Cross Country / A Memoir of France, 8: Ghosts in the Machine or, Hallucinating in Montmartre

“I often go to Paris to live yesterday tomorrow
Because Paris is a place of dreams
Françoise Hardy,
tous les garçons et les filles
Juliette Greco
Jeanne Moreau
and Catherine Deneuve
and I’m walking with Eric Satie
along the boulevards of Paris….”

–Malcolm McLaren, “Paris”

“Ce soir
Le vent qui frappe a ma porte
Me parle des amours morte.”

–Charles Trenet, “Que reste-t-il de nos amours?”

By Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2011, 2018 Paul Ben-Itzak

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I was sipping a Pelforth Brune on the terrace of “Le Refuge,” atop the stairs facing the Art Nouveau entry to the Lamarck-Caulaincourt Metro up the hill from Toulouse-Lautrec’s old studio, ogling a full-page photo of the 20-year-old Juliette Greco, seductively svelte in an ankle-length skin-tight black velour dress and leaning on the wall outside the Club Taboo, her oval eyes looking up at  Roger Vadim as he lit her cigarette, in the black booklet that came with the boxed Philips set “Saint-Germain-des-Prés, l’age d’Or” that I’d just scored for 250 francs at the comics store across the street, where it shared the window with books recounting the legends of the scoundrels and saloon singers of the Montmartre d’autrefois. (I always recognized the shop by the obsolete blue “Philips” shingle which cast its shadow on the window; the electronics boutique it advertised — like Jean-Pierre Leaud spinning hot wax into vinyl in the Philips factory while dreaming of Marie-France Pisier in “Antoine & Colette,” François Truffaut’s contribution to the omnibus production “Love at 20,” the second of the five films in which Leaud portrayed Truffaut’s child of Montmartre Antoine Doinel – had long moved on.) Four records jammed with songs and interviews of and with Boris Vian, his Montmartre neighbor and fellow Pataphysician Jacques Prevert, Greco (and her lover Miles Davis – “I didn’t know he was Black…. And when I found out he was Black, I cried.”), and other lost children of the Occupation. (Greco fled to Paris as a 16-year-old Montpellier girl living in Bergerac, where her mother had been arrested for hiding British officers, and was quickly picked up by the Gestapo with her older sister, a  member of the Resistance, before being released and adopted by Sartre and his set; he even wrote a song for her, “The Street of White Coats.”) I’d just come from Studio 28 – the cinema where “Amelie” goes to the movies, with the triangular multi-color aluminum chandeliers designed by Jean Cocteau – and seeing a lanky Yves Montand get lost in a fairy-tale Montmartre bestiary after missing the last Metro at Barbes in Marcel Carné’s 1947 “Les portes de la nuit,” in which the Italian-born crooner introduced Prévert’s “Les feuilles mortes.” (You know it as “Autumn Leaves.”) The olive-skinned gamine with the oval face dominated by large Greco-like cat eyes and bronzed curved calves under a cobalt dress with pink roses at the table next to me slammed her cell phone down in a huff and declared, in English, “Some people, their psychology is so complicated!”

Parisians and particularly Parisiennes can seem notoriously cold, but there is sometimes a grace period on the part of those freshly arrived from ‘the provinces,’ their cheeks still flush with country air, their hearts with meridional temperament. Maureen, the gamine of 22 who’d instantly made of me a confident, had just installed herself in Paris to make her life as an actress; at the moment she was interpreting telemarketing scripts at night to pay her rent in a seventh-floor sardine-can-sized walk-up maid’s chamber on the rue Ramey below the rue Chevalier de la Barre that encircled the backside of Sacre Coeur, named after the pre-Revolutionary teenager who’d had his tongue cut out and his hands cut off before he was burned at the stake for refusing to doff his cap and chanting impudent ditties at a procession of religious notables. (I knew this because *after* the Revolution, the French — for whom sanctification often follows vilification — had put up a statue of the Chevalier in a square under the shadow of Sacre Coeur, itself built as penance by the Communards of 1871, and where a Monuments of Paris citation from Voltaire explained his history. Later, I’d go there to watch the July 13 fireworks rain over the Eiffel Tower.) On this late August afternoon under a mellow Sun that turned her Midi tan (like Greco before her, Maureen came from Montpellier) to gold and melted my heart, she was complaining, “He thinks because I slept at his house, suddenly I am his girlfriend. And then there is the other one, who even though I shared his bed doesn’t notice me and cries to me about his problems with other girls,” pronouncing this last word in a way that revealed her own frailty.

Already, that Maureen was from Montpellier made me nostalgic. Earlier that summer, I’d found myself strolling down what (white) locals had warned me was the most dangerous street in town behind Marta y Marta, two young and dazzling, respectively brunette and blonde, string-bean skinny and curvy Spanish businesswomen in town to bone up on their French, one in a form-fitting short creamy white dress, the other in hip-hugging black slacks. Suntanned and cast by Almodovar, as they carried my DJ valise between them – we were headed towards La Chapelle, a church in the gypsy section of town which had been converted into an underground artists’ scene — they drew the gazes of all the swarthy men lining both sides of the street. (“The eyes have it” I’d thought, flashing back to the coded signal my African-American friend Sheila and I had agreed upon during a high-school exchange trip to Israel whenever the Israelis on a bus started staring at us. “Roots” had just been broadcast in the country, and it was common for the Black members of our delegation to be taunted with “Kunte-Kinte” and “Kizzie.”) In my hippy-chic Carhardt overalls, I wasn’t sure who was protecting who. (If I believed that protection was necessary, it was only because as a newbie in France, I wasn’t yet aware that when some French white people told you an area was dangerous, they meant it was French Arab.)

I listened to Maureen, enraptured, as if she’d materialized on cue to help me create my own made-to-order Montmartre fairy tale, and secured a dinner date for sushi on the rue des Abbesses, the main drag in lower Montmartre, for later in the week. She was 22, I was 40, and from her continuing to unburden herself about her two boyfriends, particularly the one who didn’t seem to notice her even when she lay in bed beside him, I assumed I was hors de combat as romantic material and had been consigned to ‘friend,’ and thus didn’t offer to pay for her. This self-interestedness blinded me to the fact that Maureen obviously was poor, later confirmed when she jumped the subway turnstile — her over-sized army surplus jacket accentuating her smallness as she furtively glanced around to make sure the coast was clear — on her way home after we’d scaled the steep stairways of Montmartre to the Butte, stopping before the window of the Bateau Lavoir, where Cubism had been created, so I could pay my respects to Max Jacob and Picasso, who like  Cocteau and Jacob’s other pals would fail to save the Surrealist poet from being picked up by the Gestapo and slated for deportation after he was ratted out by neighbors. Jacob, who’d converted to Christianity three decades earlier and had been writing proselytory poems for his comrades ever since, succumbed to pneumonia at Drancy after asking for a priest. (On the Butte itself, where faux artists sat before half-finished pre-fabricated canvasses – not far from where Gene Kelly had hawked his on a side-street in “American in Paris” — and aggressive caricaturists paraded with their sketchpads competing for gullible tourists, the few remaining ancients swore that on a foggy night, after the tourists cleared out, you could still hear Utrillo, soused on cheap jug red, arguing with his mom Suzanne Valadon and her lover Felix Utter behind the shutters of their house on the narrow rue Rustique.)

We made a date to see Robert Siodmak’s “The Killers” on the rue Christine, at an art house cinema across the street from the former site of the Taboo, after I’d answered Maureen’s “Will it afraid me? Because I don’t like scary movies!” with assurances that the film would not. (As bad date idea films go, this was not my worse. Later I’d take an American girl to the Studio 28 to see Cocteau’s “Orpheus,” in which Greco plays a member of a motorcycle gang, after asking her to meet me in front of Truffaut’s tomb at the Montmartre cemetery, which is covered with notes seeking the dead director’s advice; “Did you know the cemetery features in four of the five Antoine Doinel films?” Don’t look back.) Maureen stood me up. When I called her she said she’d fallen asleep. Remaining obdurate — it didn’t even occur to me that she might be exhausted from working the telephone every night from four to midnight, no doubt on commission — I wouldn’t let it go. “I told you, I fell asleep!! What more do you want me to say??!! Oh, que tu peut être bête!” I was in effect seeing Maureen through past burns. Our dynamic – my courting someone who wasn’t romantically available — reminded me of my relationship with Piper, a recovering NYU film student, generation Spike Lee and Basquiat (she resembled Annabelle Scioria, who played the prodigy painter’s girlfriend in the Julian Schnabel film), whom I’d met at a San Francisco psychology clinic where we both worked as editors, and who was ultimately too damaged to enter into a relationship, particularly with someone as smitten and eager to please as I was. They had the same pout, the same small but smoldering stature, the same brooding upper lip, and what I mistook for the same moldering wound. (Piper’s affliction had something to do with a regretted immersion in the seamy NY club netherworld of the late 1980s. I’d been so intimidated by her beauty that at one date, as I masticated my steamed monk-fish, tongue-tied, she’d stopped eating, looked at me and declared, “You know, my shit stinks too.”)

On our last date, I couldn’t make up my mind where I wanted to dine while Maureen refused to eat. (Later, I realized that this was because she didn’t have any money and knew she couldn’t rely on me to pay for her.) We’d started out at “The Stolen Glass,” an organic wine resto (making it one of the quarter’s first Bobo outposts) on the rue des Vinaigres off the Canal Saint-Martin that a couple of vivacious blonde Algerian sisters had turned me on to during my first Paris visit, and that I’d promised had chic music. (I may have been confounding the resto’s ambiance with that of Favela Chic, the club off the Place de la Republique where the sisters and I had later danced that Halloween 2000 night away to the strains of Alpha Blondy, the most famous reggae singer in France, their blonde curls twirling as wildly as the smock of my black and white dashiki, scored eight years earlier as a non-comformist way to comply with the dress code for San Francisco’s Black and White Ball, to which I’d taken an ex-girlfriend with whom I finished the night mambo-ing to a live and sweating Tito Puente, wiping his septuagenarian  brow with one hand and pummeling his timbale with the other. It was also Anne who would initiate me to Charles Trenet, long before the original French crooner sent me shivering into tears by asking “What remains of our old loves?” to accompany the “Stolen Kisses” of Leaud and Claude Jade in the eponymous fourth Doinel film. Sometimes I think I should convene all my exes – particularly the dead one, as ghosts seem to have more power over me —  to deliver me to the real ame-soeur who’s waiting for me, like Jade and Pisier patching things up between Leaud’s Antoine and Dorothée’s Sabine in “Love on the Run,” the climax of the Doinel cycle.)  “It’s just a radio,” Maureen objected after we’d peeked in. So we crankily meandered around the entire Right Bank of Paris, following the canal down to Pissarro’s Boulevard Montmartre (in New York, I could spend half an hour at the Met contemplating this painting, which had nurtured my Paris fantasies), then walking down the rue Saint-Denis past the over-aged, over-fed whores selling wares which even Henry Miller would have rejected as too decrepit had he strayed from Clichy, then back over to the plaza of the Pompidou museum, only stopping to take a rest at the Stravinsky Fountain, interrupted when Nikki de Saint-Phalle’s buxom mermaid spurted water at us from a generous nipple. After wiping off her cheeks with her sleeve, Maureen looked up at the mermaid and taught me a new phrase, “Je hallucine,” literally, “I’m hallucinating.” After she explained that this could express both shock (at an exorbitant check) or awe (at drop-dead beauty), I put the term to immediate use to signify how pretty I thought she was, “Je hallucine’ing” her all the way to Nicholas de Floch’s 14th-century boarding house in the Marais, whose foyer had been converted into an upscale restaurant. “It’s the oldest house in Paris,” Maureen explained, pointing up at three wobbly stone stories which threatened to precipitate themselves on us at any moment and bury us in the past for good. “Je hallucine!” She crossed her arms,  thrust her head at me, opened those big eyes rageously and exclaimed, “It’s not fair, we speak French all the time, and I need to learn English for my acting! You must teach me.”

On the rue des Rosiers, when I asked, “Isn’t this the Jewish neighborhood?” (this was before Goldberg’s delicatessen, the Kosher bakeries, and the Hebrew bookstores were supplanted by generic clothing chains, global commerce finishing off what the Nazis had started),  she corrected me, “Now it’s been taken over by the gays,” going on to tease me with, “Maybe that’s why you like it.” I sulked — we were both getting ornery for want of eating. We finally settled on a tourist trap near Les Halles, where I downed a gummy steak au soupy roquefort with a Leffe which taught me that not all Belgium beers are created equal, and Maureen answered my mouthfully pronounced interrogation “You sure you don’t want anything?” by shaking her head and looking towards the Seine, a silent Nadja. Then I made like Breton as we hoofed it towards the Pont Royal, except that instead of hanging on my every word like Breton’s heroine in the eponymous book, Maureen seemed more interested in the ripples of the Seine reflecting the lights of the Bateaux Mouches. I tried to switch from channeling Breton to shadowing Camus when we got to the pont, but it still didn’t work. Rather than the moral question that had obsessed the narrator of “The Fall” after he failed to dive in to save a girl who’d leaped from the bridge, I found myself wondering if Maureen would jump into my arms if I saved her from jumping into the river.

The next time I heard from Maureen was on September 11, 2001. (Finally deciding that she was another Piper, I’d not called her.)  From my digs below Montmartre at 33 rue Lamartine (where Baudelaire once conjured hashish-induced phantoms while Gauthier took notes and around the corner from where Theo once pointed out the Notre Dame de Lorette church to Vincent Van Gogh as the brothers headed to the Boulevard Montmartre to try to sell  his paintings to Goupil) I’d moved to another sublet in the Cité Falguiere (where a naked Kiki de Montparnasse had modeled for Soutine as she dodged fleas falling from the ceiling) next to the Pasteur Institute, where AIDS had been identified, and up the hill from the Montparnasse brasserie on the rue Delambre where Fitzgerald had encountered Hemingway for the first time. (I found a place that seemed to correspond with the address, but it had likely changed hands so many times I instead settled for the – for me – more recent epoch evoked by a bar across the street, “Smoke,” after the Wayne Wang ode to Brooklyn, in the sequel to which, “Blue in the Face,” Lou Reed declares: “Everyone says they’re leaving New York. I’ve been leaving New York for 35 years,” and proceeded to do something that even Lou Reed could not legally do in Brooklyn, lighting up my first Cuban, scored from a tobacconist’s next to Le Dome, and telling the Wayne Wang-lookalike bartender, “I can’t do this in the United States.”) One afternoon, after looking out the window of my seventh-floor apartment at an Eiffel Tower that seemed so close I wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen airplanes circling around it like the ones besieging King Kong atop the Empire State (such transpositions of time, place, and dimension are chronic to the bourlingueur), I opened up my e-mail box to find a message from one of my magazine’s New York critics announcing, “We are under attack.” So I was distracted when Maureen called. “I just heard what happened and I wanted to call to say that I hope your friends and family are all right.” Forever obtuse, I didn’t realize that Maureen was reaching out to re-connect — not so easy for a French person — so when she said, “Well, I don’t want to keep you, I’m sure you have things to do to see that everyone is all right, I just wanted to tell you that I am thinking good thoughts for you,” I let her vanish and join the other phantoms of my life, preferring to deal with concrete yet remote terrorism rather than ford the unfathomable fears of my own heart, slowly being subsumed by ghosts.  I called her once a few months later but did not hear back. For years afterwards, I would think of Maureen as I walked past Le Refuge on solitary midnight Christmas Eve Montmartre rambles, heading up to Erik Satie’s old flat on the rue Cortot so I could revel in the melancholy with my ghosts to the imagined accompaniment of “Les Gymnopedes,” a would-be acrobat of love — hadn’t I come to Paris to find la femme de ma vie? — grounded by a fear of flying

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D.O.A.: Le Riche Kills “Carmen,” Sucks the Life out of “The Young Man and Death”

By Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2005, 2018 Paul Ben-Itzak

PARIS — April 1946: “One Spring evening, I went to the rue Monpensier to knock on the door of Jean Cocteau to, once again, ask for his help,” Roland Petit recalls in “I have Danced on the Waves.” (Editions Grasset, 1993; cited in the Paris Opera Ballet program.) With Boris Kochno, Petit, just 22 — he would go on to become France’s greatest choreographer of the second half of the 20th century, rivalled only by Maurice Bejart — was preparing for the second season of the Ballets des Champs-Elysees. The two didn’t want to lose any momentum after a sensational debut season. Who better to conjure up a new scenario for their grand dancer, Jean Babilee, than their “grand magician friend”? Cocteau had just emerged from his bath. Covered in towels except for his face and hands, he proceeded to improvise “Le Jeune Homme et la Mort,” dancing the story with his hands. On June 25, 1946 at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees, swathed in Karinska’s simple costumes and amidst Georges Wakhevitch’s simultaneously stark and marvelous sets, to music by Bach chosen at the last instant — they had rehearsed to jazz records and later accented piano rhythms* — Babilee and his equally young wife, Nathalie Philippart, took the stage in the title roles of what would become the first important French ballet of the post-war era…..

(To receive the complete article — which considers the above ballet’s reprise by the Paris Opera Ballet’s Nicolas Le Riche and Marie-Agnes Gillot as well as the video record of a 1962 revival with Jean Babilee and Claire Sombert — first published on July 15, 2005, subscribers please e-mail paulbenitzak@gmail.com. Not a subscriber? Subscribe to the DI for one year for just $36/year or $21 or Euros for students, as attested to by a copy of your student I.D., by designating your PayPal payment in that amount to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to learn how to pay by check, and receive full access to all new articles plus our 20-year archive of 2000 reviews by 150 critics of performances and art exhibits on five continents.)

After the snake, Adam & Eve par Cocteau

december artcurial cocteau smallAmong the work on sale in Artcurial’s Impressionism and Modern sale in Paris last night was, above, Jean Cocteau, “Adam and Eve,” 1953. Pastel on canvas, 37 3/4 x 51 1/8. Signed and dated lower right. Artcurial pre-sale estimate: 80,000 – 120,000 Euros. Image courtesy and copyright Artcurial. (For related art by Jean Cocteau on the DI & AV, click here.)

Cocteau’s child: Kelly presents Dargelos

By Philip W. Sandstrom
Copyright 2008, 2018 Philip W. Sandstrom

(First published on November 13, 2008, this Flash is re-published today with the support of Slippery Rock Dance . To join  Slippery Rock University Dance, Freespace Dance, University  of Minnesota Theatre Arts and Dance and others in sponsoring reviews on the Dance Insider & Arts Voyager, e-mail paulbenitzak@gmail.com  today. No amount is too small. DI/AV subscribers get full access to 2,000 more reviews and galleries by 150+ artist-critics like this one for just $36/year, $21 for students.  Holiday special! Subscribe before December 25 and get a second gift subscription for free. To subscribe, just designate your payment through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to learn how to subscribe by check. Please support the only dance publication that still places performance reviews front row and center.)

NEW YORK — In a word, John Kelly, seen October 19 at the Spiegel Tent as his latest alter ego Dargelos in “The Escape Artist,” was mellifluous. What else can be said that would mean more, would confirm his artistry, or describe the absolute joy of experiencing the aural pleasure of the Kelly voice in action? Offered more like a staged reading than a cabaret act, this humble presentation, thanks to Kelly’s dedication to his audience and his art, played as a grand coming out party, the professional debut of “Dargelos,” as channeled by Kelly. The unveiling was modest, enchanting, generous, and genuine; he eased us into the world of this new man. It felt like we had been invited into Kelly’s living room, the intimate setting of the main floor of the Spiegel Tent reinforcing that atmosphere.

Throughout the evening, in piecemeal fashion, Kelly explained that Dargelos is the brother of Dagmar Onassis, who herself was the love child of Maria Callas and Aristotle Onassis. Callas and Onassis really did have a baby boy who died a few days after his birth. The conceit is that the child was really a girl, Dagmar, who was spirited away to some secret European hideaway to avoid a scandal. It’s not clear who the father of Dargelos is, but it’s safe to assume that it is not Onassis. This adds yet another page to the romantic life of Maria Callas. We learn that Dargelos is an obsession of Jean Cocteau (see “Les Enfants Terrible”), equal parts school bully, street hustler, altar boy, tragic beauty and narcissistic hero. Kelly describes Dargelos as “a starred male dragged through some very dark times, an artist escaped, a weathered sage returned solid.” That said, where and how Dagmar and Cocteau are connected Kelly does not explain but it is safe to say that this young man appears to be on a collision course with a torrid rendezvous.

The song list was our only clue to the mysterious nature of the Dargelos persona. Each ballad, presented in a matter-of-fact style, was chosen for effect; they flowed simply and logically from one to the next. It was as if Kelly was patiently displaying a family photo album complete with touching annotations to help us decipher all the nuances of the character. The program of cover songs, by the Incredible String Band, Joni Mitchell, Charles Aznavour, Dudley Saunders, John Barry, Ricky Ian Gordon, Donovan, John Barry, Bertolt Brecht/Hanns Eisner and Brecht/Kurt Weill were well chosen to give insight, reveal, and substantiate the man who is the Dargelos persona.

As songwriter, Kelly contributed two poignant compositions. The first, an homage to Dagmar, was written in a style which paid respect to and quoted from the style of Joni Mitchell while remaining distinctly original to Kelly. The second song, composed and performed in the unique Kelly style of urban, country, folk, silly-boy was a ditty-like blues song that laughs at the absurdities of choosing to make art over choosing to make money. The homage to Dagmar was delivered in the most exquisite falsetto, each tone crisp, clear, and powerful, with a melancholia that infused the listener with empathy and regret for the path not taken. The effect was spine-tingling and near overwhelming. The ditty was a down-home country twanged tongue-in-cheek revelation about the vicissitudes of life and life choices.

The crowd for the evening was an appreciative group, many from the recognizable John Kelly fan club but just as many evidently newbies, with a significant sprinkle of performance artist youngsters eager to hear the master. Live performance has its pitfalls, but Kelly continually avoids the sand traps and, incredible as it may seem considering his prodigious output to date, continues to perfect his art by breaking new ground. He ceaselessly reinvents, mellows, matures, and intensifies his already formidable instrument with every new endeavor.

My only complaint about the evening was the persistent and annoying intrusion of sounds and noises from the adjacent performance space, “The Deluxe Bar.” These disturbing reverberations regularly pierced the quieter moments of the Kelly performance with deep bass booms, thuds, and clatter. I would be wary of attending another Spiegel Tent event of a serious nature due to this egregious noise pollution.

Kelly shared the evening with singer-songwriter Carol Lipnik, with Dread Scott on piano.

Disclosure: In 1997, I produced John Kelly’s Joni Mitchel tribute “Paved Paradise — an Homage” at Dance Theater Workshop for a limited two-week engagement

Legacies: From Brazil’s torched history to Hugo’s Guernesey, Patrimony, Dispersed

hugo one portraitsLeft and Right: From Lot 1 of the Collection Hugo auction at Christie’s Paris, April 4: Atelier Hugo-Vacquerie (Charles Hugo or Auguste Vacquerie), “Portraits of Victor Hugo, 1853-55.” Four salt prints representing Victor Hugo in Jersey, the first of the Channel Islands where he took refuge with his family in 1852; in 1855 they’d move to Guernesey. Est. pre-sale: 4,000-6,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

Text by and copyright 2012 Paul Ben-Itzak (revised, with a new ending)
Images Copyright 2012 Christie’s

(Like what you’re reading? Please make a donation to the DI & AV today by designating  your payment through PayPal to: paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to learn how to donate by check. Publisher Paul Ben-Itzak is also looking for an exchange — translation and editing services, communications, website management, arts consulting, DJing, theater teaching, English tutoring or other professional services for lodging — in Paris so that the DI/AV can further augment its arts and cultural coverage, and so that he can receive vital medical care. Please spread the word.)  

“I dedicate this book to this mountain of hospitality and liberty, to this corner of the old Normandy terrain where the noble humble people of the sea live, on the Ile of Guernesey, severe and gentle, my current refuge, my probable tomb.”

— Victor Hugo, “Les Travailleurs de la Mer,” introduction to Book 1, “L’Archipel de la Manche.”

First published by our sister magazine Art Investment News on April 4, 2012, the day that Christie’s Paris auctioned off 500 lots of art, correspondence, books, photographs, and other mementos and memorabilia belonging to the descendants of Victor, Jean, Valentine, and succeeding generations of  Hugos. Two days after another legacy was dispersersed – with 90% of the 20 million pieces of artifacts and documentation collected over 200 years perishing when Brazil’s National Museum, the largest institution of natural history in South America, went up in flames, not helped by the neglect of the federal and state governments – it seems appropriate to celebrate another national and international cultural legacy. Particularly one that demonstrates – the Brazilian catastrophe comes at a time when the most popular candidate in the imminent presidential election, convicted of corruption, has been ruled ineligible by the courts – the intimate connection between cultural and political heritages, between a Democratic civilization’s record and its perseverance. Former Brazilian environmental minister Marina Silva, cited in the Guardian, likened the catastrophe to “a lobotomy of the Brazilian memory.” If it is a lobotomy, it’s a  conscious one, the consequence of en epoch which prizes commodities which don’t produce anything — e.g., Facebook — over substance, and where faceless entities impose fiscal ‘austerity’ at the expense of national treasures.

What happened when that most celebrated exponent of French Letters and values, Victor Hugo, went into exile on an island — part of France until nature detached it from Normandy – under British sovereignty, where residents had to pay a yearly tribute to the Crown of two chickens and were taxed not on their income, but on their fortune? He fell in love with the place. Choosing exile after Napoleon III’s 1852 coupe, Hugo stopped over first in Brussels, then shortly afterwards landed in the Channel Island of Jersey and, evicted from there after criticizing Queen Victoria, settled in Guernesey (as he spelled it) in 1855, refusing a general amnesty offered by Napoleon in 1859 and not returning to France until the regime abdicated after the Prussian War debacle of 1870. Compared to France under Napoleon III (whom Hugo dubbed “Napoleon le petit,” enthroning a soubriquet that stuck), he discovered in Guernesey a cradle of liberty, regaling at its four newspapers. “Imagine a deserted isle,” he wrote in his introduction to “Les Travailleurs de la Mer,” the Workers of the Sea (1866). “The day after his arrival, Robinson creates a newspaper, and Friday subscribes…. Arrive, live, exist. Go where you want to go, do what you want to do, be who you want to be. No one has the right to know your name. Do you have your own god? Preach him. Do you have your own flag? Fly it. Where? In the street. It’s white? Fine. It’s blue? Very good. It’s red? Red is a color. Does it please you to denounce the government? Get up on the podium and speak…. Think, speak, write, print, harangue — it’s your own business.” (By way of testifying to the importance of institutions of cultural preservation: I only know about Hugo’s two-volume work because I was able to score a 1900-vintage edition at a sale proposed by the Upper West Side branch of the New York Public Library.)

hugo two adeleLeft: Lot 19: By Charles Hugo (1826-1871) or Auguste Vacquerie (1819 -1895), “Portrait of Adele Hugo as a young woman,” circa 1856. Set of eight prints, one salt print mounted on card, seven collotypes mounted on cards. Pre-sale estimate for the Christies auction: 9,000-12,000 Euros. Few photographs from this period exist of Adele Hugo, the artist’s daughter, whose tragic story is recounted in Francois Truffaut’s 1975 film “The Story of Adele H..” A copy of Grove Press’s complete script of the film is also on auction (est. 180 – 200 Euros), complete with a note from Truffaut to Jean Hugo: “For Jean Hugo, another screen between the reality and the fiction of today, with my gratitude and my loyalty.” Right: Lot 68: Edmond Bacot, “Les Misérables,” 1878. 10 large albumen prints mounted on cards of Cécile Daubray in the role of Cosette and Dumaine in the role of Jean Valjean, seven signed in red ink ‘Edouard Bacot’ (on the image); one signed and dated ‘Manday1878’ (on the image) and one titled and dated on the card. Env. 30.5 x 26 cm. Est. 3,000-5,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

Convictions are fine, but what enabled Hugo to endure his exile from the soil which made him and the country in whose liberties he remained invested and so readily adapt to his new terrain was the family that surrounded him — initially at Marine Terrace in Jersey, then at Hauteville House in Guernesey. And whose members in their turn instantly took to the islands, notably Hugo’s son Charles, who, with August Vacquerie, set up a photographer’s studio in a side room at Marine Terrace in 1852. He had the eager backing of his father, who arranged to have the pioneering photographer Edmond Bacot send over books so that Charles could instruct himself. In Guernesey, on the third floor of Hauteville House, the room which Hugo called his ‘look-out’ was consecrated to a library. When Victor Hugo died in Paris in 1885 — a death so monumental that French officials didn’t just put the author in the Pantheon, they *moved* the Pantheon — if he left his oeuvre to France and the world, he left Hauteville House to his grandchildren Georges and Jeanne, all his immediate scions having preceded their father to the grave. When Georges died in 1925, Jean — Victor’s great-grandson, by then already an established artist and a cohort of Jean Cocteau — decided to give the bulk of Hauteville House’s remnants to the city of Paris.  But he hung on to some of the furniture, objects, books, and photographs, including the armoire in which Hugo stored his manuscripts as well as 50 original drawings by the author, who might have found full-time work as a caricaturist, draftsman, or painter had he not been so busy writing poems,  plays, treatises (against the death penalty, to recall one of his most celebrated causes), appeals (famously, a plea for mercy for the American abolitionist John Brown), novels  (“Les Miserables” was finished at Guernesey) and serving in national assemblies and local governments. (Hugo would later campaign for amnesty for the Communards of 1871, shortly after his return to France.) These sundry artifacts eventually made their way to Jean Hugo’s family home in Mas de Fourques, Lunel, near Montpellier, a dilapidated farmhouse — or so Marie-Jacqueline Lancaster, sister of Jean’s widow Lauretta, recalled in Lauretta’s 2005 London Independent obituary  — where peacocks were known to fall out of the trees and Lauretta produced a local victual called Muscat de Lunel. There she and her husband entertained the likes of Dali, Picasso, and Cocteau who, besides the peacocks, were likely to hear sheep being quartered outside their windows. (Also among the treasures were sketches by Jean’s first wife Valentine of Ballets Russes legends Tamara Karsavina and Vaslav Nijinsky.)

hugo three belgiumLot 179: Victor-Marie Hugo (1802-1885), “Souvenir de Belgique.” Charcoal, brush, and black ink, grey and brown wash heightened with white, on brown paper, in a painted frame, also made by Hugo. 157 x 594 mm. Est. 50,000-80,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

After Lauretta died, the seven children she’d had with Jean were confronted with a choice. “Raised among all these family souvenirs in the house of our father …, Jean Hugo, great-grandson of the poet,” they write in the Christie’s Paris catalog for today’s auction, “it was only after the death of our mother Lauretta that we heard the word ‘partage’ (in French, this can mean ‘divide’ but also ‘share’), which entrained the word ‘dispersion,’ which in turn made us pronounce the word ‘sale’ because, in effect: how to cut up into seven pieces the crown of Leopoldine?,” this last being one of Victor Hugo’s two, short-lived daughters, the other being Adele, immortalized by Isabel Adjani in Francois Truffaut’s 1975 film “The story of Adele H.”

hugo four guerneseyLot 25: Thomas Singleton, “Views of Guernesey,” circa 1870. Set of 12 prints: Eight large albumen prints mounted on cards; four unframed prints. Various dimensions, from 13 x 20 cm. to 27.5 x 39 cm. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

I like this term ‘dispersion.’ (Hugo’s descendents have apparently also inherited his knack for the well-chosen verb.) At first I found it depressing to conceive of this concentrated trove of Hugo memorabilia –  not just the artifacts of the writer and his descendants, but the reflections of his intelligence and culture represented by the books he collected and prized – being dispersed to disparate coins of the globe in all the 500 parts on auction today. Then I recalled that there are still places to find concentrated  Hugo cachets – notably the Victor Hugo House in Paris and the Bibliotheque National Française. (For a sampling – here of Victor Hugo’s artworks — check the BNF’s virtual exposition, Victor Hugo, l’homme ocean.) And then I considered that word dispersion, as well as the verb partage, in its meaning share. When I lived in France from 2001 to 2010, every weekend I’d scour the vide greniers (essentially neighborhood-wide garage sales: vide = empty; grenier = attic) for French memorabilia. The vintage carafes and ashtrays I amassed (I probably had the most ashtrays of any non-smoker in France), promoting various marks of pastis and regional aperitifs, were not just meaningless societal detritus but conduits into a cultural past I hadn’t grown up with but that I hoped to adapt and assimilate. And those were only carafes and ashtrays — repositories of popular culture, not high culture. (For the Frenchmen and women disposing of these quotidian objects, elevated in this culture and thus immune to their inherent charm for the budding Francophile, they were just junk cluttering up the attic.) Today at Christie’s, at estimated prices some of which are not much higher than what I paid for those carafes, one can acquire a morsel of the most important literary legacy in modern French history.

hugo five jerseyLot 26: “Jersey & Guernesey.” Two private albums with views of Guernesey and Jersey, and one on Venice. Est. 2,000-3,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo six chimney and leopoldineLot 174: Left: Victor Hugo (1802-1885), “Project for a chimney in the dining room at Hauteville House.” Brown wash. 278 x 228 mm. Est. 8,000-12,000 Euros. Right: Lot 161: Victor-Marie Hugo, “Portrait of Léopoldine, profile, or Fracta Juventus.” Pencil. 122 x 70 mm. Hugo’s daughter was just 19 years old when she passed away in 1843. Est. 2,000-3,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

But before they’re dispersed, let’s return these souvenirs one last time to the hearth of Jean and Lauretta Hugo in Mas de Fourques, as recalled and evoked by their children (in an introduction to the Christie’s catalog for this sale), the great-great-grandchildren of the Great Man:

“On winter nights, our father would get a book from the shelves and, seated near the chimney of the large library, a monocle fixed under his eyebrow, read us poems. We’d listen without budging, our large children’s eyes posed on him. The verses transported us to shipwrecks, skies, pits, valleys filled up with the songs of birds: ‘Oceano Nox,’ ‘Stella,’ ‘Booz asleep.’

“At the end of the evening, we’d leave the library to return to our rooms, but not before pausing for a long while before Saint Antoine, a painting previously stowed in the black cabinet of Hauteville House. This painting, close to the universe of Bosch, fascinated us. Naked bodies, buttocks in the air, suspended from tree branches, a character emerging from an earthenware jar, a bird with a long beak, a big fish with an arm running on muscled legs, a sort of inverted siren…. Alone in our rooms, our imaginations took flight in our dreams.

“Today, at the dawn of the millennium, the sale dispersing the souvenirs conserved in the family for so many years opens to present generations a day newly illuminated by this past.”

The idea could apply to the writings of Victor Hugo themselves. In “La vie devant soi” (All of Life Before You; Editions Mercure de France, Paris, 1975), written by Romain Gary under the pen name Emile Ajar, the adolescent narrator befriends an old man who sits in front of his Belleville apartment building every day. Even as the man starts to lose his memory, he clings to two books, his guides in life: In the one hand, the Koran; in the other, “Monsieur Hugo.”

hugo seven profile and judgeLeft: Lot 166: Victor-Marie Hugo (1802-1885), “Veiled profile.” Brown wash. 315 x 206 mm. Est. 3,000-5,000 Euros. Right: Lot 159: Victor-Marie Hugo, “Caricature of a Judge Wearing a Hat.” Brown wash. Est. 1,500 – 2,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo eight caricatures women's visagesLot 170: Victor-Marie Hugo (1802-1885), “Caricatures: Two visages of women.” Pen and ink and brown wash. Est. 2,500-3,500 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo nine always cryingLot 175: Victor-Marie Hugo (1802-1885), “Celui-ci pleurait toujours” (This one is always crying or is still crying). Brush, brown wash. Est. 8,000-12,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo ten jean hugo faustLot 359: Jean Hugo (1894-1984), “Faust Magicien,” 1929. 31 painted glass plaques for a magic lantern by Jean Hugo, eight other glass plaques by Jean Hugo, and one other plaque showing the reproduction of a Diane Chasseresse painting. Est. 10,000-15,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo eleven jean hugo faust magicianLot 359: Jean Hugo (1894-1984), “Faust Magicien,” 1929. 31 painted glass plaques for a magic lantern by Jean Hugo, eight other glass plaques by Jean Hugo, and one other plaque showing the reproduction of a Diane Chasseresse painting. Est. 10,000 – 15,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo twelve jean hugo mosquito menLot 389: Jean Hugo (1894-1984), “Mosquito Men,” circa 1937. Gouache and watercolor on paper. 1 & 2: 8.2 x 13 cm. 3: 11.8 x 15 cm. Est. 1,000-1,500 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo thirteen vallottan the chargeLot 369: Felix Vallotton (1865-1925), “L’Anarchiste” and “La charge” (pictured above). (Vallotton/Goerg 104; 128.) A set of two woodcuts on wove paper, 1892 and 1893, years when anarchism was in vogue in some sectors in France. As with all pieces described in this article/gallery, interested parties should read full lot descriptions and any condition report. Est. 800-1200 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo fourteen riviereLot 371: Henri Riviere (1864-1951), “Le Lavoir au Haut-Trestraou,” 1891. Woodcut in colors with hand-coloring. 24 x 35.6 cm. Like some other Impressionists and post-Impressionists, Riviere was known for emulating the style of Japanese prints of the epoch. Est. 500-700 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo fifteen vallotton seaLot 372 Felix Vallotton (1865-1925), “La Mer,” 1893. (Vallotton Goerg 112.) Woodcut, signed in pencil. Est. 800-1,200. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo sixteen valentine hugo karsavinaLeft: Lot 315: Valentine Hugo (1890-1968), Tamara Karsavina in “The Fire Bird.” Pastel on blue paper. 24.6 x 13 cm. Est. 1,500-2,000 Euros. Right: Lot 311 Valentine Hugo (1890-1968), Tamara Karsavina in “The Golden Rooster.” Charcoal on tracing paper. 31 x 22 cm. Est. 300 – 500 Euros. Both images ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo seventeen valentine hugo karsavina and nijinskyLeft: Lot 307: Valentine Hugo (1890-1968), “Nine studies of dancers for Karsavina and Nijinsky.” Pencil on tracing paper. 38 x 27 cm. Est. 600-800 Euros. Right: Lot 306: Valentine Hugo (1890-1968), “Four studies for Nijinsky.” Pencil and colored crayon on paper. Largest piece 27 x 21 cm. Est. 600-800 Euros. Both images ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo eighteen valentine hugo sylphidesLot 309: Valentine Hugo (1890-1968). Study for “Les Sylphides.” Pencil on tracing paper. Jean Hugo’s first wife, Valentine was renowned for her sketches of Tamara Karsavina, Vaslav Nijinsky, and the Ballets Russes. Est. 300-500 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo nineteen valentine hugo cocteau auricLeft: Lot 338: Jean Cocteau (1889-1963), “Portrait of Georges Auric.” Pen, India Ink, and watercolor on paper. 16 x 11 cm. Never mind the impression you might have that one has to be a big spender to collect art by masters; this one is estimated pre-sale at just 100-150 Euros. Imagine! To be able to own for that little a Cocteau, and one depicting Georges Auric, who composed the music for Cocteau’s signature films “The Blood of a Poet,” “Beauty and the Beast,” and “Orpheus,” as well as John Huston’s “Moulin Rouge,” Max Ophuls’s “Lola Montes,” and Jean Delannoy’s “Notre-Dame de Paris.” Right: Lot 334: Jean Cocteau (1889-1963), “Le Centaure et les femmes.” Pencil on paper. 29 x 23 cm. Est. 1,000-1,500 Euros. Both images ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo twenty cocteau chessLot 332: Jean Cocteau (1889-1963), “The Chess Match, Jean Hugo and Pierre Colle.” India ink on paper. 32 x 21 cm. Est. 2,000-3,000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

hugo twenty-one jean hugo maries tour eiffelLeft: Lot 357: Jean Hugo (1894-1984), “Study for a tapestry intended for a fire screen for the Vicount de Noailles,” dated and inscribed on the reverse, 1929. Gouache on paper. 20.5 x 18 cm. Right: Lot 388A: Jean Hugo (1894-1984), “Three characters for ‘Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel,’ play by Jean Cocteau.” Three pieces. Above piece titled ‘A Director’ at lower right. Gouache on paper. 29.5 x 22 cm. Est. 5,000-7.000 Euros. ©Christie’s Images Ltd. 2012.

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