Authors: Rosamond Bernier
Some of My Lives (12 page)
Matisse told me he was going to make “a church full of gaietyâa place which will make people happy.” The numerous people who now crowd their way into Sainte Marie du Rosaire, as Matisse's chapel is called (be sure to make reservations: there is only room for ninety people), will undoubtedly feel he succeeded.
Matisse cared about the way the line of a drawing flowed across the page, and he also cared about how the written word flowed across the page. I was fortunate to receive several notes from him, which I cherish. They show a definite wish to establish a harmonious relationship between the space between the lines and the lines themselves.
The envelopes are stamped with the Nice postmark:
“Nice Ses Jardins, Son Soleil, Ses Fêtes.”
How appropriate for Matisse's world.
“Nice Ses Jardins, Son Soleil, Ses Fêtes.”
How appropriate for Matisse's world.
Most unexpectedly, when I married in 1948, he sent me a formal engraved visiting card (hard to imagine that Picasso would ever have such a thing), on which he wished me “complete and unlimited happiness.” It didn't quite work out like that, but I was happy to have his good wishes.
Matisse loved reading, poetry in particular. He was a natural for marrying images with text. But he was sixty years old before anyone asked him to illustrate a book. The first time it happened was in 1930, when Albert Skira invited him to illustrate the poems of Mallarmé, a great favorite of Matisse's.
One of the poems was about a swan. Typical of Matisse's thoroughgoing serious approach to any task, he hired a boat at the Bois de Boulogne and went out on the lake to sketch the swans from life. A photograph records him sitting bolt upright in the boat, pad on knee, formal hat on head.
Swans are notoriously bad-tempered creatures. The great artist
wasn't spared their irascibility. One of his models swiveled around, hissing alarmingly.
wasn't spared their irascibility. One of his models swiveled around, hissing alarmingly.
I learned of Matisse's thoughts about balancing an image and text from the master himself on another occasion. He had telephoned me in Paris and asked me to come down to Vence. He managed to make the sun shine steadily for his odalisques. They could loll around in the thinnest veiling without a shiver. But it was November and piercingly cold. He could stay wrapped up cozily in bed, but the visitorâmeâhad to rely on layers of wool jersey.
He had prepared a marvelous feast for me. He had set out all the books he had illustrated, and he pointed out one example after another to show exactly why and how he had solved certain problems in what he called the “ornamentation” of a book. As he explained it, he saw no difference between building a book and building a painting. It was a question of balancing a light page (the text) and a dark page (the illustration).
In the case of Mallarmé, the problem was to place a full-page illustration opposite a few airy lines of text without weighing them down. The answer was to make etchings done in a very thin, even line, without shading, that would leave the illustrated page almost as white as before the etching was printed. The illustration floats over the whole page, without a margin, so that the page stays light, because the design is not, as usual, massed toward the center.
The problem was exactly the opposite in illustrating Montherlant's
Pasiphaé, Chant de Minos
. What to do so that the heavy black lines used to illustrate the poem didn't pull down the rather empty page of text? His solution was to make one margin surrounding both pages, and then to accentuate the text on each page by making the top letter red. He said when he had seen the first proofs, in which red had not been used, he found the result “a little funereal.” The red made the balance he was seeking. He looked at the page and held it up for me: “Red, black, whiteâ
pas mal
.”
Pasiphaé, Chant de Minos
. What to do so that the heavy black lines used to illustrate the poem didn't pull down the rather empty page of text? His solution was to make one margin surrounding both pages, and then to accentuate the text on each page by making the top letter red. He said when he had seen the first proofs, in which red had not been used, he found the result “a little funereal.” The red made the balance he was seeking. He looked at the page and held it up for me: “Red, black, whiteâ
pas mal
.”
He spent years illustrating a great edition of Ronsard, the sixteenth-century French poet who wrote so eloquently about love. Matisse worked on this, the
Florilège des Amours
(published in 1948), with a care and precision that are hard to imagine. He chose the poems himself and functioned as his own layout man. A series of albums
in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris shows all the different stages he went through.
Florilège des Amours
(published in 1948), with a care and precision that are hard to imagine. He chose the poems himself and functioned as his own layout man. A series of albums
in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris shows all the different stages he went through.
He tried and rejected many typefaces. He tried and rejected several kinds of paper. He modified and re-modified his own designs. Finally, 126 tender lithographs were produced. It is a glorious book. Sometimes his ornamentation would be just a grace note to the text. Sometimes he would throw an illustration over most of the page, leaving only a few lines of the poem.
I happened to be with him when Albert Skira, the publisher, delivered the first copy. His expression of delight was very moving. I own what I believe to be the only photograph of Matisse beaming. On another occasion he had said, “Can't one retain a young and ardent imagination? I feel better equipped to illustrate Ronsard's love poetry now than when I was twenty-five. Then, I didn't need imagination.”
Another visitor to Le Rêve, in 1946, was Pablo Picasso. Matisse's relations with Picasso were affectionate but guarded. Matisse had been delighted when he heard that Picasso had bought his sumptuous
Still Life with Oranges
, of 1912, during the war. He wrote to his son Pierre, “Picasso is very proud of it.” In a most unusual tribute from one artist to another, Picasso chose to exhibit it along with his most recent work at the first Salon d'Automne after the war. Oranges were to Matisse something like apples to Cézanne. He painted them, but also occasionally sent baskets to his friends.
Still Life with Oranges
, of 1912, during the war. He wrote to his son Pierre, “Picasso is very proud of it.” In a most unusual tribute from one artist to another, Picasso chose to exhibit it along with his most recent work at the first Salon d'Automne after the war. Oranges were to Matisse something like apples to Cézanne. He painted them, but also occasionally sent baskets to his friends.
Matisse recorded Picasso's 1946 visit to Vence with his new companion, Françoise Gilot, in a letter to his son (quoted from John Russell's
Matisse: Father and Son
):
Matisse: Father and Son
):
Dear Pierre,
Three or four days ago, Picasso came to see me with a very pretty young woman. He could not have been more friendly, and he said he would come back and have a lot of things to tell me.
He hasn't come back. He saw what he wanted to seeâmy works in cut paper, my new paintings, the painted door etc. That's all that he wanted. He will put it all to good use in time. Picasso is not straightforward. Everyone has known that for the last forty years.
Picasso was far from enthusiastic about the chapel. Anything to do with the Church was off-limits as far as he was concerned. However, he did admire the chasubles, designed from cut-paper elements, and suggested that Matisse design capes for bullfighters.
When the Communist writer Louis Aragon came to call, the maquette of the chapel was on a table. Aragon resolutely ignored it. As he got up to leave, Matisse almost shouted at him, “If you don't look at my chapel, I will throw my shoe at you.”
Matisse moved back to Cimiez from Vence in late 1949. His rooms at Le Rêve were too small to display the designs of the stained-glass windows. Putting his two rooms together at the Hôtel Régina gave him the exact dimensions of the chapel. In an untypically jocular vein, he said to Brother Rayssiguier, the Dominican monk in charge of the chapel construction, “I'm sleeping in the church again.”
I found another personal note from Matisse, in looking over his correspondence with Brother Rayssiguier. He apologizes for a large blot of ink, then adds, “Let me try to turn it into something that will give you pleasure.” And he has added flower petals around the blot. December 4, 1949.
Another nugget, this from Father Couturier's diary: “He tells me he definitely prefers El Greco to Velázquez, who is too perfect, too skillful. He's like a gorgeous fabric. A very beautiful marble. But in El Greco there is soul everywhere, even in the legs of Saint Martin's horse.” July 25, 1951.
In spite of very poor health, Matisse managed to oversee all the exhausting details of the decoration of Sainte Marie du Rosaire. He even climbed up scaffolding. Begun in 1948, it took up all his time and flagging energy. It was consecrated in 1951. As he said himself: “A crowning achievement.”
Henri Matisse died November 3, 1954.
I
met René Clair through Leonard Bernstein, in 1949. Lenny was in Paris conducting the Radio Orchestra. He had managed an introduction to the great movie director we all admired.
met René Clair through Leonard Bernstein, in 1949. Lenny was in Paris conducting the Radio Orchestra. He had managed an introduction to the great movie director we all admired.
He reported that Clair and his wife, Bronia, were most affable. They were celebrating their dog's birthday and gave Lenny a piece of the cake.
For the young enthusiast of Dada and Surrealism that I was, René Clair's first-ever film,
Entr'acte
(1924), was heady stuff. The cast for this splendidly illogical macédoine included Marcel Duchamp playing chess with Francis Picabia, Man Ray, Erik Satie (who composed the music, which before talkies was performed by a live orchestra), and a camel pulling a hearse.
Entr'acte
(1924), was heady stuff. The cast for this splendidly illogical macédoine included Marcel Duchamp playing chess with Francis Picabia, Man Ray, Erik Satie (who composed the music, which before talkies was performed by a live orchestra), and a camel pulling a hearse.
So it was with excitement that I went to meet its creator. He looked just like a Parisian in a René Clair film. He was a Parisian by birth, slight, quick, charming. His wife, Bronia, had come to Paris from her native Poland in the 1920s. She was a favorite of the habitués of the Dome and the Coupole. When I met her, she was, of course, fully dressed. But I kept remembering the famous photograph of her with Marcel Duchamp, as Adam and Eve, with the appropriate lack of costume.
The Clairs were more than affable, taking me under their respective wings. We used to go to the flea market on a Sunday afternoon. One time both René and I spied a very pretty piece of what must have been stage jewelry: a wide bracelet of black filigree sprinkled with small pink and green sparklers. Sarah Bernhardt might have worn it, we fantasized. We both wanted it. But gallantly, René insisted that I take it. I did, I still have it.
One time René telephoned to summon me: it was of utmost importance, he said, to accompany them to the premiere of a film. I joined them in the equivalent of the royal box.
It was the premiere of Vittorio De Sica's
Bicycle Thieves
. We were deeply moved by the poignant but never sentimental tale of an impoverished man and his son losing their only possession. No one cares. There is no happy ending.
Bicycle Thieves
. We were deeply moved by the poignant but never sentimental tale of an impoverished man and his son losing their only possession. No one cares. There is no happy ending.
René was overwhelmed. It was the greatest film since Chaplin, he said. He of course was well aware of De Sica and of his creation of a new genre of Italian realism: nonprofessional actors, natural lighting. De Sica's
Shoeshine
, made shortly after the war (I must admit I had missed out on this entirely), had made a sensation.
Shoeshine
, made shortly after the war (I must admit I had missed out on this entirely), had made a sensation.
After the projection I was introduced. De Sica was besieged on all sides with flashbulbs popping, but with relaxed Italian charm he agreed to be interviewed.
But before I set out on a walk through Paris streets with De Sica, I went to Brussels with the Clairs for the premiere of René's latest film,
Le Silence Est d'Or
(
Silence Is Golden
, 1947). This saying had particular relevance for René. His whole career had been with silent films. I think he had reservations about the new genre.
Le Silence Est d'Or
(
Silence Is Golden
, 1947). This saying had particular relevance for René. His whole career had been with silent films. I think he had reservations about the new genre.
However, he went mano a mano with the new medium and wrote and directed a musical. It was about the old music hall days, and an old-time star gave one of his last turns: Maurice Chevalier.
For the interview with Vittorio De Sica, I thought that since
Bicycle Thieves
had been filmed entirely in the open air, in the streets of Rome, by daylight, an anonymous studio setting was not indicated.
Bicycle Thieves
had been filmed entirely in the open air, in the streets of Rome, by daylight, an anonymous studio setting was not indicated.
I asked him if he liked the idea of walking through the narrow streets of the Quartier Latin. We would talk as we went along. He liked the idea.
He was a handsome man, tall, well built, a strong face with a good nose, slightly uneven dark eyes. He was carefully dressed, Italian chic: a brown Prince de Galles suit and of course a hat (brown). I could well imagine that as a good-looking young man, in his native Naples, he had been what used to be called a matinee idol. He could even sing and dance. I can vouch for this: because of the miracle of Google I got Vittorio on my screen, doing exactly that.
He even sang “Parlami d'Amore, Mariù,” that staple of the tenor repertoire that was a surefire encore for the Three Tenors.
He even sang “Parlami d'Amore, Mariù,” that staple of the tenor repertoire that was a surefire encore for the Three Tenors.
A bit of research and I found out that he had made his cinema debut at sixteen. Throughout an amazingly productive career he had worked as an actor in other people's films, first to make a living, then to finance his own. He was to direct literally dozens of films. The early prewar efforts were mainly lightweight comedies, but the tone changed during and after the war with his collaboration with the screenwriter Cesare Zavattini, with
Shoeshine
(1946) and
Bicycle Thieves
(1948). The themes were the harsh conditions faced by the poor and helpless in a hostile world. There were plenty of those in postwar Italy. Incidentally, both of these films won Oscars for the Best Foreign Language film, an award especially created for them.
Shoeshine
(1946) and
Bicycle Thieves
(1948). The themes were the harsh conditions faced by the poor and helpless in a hostile world. There were plenty of those in postwar Italy. Incidentally, both of these films won Oscars for the Best Foreign Language film, an award especially created for them.
As we strolled along, he chatted easily in French spiced with Italian. Every now and then a few words in pure Italian twirled out happily, like the pirouettes of an accomplished ballerina. He had that peculiarly Italian gift of immediately establishing a human contact. How well it must have served him working with the nonprofessionals he chose for his films.
The film itself was shot in a month and a half, he told me, but the preparation had taken over a year. The whole thing was so clear in his mind that once he started shooting, he never even looked at the script. Lack of funds led to using nonprofessional actors, real-life locationsâno building of setsâand whatever light was available.
He had asked over the radio for applicants to play the small boy in
Bicycle Thieves
to come and see him. “The man who plays the father brought his little boy; he had never intended to try out for a role for himself. His boy was too old, but the father had just the kind of face I neededânarrow and mobileâso I chose him.
Bicycle Thieves
to come and see him. “The man who plays the father brought his little boy; he had never intended to try out for a role for himself. His boy was too old, but the father had just the kind of face I neededânarrow and mobileâso I chose him.
“He was a metalworker in a big plant in Breda. I made him promise on his word of honor to go back to his job after the film was over. I didn't want him to have any false hopes for the future. Then I went to his employers and made them promise, too, that they would take him back.”
I told De Sica that René Clair had said
Bicycle Thieves
was one of the finest pictures of the last thirty yearsâup to the level of the great Chaplin pictures of the early days. Naturally, he was pleased, but modest in his reaction. He asked me, “Do you think foreign
audiences can understand enough without catching the dialogue? Is it clear to you?”
Bicycle Thieves
was one of the finest pictures of the last thirty yearsâup to the level of the great Chaplin pictures of the early days. Naturally, he was pleased, but modest in his reaction. He asked me, “Do you think foreign
audiences can understand enough without catching the dialogue? Is it clear to you?”
I asked him how he had managed to work in the streets with such crowds surging around the camera. “It was easy. We blocked off the streets; the police were very helpful. Whenever we needed people for the film, they were already planted in the crowd. You know how the artificial is often more convincing than the real? Those casual effects of people in the streets were all calculated.”
I asked about the little boy who plays such an important part in the film. “He was eight years old. He came from a very poor family. His mother sold flowers in the street. He lived in a kind of cave, five people in one miserable cave. Sometimes we would go to a café togetherâhe never asked for anything. He would eat one of the cakes I would order for him, but the second he wrapped in a napkin to take home to his mother.
“Have you noticed, as soon as the little boy comes on the screen, the whole audience is for him, he wins them right away?”
I said that the boy had great dignity.
“Yes, dignity, and a kind of responsibility too great for his years. A wonderful face, that plain little face with the big nose. Very sensitive and expressive without being maudlin. I wanted to avoid the overly pathetic quality which a prettier child might have given.”
There is no sentimentality in the film, no class angle. The father is not exploited by any particular group. He is alone in the world, not responsible for his own misfortune, unable to cope with his surroundings.
De Sica watched with interest the people we crossed in the street as we walked. “The French are extraordinary, everyone an original type.”
“More than the Italians?” I asked.
“Yes, more. I have never seen as many curious and interesting faces as here in Paris. I am thinking of finding some characters here for my next film.”
“But what about the language problem?”
“That does not matter much, nor if they can act or not. I can make them do what I need if only I have a face to work withâthat is what counts.”
We walked on. I saw an agreeable little courtyard, good for our
shot. There was a forlorn statue against the back wall. I wanted to photograph De Sica in front of it, but he was too tall, his head was not where I wanted it.
shot. There was a forlorn statue against the back wall. I wanted to photograph De Sica in front of it, but he was too tall, his head was not where I wanted it.
Without a word of direction, he sunk to his knees on the paving stones, bringing his head just in line for our picture.
A head popped out of a top-story window, and an old lady with disheveled hair looked out in amazement at the well-dressed man on his knees. He smiled up at her and said cheerfully,
“Vous voyez, madame, ce qu'il faut faire pour gagner sa vie!”
â“You see, Madame, what one must do to earn a living!” She beamed and nodded.
“Vous voyez, madame, ce qu'il faut faire pour gagner sa vie!”
â“You see, Madame, what one must do to earn a living!” She beamed and nodded.
As we left the courtyard, the old lady waved, and we waved back. It seemed like a De Sica film. We were assembling the cast already.
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