Pictures of the Past (6 page)

Monsieur Francois Benet was holding the “Woodmere” sign when Taylor arrived.

“Bonjour,
Je suis Francois Benet,”
the man said, extending his hand as Taylor approached. “I hope your trip was easy and I would like to be the first to welcome you to France.”

“
Bonjour, Je suis Taylor Woodmere,
and that may be just about the extent of our conversations in French,” he replied.

“I am delighted to be your translator and your tour guide during your stay, as I have done often for your very gracious father and your grandfather, as well. May I please inquire first as to their health?”

“Oh—
très bien, très bien
—I’m surprising myself— maybe a few courses in French were not wasted, Monsieur Benet.”

“Francois, please. And I shall help you to expand that vocabulary as we travel—but not so much that you would no longer require my services.”

“Your job is safe, of course.”

“Of course—
bien sur,”
Francois replied almost automatically.

And Taylor repeated,
“Bien sur.”

Monsieur Benet was a slightly built man, his finely chiseled face and wiry hands protruding from a loosely fitting three-piece suit. With a flamboyant ascot and matching pocket handkerchief, he presented a spirit that seemed much stronger than his physique. Taylor was reluctant to hand him his small bag and briefcase and was relieved when he directed another man, the driver and valet, to take them and then to lead the porter with the rest of his luggage to the waiting automobile.

After a three-hour car ride, they arrived at the Hôtel de Crillon, perfectly located at the cultural heart of the city on the Place de la Concorde. The former palace of the Comte de Crillon and his descendants, it had been converted to a luxury hotel in 1909. Not surprisingly, it was even more opulent than the ship, with an expansive inlayed marble floor, glistening chandeliers, and Louis XV style décor. After Taylor was settled into his suite, however, he had no interest in exploring the hotel; he was eager to finally visit the city of Paris and the World’s Fair.

Having accompanied Taylor to his room and sitting momentarily at an elegant writing table, Francois pulled from his own briefcase the most updated conference schedule and saw that they would have enough time for a first look at the Exposition if they went at least partway to the entrance by automobile. The driver brought them to a location on the Champs de Mars, and after quickly exiting the backseat, Taylor immediately began perusing the paintings and wares of the street displays of the artists and merchants. Even when Francois encouraged him on toward the fair, he was reluctant. He kept lagging farther and farther behind as they walked, and Francois had to retrace his steps and try to hurry Taylor along.

“But look at all of these,” Taylor said, pointing to the inventory where he stood. “I do know a little about art—they are intriguing and accomplished, not really amateurish. Francois, just wait a moment. Indulge me.” He would not be coaxed from the stall of one young artist, with dozens of oils on display and with splashes of paint adorning every section of his clothing, including his shoes, as if he were a mobile canvas. Taylor studied a number of pictures and finally settled on one. In it, a woman was walking along the bluff overlooking a lake, and the beauty of the landscape, the trees swaying in the heavy wind with the woman tightening her shawl, reminded him of a fall day in his own back yard. “Look at the colors. Emily would love this. That’s my girlfriend, back home, in Chicago.” Francois let only a small smile show, but inside he was extremely amused by the suddenly adolescent enthusiasm of this very mature looking young adult.

“Could you please ask him how much it is? I would love to bring this home for her. Do you accept a price? Do you negotiate? I’m sure you do. We could settle on a price and I could return with the French francs.”

Instead of answering him immediately, Francois took Taylor aside. The French artist would unlikely have a command of English, but he had such a burgeoning optimism in the anticipation of a sale that Francois felt sorry to have to be the spoiler. “I am guiding you in many ways on your stay—and now I am just asking you—to take time in making a selection. Do not buy the first thing you see. Become more familiar with the offerings.”

“But everything is so beautiful. How could there not be a thousand great paintings, when there are a thousand beautiful scenes here, everywhere I look? The Seine, the bridges, the parks, the buildings, there is such character here…” And he would have continued if Francois had not interrupted.

“Mr. Taylor. I do not mean this disrespectfully to you, as I am honored by your praise of my city, of everything Parisian. But I assure you, you will find many more wonderful objects for your discriminating tastes.” Within hours, he would be proven right on two counts.

When they entered the fairgrounds, they immediately procured a map of the area, and stepped aside from the moving throng to review their choices.

“Ah, exactly what we want. We will have time now for one stop only and so I see where we should head.” Francois continued speaking as they walked in the direction his finger was following on the map. “In a short time already I feel your tastes. Today, we will enter only the Exhibition des Maitres d’Art Independants at the Petit-Palais, where it is said the Impressionists have an inviting showing.”

It seemed to Taylor as if Francois had read his mind. He understood that this initial visit to the exposition would have to be brief, as he felt that in the days to come he would have many opportunities to visit the international pavilions with the rest of the group and to study the technological advances at the exhibits. But first the art galleries were a magnet to him. He had loved studying the many works of art that hung at his parents’ home in Kenilworth, impressive works that his grandfather, the senior Addison, both loved and shrewdly invested in. Paintings by many famous artists were on view in the gallery on their upper reception level at home. Among Taylor’s favorites were two oils by the American expatriate Mary Cassatt, each featuring a pair of women relaxing on couches at tea time. He knew that Cassatt herself had spent most of her productive years with the other Impressionists in France. Another treasured painting was by Alfred Sisley, a landscape at Argenteuil. But Taylor loved most Claude Monet’s rendering of a French boulevard leading to the Seine and he wondered if he could find that very location during his stay. Taylor’s grandfather, who never boasted about the financial success of his corporation, was validly proud of his acumen in art speculation. His crowd had challenged one another to build their own collections and to become benefactors for museums, especially the Art Institute of Chicago. They had followed the lead of Bertha Honore Palmer, a charismatic socialite and philanthropist and the widow of real estate developer and hotelier Potter Palmer. She had been instrumental in bringing art to the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893, and is said to have returned from her European tour with eleven Renoirs and twenty-nine Monets, one of which was eventually purchased by her friend Addison Woodmere.

The Paris Exposition was housed along the shores of the Seine, and unlike many previous world fairs in outlying areas of a city, this one molded itself into the existing urban landscape. New buildings mixed with existing edifices to house the attractions. On the site of the old Trocadero, the new Palais de Chaillot was constructed, with a portico of over one hundred and fifty columns. People would enter the grounds through the space between its two massive wings, which curved as if they were holding the entire fair in a maternal embrace. The fair extended from the Place du Trocadero along a wide-open esplanade to the Eiffel Tower, which, itself, had premiered at the Paris World’s Fair of 1889.

But underneath the serene beauty of the fair were undercurrents of a world on edge. In this tumultuous year of 1937, the pavilions themselves seemed to symbolize the rising tensions among European nations. The towering buildings for the Soviet Union and for Nazi Germany, both huge and grandstanding, faced one another across the walkway pond, posed as if not only ideological, but also military battles were already underway. They each looked like colossal trophies. At the summit of the Soviet building, two enormous sculptured figures, a worker and peasant by Vera Mukhina, held the hammer and sickle in a triumphant stance; atop the Nazi German roof, perched a huge, arrogant metal eagle.

As he followed Francois through the fairgrounds to the major art exhibit, Taylor was struck by the diversity of the crowd. Nationalities were easily identifiable by their attire. Here was a stereotypical Parisian, bereted and goateed, dressed as if he had just walked out of his studio on the Left Bank. And there was a frumpy, cheery, rosy-cheeked mother of three, chasing after her
enfants,
as if they were still at their farm in the Loire Valley. The businessmen were easy to spot. Walking in groups, holding briefcases or notepads, they pointed and nodded in waves of agreement and switched directions like schools of fish.

When they finally entered the Petit-Palais, Taylor could not decide which way to look. He was drawn first to one artist, and then he would turn and the vibrancy of another display would call to him. Continually, he exchanged glances with Francois, who was finally allowing him to enjoy the art at his own pace, and he could sense that his fervor was entertainment for the man.

The hall was large and well stocked and people were in lines of two and three deep, barely moving along as they rocked slightly in place with the rhythm of small boats tied at the shore, captured by the ebb and flow of the waves. First, they would walk close to see the artistry of the work, and then pull back, because an Impressionist painting was best viewed from a distance, when the vibrant individual brush strokes would suddenly become cohesive and the scene would be revealed. He was reluctant to become part of the main lines and so he stood almost in the middle of the room surveying the entirety, perhaps finally following Francois’ advice, slowing down, getting an overview of the presentation.

And that was when he came upon it, when he first saw the painting,
Jeune Fille à la Plage
by Henri Lebasque. It called to him with an extraordinary voice. It was not, however, identified as one of the artist’s major works hanging on the gallery walls. It had been leaning in front of the director’s desk in the middle of the room, among a secondary group of paintings available for sale. Taylor had, literally, stumbled upon it as he backed up to view an enormous landscape on an adjacent wall.

“Excusez-moi. Soyez prudent,”
the man at the desk had admonished him when he heard the slight knock of Taylor’s heel against the frame.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” he was quick to say. “It didn’t fall. It was leaning precariously. No harm done. I’ll set it right again.” But as he bent to just readjust its position, he was immediately captured by it. “Sir, may I put it here?”

There was an open easel, likely there for this very purpose, and so without waiting for an answer, Taylor placed the painting gently on display at eye level, as Francois, having witnessed this last part of the exchange, came toward him.

Taylor had been drawn to the painting immediately, as if it were a play for which he arrived late and he was anxious to take his seat. The painter had not only illustrated a poignant moment in time, but had touched his audience with an unmistakable impression that they had come in at the middle of the story, that they needed to know the beginning and to follow it through to the end. Francois translated the title for him, as “Girl at the Beach,” and Taylor understood that the artist meant for the central point of view to be that of the little redheaded girl sitting to the far left of the canvas at a beach café table, with possibly her young mother, or more likely an older sibling. Sitting close together in their turn-of-the-century attire, the pair reminded Taylor of those in Auguste Renoir’s
Two Sisters,
the colors equally as vibrant as that master’s. They are watching a group of young couples dancing. Perhaps the little girl’s fascination with the scene is because she is envious of their age and wishes she could be part of the fun, but more likely she is trying to understand the exchanged looks she is witnessing. A handsome young man, his arm around the waist of his partner, is not focusing on her eyes, but is staring instead beyond her shoulder directly at the older sister, the longing in his eyes unmistakable, as is the desire in hers.

Taylor was so moved by the painting that he turned to Francois and insisted that this was the one—and Francois could only concur with his choice. Taylor knew that this painting would be the beginning of his collection—that he would present it as a gift to Emily upon his return.

Speaking to the artist’s representative, Francois explained that his young American tourist was interested in the painting, but would need a good price in exchange for extending the artist’s reputation to Chicago in the United States. Of course, the dealer was anxious to reduce his inventory and even Francois was surprised at the modest price he named.

Although Taylor would have liked to have had the painting in his possession immediately, would happily have carried it carefully through the crowded walkways of the fair, instead, they arranged for the painting to be delivered to the Hôtel de Crillon the following morning, at which time a remittance would be left with the hotel cashier.

Taylor’s guide, well aware that they were running late, rushed him along. Even without the purchase, they had to delicately maneuver the crowded promenade of the exposition area, as many people were heading in the opposite direction to enjoy the evening at the fair.