, it wasn’t just for the girl, although I love the way she made fun of my defensive stance, picked up from the Chinese kid who slaughtered me in the city-wide 9-12 year-old San Francisco championships whose spin balls I couldn’t touch. There was also the excuse of a brocante (antiques stand sale) on the boulevard Montparnasse, as well as my embarrassingly virgin visit to the ‘loriette’ — gazebo to you, bub — at the top of the Jardin des Plantes since my return to see if the oldest, and heretofore crumbling, metal structure in Paris had succeeded in inspiring enough private donations to be restored (our mayor preferring to spend the same amount of money on 30-minute New Year’s Eve light shows), plus the lure of having my thermos coffee at my various favorite fountains and ponds at the Luxembourg.

I almost cried at seeing the kangaroos at the Jardin des Plantes: at the realization that I’d been too addicted to this screen to come get re-acquainted with them earlier. Hoofing it to the Jussieu Metro — in pleine student-land — on an instinct I crossed the rue Linne to check the latest offerings of a bookstore I know…. There on the ‘giant books for 1 Euro’ shelves he was waiting for me: I.F. a.k.a. Izzy Stone, in “The Haunted Fifties,” an original language compilation of the first 10 years of the independent journalist’s I.F. Stone’s Weekly. I say waiting for me because it was a reminder that Stone’s success in getting an initial 5,000 and ultimately 20,000 readers to subscribe at $5 a pop may be a way for me to go… Until I remembered that a) Stone started out with a mailing list of newspaper readers already familiar with his product, b) the ‘market’ is exponentially more flooded with words (and columnists) today and c) no one has time to read. (Not even a recent French cultural minister, who confessed as much in an interview since become infamous.)

I won’t go into all the details of Izzy Stone’s project and the connivances and conniptions of McCarthyism to which many of the initial essays are devoted because if I did we’d never get to Saturday’s near-riot in Paris which found a certain ex-San Francisco youth ping-pong championship runner-up surrounded by CRS national police while trying to impersonate Forest Gump sitting on a bench with his paddles waiting for a potential sweetheart, but among the startling (to me) revelations in Stone’s book was the December 21, 1953 piece “A Few who Fought Back,” his report from Chicago’s Walsh Hall on the National Conference to Repeal the Walter-McCarran Law and Defend its Victims, sponsored by the American Committee for the Protection of the Foreign Born, “one of the last functioning Popular Front organizations,” Stone explains. (As you’ll see, the piece is not entirely irrelevant to a site devoted to translation between languages… and cultures.) It seems that the Walter-McCarran Law and various other manifestations of McCarthyism had prompted a mass deportation and denaturalization campaign that by comparison makes ICE (the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service) look like it takes its marching orders from newly elected Left-leaning Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez:

“The deportation drive cuts across every basic liberty,” Stone writes. “Fifteen editors associated with the radical and foreign language press have been arrested for deportation or denaturalization…. The foreign language editors arrested are elderly folk editing papers which are dying out as the process of assimilation steadily cuts into the number of Americans who still read the language of ‘the old country.’ Almost one third of those arrested for deportation are trade union members or officials…. One of the leading victims of the current drive, Stanley Nowak, was present in Chicago. After ten years as a Democratic member of the Michigan State Legislature, part of this time as floor leader, he is facing denaturalization proceedings. This Polish-born legislator played a role in the organization of the automobile industry…”

And if you think Central American (and other dark-skinned) migrants to the U.S. have it bad now, Stone continues:

“The most numerous and widespread abuses have occurred in the treatment of Mexican-Americans. Reports to the conference from Los Angeles pictured terror and lawlessness — the use of roadblocks and sudden raids on areas in which persons of Mexican origin live, the invasion of their homes without warrants, the exile to Mexico of native-born Americans of Mexican parentage. The Mexican-American community is kept steadily ‘churned up’ to maintain it as a source of cheap labor in constant flux.” During the first six months of 1953, the conference was told, “more than 483,000 persons were deported to Mexico — while almost half a million others were being brought in for low paid agricultural work.”

Others who would no doubt form the base for the founding of the United Farmworkers a decade later. At about the same time I was having those first pre-teen crushes, my hippy alternative school in San Francisco would take us on a week-long field trip to work with the Farmworkers in La Paz, California.

So having found the Luxembourg Gardens closed — no doubt indicating that there must be a “Yellow Jackets” (I’m purposely mistranslating “Gilets” for the allusion to guepes, bees, as the so-called “Gilets Jaunes” are just as annoying) demonstration taking place somewhere within five miles — my hoped-for reunion with her (the pre-teen crush’s) reincarnation in Paris in 2019 was about to be ix-nayed (Pig Latin for ‘nixed’). There I was on a partly cloudy Saturday afternoon, reflected rays of Sun emerging to flirt intermittently from the red brick buildings en face, ping-pong paddles circa 1973 and I.F. Stone circa 1950s flanking my carcasse circa 1961 with its heart preserved at the age of 12 like Forest Gump (it was seeing Tom Hanks bringing his paddle to a reunion with his amour d’enfance that had inspired me to bring my pair with me on this trip to Paris) when, all of a sudden, a caravan of ten CRS or national police vans and cars silently pulled up outside the western fence of the park. (Already I’d noticed a phalanx of the vans on the side street leading to the closed entrance of the Luxembourg.)

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What the Boulevard St.-Michel DID NOT look like Saturday: From the Arles exhibition 1968, What a Story! Courtesy of the Paris Prefecture of Police, Memory and Cultural Affairs Department. Atypical among the archival photographs and posters on the May 1968 student and worker rebellions which have enjoyed a resurgence in during last year’s  50th anniversary of May ’68, what I appreciated about this photograph is that it humanizes the policemen.

At about this point a park security guard made the rounds to inform all of us that the park was closing.

A Saturday afternoon in Paris and not only were they closing an anodyne park whose greatest attraction is three concrete ping-pong tables (and thus vetoing my albeit remote chance to find what this city is supposed to be made for) — the tables take up more space than a nearby Lilliputian playground any respectable kindergartner would be ashamed to frequent — but the Luxembourg Gardens …. The Luxembourg Gardens which, as gardens and as the seat of the people’s representatives — the grounds are presided over by the French Senate, whose members are elected by the country’s 10,000 mayors — was being closed to the people to whom it belonged. (The counter-argument would be that this was to protect the landmarks — a fair one, given the vandalization of the Monument to the Unknown soldier at the Arch towards the beginning of this media-anointed “Yellow-Jackets” movement.)

Still, I could hardly imagine hoards of “Yellow Jackets” darting over from the Boulevard St. Michel a block away where it turned out the march was taking place, invading the gardens and, what — occupying the ping-pong tables? Moving their iron chairs to the edge of the grand fountain before the Senate building? (Officially interdit, as I had learned when it took a 7-foot tall guardian less than a minute to run over and wag his finger at me after I tried this bold move.) Adapt Marie Antoinette’s response to the bread riots — “Let them eat cake!” — by following Hemingway’s example and stuffing the pigeons bathing in the Medici fountains under their shirts to twist their necks and make pot au feu? My own deepest antipathy was directed at the marchers — at this point a motley medley of chronic demonstrators, chronic members of the dwindling French Communist party, or, judging by the different flags that flew above the crowd who eventually, respectfully, made their way up the Boul Mich towards the Place Royale, various other groups, including the unions, trying to latch on to the “Yellow Jackets” — for almost ruining my Saturday. It’s a sort of interest group politics that doesn’t give a shit about any one else, as long as they can have their little manifestation party.

I actually like French president Emmanuel Macron because he’s trying to rise above all this, and imagine France’s global role, living up to its historic importance. For example, no one was lobbying for him to commit the country to restoring some 80,000 artifacts to their African countries of origin. He just thought it was right.

Ultimately, I think they’re trying to pretend they’re the ’68ers, the student and worker rebellers of May 1968, only they’re mistaking appearance for substance. This isn’t just me saying this; the majority of voters I talk to here in Paris agree that if the initial motivations and cause of the “Yellow-Jackets” were comprehensible, now they have no idea what they want; it’s tout et n’importe quoi. And ultimately the biggest winner will be Marine Pen’s Front National, currently matching the French president’s party in leading polls for the upcoming European Union elections.

jardinplantessm17th-century drawing of the Loriette on top of the Jardin des Plantes.

Me, after observing that my local sanitaire — public toilet — on the other side of the park’s fence (the one where I’d recently rescued 2000 years of Western, Hindu, and Chinese Philosophy) was also now surrounded by mask-wearing and shield-holding black-garbed riot police, I decided to make my way over to St. Mich. A couple of blocks down the boulevard, their procession from the Seine carefully controlled by the ranks of riot police who flanked them on all sides, it was clear to me that this tame assemblage did not risk to tumble down the side streets and trash their own gardens. After crossing the street and continuing down a side street a block or so towards a university building, once the marchers and their police escort had passed I decided to return to St. Mich and sit down on a bench to enjoy the rarity of this main Paris artery completely emptied of cars and buses. Looking up at the Hausmanian balconies bathed in late-afternoon Sun, the perpetual, timeless aspect of the boulevard that being divested of cars lent it enabled me to fill the pavement with the demonstrators of 50 years ago. Later, walking down to the barred entrance of the garden allowed me to venture even further back; an organ de barbary grinder was turning his handle to feed the pock-marked cards of music to his instrument, hoping to find some clients in the groups of frustrated tourists clustered in front of the locked gates, their guides trying to explain in Italian, French, English, and Russia the reasons for the unexpected closure. (On my first Paris trip in 2000, which coincided with a museum guards strike, I arrived at the Rodin museum to find it closed with a sign posted on the locked gates apologizing, “For those who are making their first trip to Paris, sorry.”)

After, returning to the wind-swept Loriette above the Jardin des Plantes to enjoy an umpteenth cup of thermos coffee as I gazed over the green tiles of the Mosque of Paris and witnessed a steady stream of huffing and puffing tourists and natives arrive triumphantly at the summit of the wooded labyrinthe, smiling to join me in the small cupola, then marveling at the sculptures in the outdoor Tino Rossi sculpture garden that lines the Seine after you cross to the quays from the Jardin des Plantes, I thought, these “Yellow-Jacket” complainers, they don’t realize what they have. They’re living in the most marvelous place in the world, surrounded by all this beauty, and they still have to find something to grouse about it. Meanwhile, the government is worried, no doubt prompted by the institutional memory of the eight or so previous rebellions whose blood still cakes the streets of Paris.

Arriving at a statue of a divided man whose head was resting on his waist over the inscription “Arthur Rimbaud, with his feet always in front of him,” after thinking “That’s me” even if my sciatic-dogged dogs felt less stable than the sculptured poet who died young and stayed pretty looked, I overheard a mother explaining to her five-year-old, “Do you see those things below his elbow? They’re vowels. It’s because he wrote a poem, ‘Les vowels.’” And thought: If a mother can still school her child on the important things, the boy’s real cultural, literary, and intellectual heritage, maybe there’s hope for France after all.

From the Archives: Major artists @ minor prices — at Christie’s Paris Impressionist & Modern sale, a rich basket of finds

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Lot 77. Leonor Fini (1908-1996), “Dans la tour.” (In the tower.) Signed ‘Leonor Fini’ (lower right). Oil on canvas, 91 x 64.3 cm. (36 x 25 3/8 in.). Painted in 1952. Estimate: 50,000 – 70,000 Euros ($63,820 – $89,347). Fini in her prime. One can see here why the lady whose life sometimes seemed as vividly vibrant as her art was in demand as an illustrator; even without a text, her subjects (the woman often resembling the author) seemed on the precipice of a fairy tale. Fini surfaces all too rarely at auction; it’s no wonder this painting has been requested for the upcoming exhibition Surrealism and the Dream, to be held at the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum in Madrid October 8, 2013 – January 12, 2014. For more on Fini, illustrated in color, see P. Webb, “The art and Life of Leonor Fini,” New York/London, 2009. For more images of art by Fini, check the web site of CFM Gallery, the leading champion of Fini in the world. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

By Paul Ben-Itzak
Text copyright 2012 Paul Ben-Itzak

First published on the Arts Voyager’s sister publication Art Investment News on November 26, 2012.

I was trying to remember what famous artist lived on the street Maurice Utrillo depicts in his oil painting “Maison de Mimi Pinson, Rue du Mont-Cenis sous la neige, Montmartre” — one of the gems on auction at Christie’s Paris’s Impressionist and Modern Sale November 28 — when I realized that it was the inverse: I used to sip cappuccino on the terrace of a cafe on the rue Mt. Cenis, and was thrilled to discover Utrillo had actually painted this corner of this street, one of the many in Montmartre which, perched atop stairs, looks out on just the tops of the buildings of the street below. These streetscapes are mostly unchanged in the 75 or so years since Utrillo painted them. I’ve previously dismissed Utrillo as a postcard painter, whose principal subject — Montmartre — accounts for much of his charm, as well as the exorbitant prices for his oeuvre. But in fact, seeing this tableau suggests the contrary. In similar excursions around Paris and its environs, searching for the spots the Impressionists and their successors depicted, I’ve often been disappointed; the reality is usually more humble, more drab than its painterly record. (How deflated I was to discover that the Square Hector Berlioz on the Place Adolphe Max, resplendent in Vuillard’s painting from the window of the apartment he shared with his mother above it, was in reality so tiny and covered with Astroturf!) Utrillo, by contrast, does not embellish his canvas; the facade on the building on the left, like the wall across the street, are just as worn and grey as they really are, just as the metal shutters look about to fall apart. This too — like the chestnut trees on the boulevards — is part of eternal Paris. He also captures the seductive melancholy of Montmartre, its edge here only slightly softened by a blanket of snow.

For this auction, my comments on the rest of our selection are included in the captions below:

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Lot 76. Francis Picabia (1876-1953), “Don Quichotte.” Signed ‘Francis Picabia’ (lower left). Oil and China ink on carton, 96 x 76 cm. (37 3/4 x 29 7/8 in.). Painted in 1941-42. Estimate 100,000 – 150,000 Euros ($127,639 – $191,459). Central to the Dada movement earlier in his career — relying more on an idiosyncratic intellect than craft — by this more literal stage Picabia was often working from photos, with little variation on the original. This seems to be the case here, making this one case where a print might do just as well. In any case, bereft of a manifesto, Picabia thins out for me. (At his retrospective a decade ago at the Modern Art Museum of the City of Paris, the French penchant for exhibiting the entire oeuvre did not help Picabia’s case; by the time one arrived in the 1940s, he started to seem monotonous.) Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

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Lot 81. Raoul Dufy (1877-1953), “Atelier de la rue Jeanne-d’Arc, nu couché au passant.” Signed ‘Raoul Dufy’ (lower right). Oil and traces of mine de plomb on canvas. 46 x 55.3 cm. (18 1/8 x 21 3/4 in.). Painted in 1942. Estimate: 150,000 – 250,000 Euros. ($191,754 – $319,590). Dufy intime and portraitist, rarely viewed. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

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Lot 90. Maurice Utrillo (1883-1955), “Maison de Mimi Pinson, Rue du Mont-Cenis sous la neige, Montmartre.” Signed ‘Maurice.Utrillo.V.’ (lower right). Oil on canvas, 46 x 55.2 cm. (18 1/8 x 21 3/4 in.). Painted circa 1952-55. Estimate: 70,000 – 100,000 Euros ($89,347 – $127,639). See below for comments. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 2 vlaminckLot 17. Maurice de Vlaminck (1876-1958), “Rue de village.” Signed ‘Vlaminck’ (lower right). Gouache, watercolor and China ink on paper. 46 x 54.4 cm. (18 1/8 x 21 3/8 in). Estimate: 15,000 – 20,000 Euros ($19,146 – $25,528). You can almost see de Vlaminck diluting that blue cloud crest to make the roof, then dabbing even more water in it to make the body of the cloud. If you want to find a village that still looks like this — without the color — try Louveciennes outside Paris, Pissarro’s old stomping grounds. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 3 signacLot 1. Paul Signac (1863-1935), “Vue du Bosphore.” Signed, dated et situated ‘P. Signac 16-Constantinople-1907’ (lower right). Gouache, watercolor, and black stone on paper. 28.9 x 41.8 cm. (11 3/8 x 161/2 in). Executed en 1907. Estimate: 30,000-50,000 Euros ($38,292 – $63,820). Neo-Impressionism began with Seurat, but Signac, outliving his mentor by some four decades, expanded it exponentially, from a sea of dots into a sea of media. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 4 signacLot 15. Paul Signac (1863-1935), “Voiliers a Port-Louis.” Signed, dated et situated ‘P. Signac Port-Louis-1923’ (lower right). Watercolor and black stone on paper, 30.4 x 45.8 cm. (12 x 18 in.). Executed en 1923.Estimate: 30,000 – 50,000 Euros. ($38,292 – $63,820). The press release for the new Matisse exhibition at the Met points out that he learned a lot about color from Signac; I’ll take the source. The waves mark a return to the point, enlarged. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 5 villonLot 28. Jacques Villon (1875-1963), “La meule de blé.” Signed ‘Jacques Villon’ (lower right), dated et titled ‘Jacques Villon LA MEULE DE BLE 1946’ (reverse). Oil on canvas, 88.7 x 146 cm. (35 x 57 1/2 in.). Painted in 1946. Estimate: 70,000 – 100,000 Euros ($89,347 – $127,639). What I love about the late ’40s is that it’s the period when abstract still had some form to anchor us; here it’s as if Villon has simply distorted the subject by shaking it up in a kaleidescope. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 6 arpLot 46. Sophie Taeuber-Arp (1889-1943), “Triangles, Circles.” Gouache and traces of mine de plomb on paper, 27.4 x 36.6 cm. (10 5/8 x 14 3/8 in.). Executed en 1937. Estimate: 15,000 – 20,000 Euros ($19,146 – $25,528). The love child of Sonia Delaunay and Robert Delaunay, weaned by Paul Klee. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 7 ernstLeft: Lot 71. Max Ernst (1891-1976), “Personnages dans un bois.” Signed ‘Max Ernst’ (lower right). Oil on carton. 38.7 x 28 cm. (15¼ x 11 in.). Painted in 1948. Estimate: 70,000 – 100,000 Euros ($89,347 – $127,639). Right: Lot 33. Max Ernst (1891-1976), Sans titre. Signed ‘Max Ernst’ twice (lower right); indistinctly signed (reverse). Oil on panel, 18.1 x 13.8 cm. (7 1/8 x 5 1/2 in.). Painted in 1953. Estimate: 50,000 – 80,000 Euros. ($63,820 – $102,111). Ernst bridges abstract and reality and always has something to say, usually about the tortured world around him. Images ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

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Lot 93. Raoul Dufy (1877-1953), “Paysage d’Auvergne, La Bourboule.” Signed et situated ‘Raoul Dufy Auvergne’ (lower right). Gouache and watercolor on paper, 50.6 x 64.2 cm. (19 7/8 x 25 1/4 in.). Executed en 1929. Estimate: 18,000 – 25,000 Euros ($22,975 – $31,910). The butt of jokes among the French, often considered France’s most grim region, here the Auvergne gets a gift of color from M. Dufy which highlights the beauty of austerity. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

archives 13 lhote

Lot 96. André Lhote (1885-1962), “Le Port de Bordeaux.” Signed ‘A.LHOTE.’ (lower right). Oil on canvas, 42 x 56 cm. (16 5/8 x 22 in.). Estimate: 40,000 – 60,000 Euros ($51,056 – $76,583). Perhaps because the Southeast of France had been painted out, Lhote went (South)west, jeune homme, and back to a semi-Cubist future to give Bordeaux its due. Image ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

 

 

 

The Lutèce Diaries (a Post-modern American in Paris), 23: C’est ça, la France, or, is the Muslim the new Jew?

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2019 Paul Ben-Itzak

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PANTIN (Seine-Saint-Denis), France — A month ago I found myself in a confrontation with Islamophobia as only Islamophobics on the Left are capable of producing it. To explain why they had a problem with Muslim women covering their bodies, their heads, or even their hair, two otherwise presumably cultured and intelligent people (she’s an independent publisher) I’d invited into my home offered the contradictory justifications that a) France is a lay country and b) France is a country with a Judeo-Christian tradition. The woman would later tell me that she found the simple head covering “monstrous.” This is a sort of colonialistic-paternalistic brand of feminism (whose primary theorist is Elisabeth Badinter) that assumes that if a woman mounts her faith with her wardrobe, it must be because a man is forcing her to do so. In other words, she’s too stupid to think for herself, and it’s up to liberal white feminists to think for her and save her from her backward customs. (No one seems to have the same problem or make the same assumption when it comes to Hasidic women wearing tacky wigs.) Some of them see such garb as a threat to the French Republic, presumably because in their view it’s the first step to sharia law and thus dictatorship. After I politely asked the couple to leave, the man revealed what it was really about, coming out with the equivalent of “They don’t dress like us, they’re in our country, they need to conform” or basically hide their religion — which is not what the lay principal in France is about.

I think it was this confrontation that finally clarified for me why Islamophobia — which is often just a disguise for Arabophobia — bothers me so much. Part of it is the hypocrisy; for people like this, France is only a lay country when it comes to Muslims. But I’ve realized that it’s also because in the way they’re singled out by some, and because it’s no longer acceptable (and rightly so), to criticize and ostracize what used to be referred to here as “Israelites,” for many in France Muslims are today’s Jew. They don’t dress like us. They don’t worship like us. (My guest had even defended himself by saying, “Some of my best friends are Muslims.”) This racism or if you prefer prejudice has tangible effects on the Muslim and Arab populations. Testing by SOS Racisme and others has consistently shown that a job applicant with an Arab-sounding name is less likely to be hired than someone with a more “French”-sounding name of equal or lesser qualifications.

Outside my window right now, at the other end of the side street it looks out on, lined principally with two to three story stone and red brick buildings, I see a group of men clustered on the corner, some in gowns and wearing skull caps. The only indications that the low building in front of which they’re congregating is a mosque is the “Vigi-pirate” sign on the window and the mirror above it which lets those inside see who’s coming in. It’s like they have to be ashamed of their religion. In France. As I crossed the corner coming home this noontime, several men were taking off their shoes and entering.

Unlike the Jewish school in Belleville which I walked past on a gallery ramble last night, there are no high barriers around the mosque. Unlike the early 19th century Portuguese synagogue in my old neighborhood in Paris’s 10th arrondissement, there’s no police guard.

Before picking up groceries for lunch today, feeling sorry for myself (because most of you don’t want to pay for this) I’d walked down to the Ourcq canal, which leads to the Canal St.-Martin, which feeds into the Seine. From the other side of the water I heard what sounded like bagpipes and drums. Crossing the bridge, I saw it was a wedding party emerging from the city hall of Pantin (which borders Northeastern Paris). From the dress of the musicians, I realized it was an Algerian-style wedding party. (To get an idea of what the music sounded like, check Gérard Krémer’s field recording here.  The bride and some of the guests had their heads covered. Some wore full-length gowns. Others did not. (The bride wore a white wedding gown.) A group of men was clapping hands and dancing around the musicians. A few younger girls were also dancing. Several of us watched the celebration from the other side of the grill, including a woman about my age with curly red hair next to me who kept proclaiming “C’est beau.” At one point half a dozen young men and women took trays filled with petites-fours and bottled water into which a slice of orange had been inserted from the back of the car blocking the entrance and began circulating the refreshments amongst the guests. One young man reached through the grill to offer a petite-four to a babushka guarding a stroller.

Regarding the couple, their families, the musicians, the dancing, and the petites-fours, I looked up at the arch under which the wedding party was standing and saw the “RF,” Republique Française. And thought: “C’est ca, la France.” Et c’est pas de tout monstrueux. Ca qui est monstrueux c’est que certains gens ne comprendre pas le devis de leur propre pays. And it’s not monstrous at all. What’s monstrous is that some people who consider themselves good French people don’t understand the guiding principals of their own country.

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