Authors: Rosamond Bernier
Some of My Lives (14 page)
I
n the 1950s in Paris there was not much on offer in the way of art publications at an affordable price. There was the large, sumptuous
Verve
, edited at first by a wily Greek, known always by just one name, Tériade. It had magnificent color plates and erudite articles by well-known poets and authors and was correspondingly expensive.
n the 1950s in Paris there was not much on offer in the way of art publications at an affordable price. There was the large, sumptuous
Verve
, edited at first by a wily Greek, known always by just one name, Tériade. It had magnificent color plates and erudite articles by well-known poets and authors and was correspondingly expensive.
There was
Connaissance des Arts
, almost exclusively devoted to interior decoration, and a few trade sheets.
Connaissance des Arts
, almost exclusively devoted to interior decoration, and a few trade sheets.
I had been making invaluable contacts with the leading artists of the day. I was interested in photography and had worked with talented photographers. I cared about good design and good writing.
With the enthusiasm of the innocent, I launched myself into the creation of a new art review, in French. My aim was to produce a lively publication with attractive layouts and well-written, readable texts by experts who did not pontificate, something of top quality that young people on a tight budget could buy. My dream was to see it read on the metro. Eventually, I managed it.
I had a French partner, which made fiscal arrangements feasible. Nevertheless, ingenuity and improvisation were essential.
It was through my old hard-drinking companion in Geneva, Albert Skira, that I was introduced to the Swiss printers the Imprimeries Réunies Lausanne. They had only worked with a four-color process for fine-arts reproduction. Offset, far less expensive, was the medium for advertising booklets for watches or chocolates.
After many lunches with Monsieur Lamunière and Monsieur Heng (I discovered the fine Swiss way with potatoes, the
rösti
), they rose to the challenge of printing a high-quality publication in offset.
We were able to establish a price for eight full-color pages per issue that would come in at the equivalent in today's money of forty-eight cents a copy on the newsstand.
rösti
), they rose to the challenge of printing a high-quality publication in offset.
We were able to establish a price for eight full-color pages per issue that would come in at the equivalent in today's money of forty-eight cents a copy on the newsstand.
We acquired a small office on the ground floor of a building next to the Hôtel des Saints-Pères. A window in the office gave onto the courtyard, and sometimes I would leap through, not quite up to Nijinsky in style. We had one assistant, a part-time secretary and an enthusiastic rugby player named Bob Delpire to do our layouts. (He is famous today and has his own highly successful publishing firm specializing in photography). First problem: a name.
Several possibilities, such as
Vue
, were already taken. I wanted to emphasize the visual presentation. I tried writing out
L'ÅIL
, and I liked the way the
E
backed into the
O
. We had a motto: all the arts, from all countries, from all times. It sounds better in French. That was it.
Vue
, were already taken. I wanted to emphasize the visual presentation. I tried writing out
L'ÅIL
, and I liked the way the
E
backed into the
O
. We had a motto: all the arts, from all countries, from all times. It sounds better in French. That was it.
I had become friendly with Fernand Léger. Our first cover had a detail from his last great painting,
La Grande Parade
. The original is in the Guggenheim today. Léger was only one of our high-powered artist friends who gave their benediction to our venture.
La Grande Parade
. The original is in the Guggenheim today. Léger was only one of our high-powered artist friends who gave their benediction to our venture.
That brave first issue, January 1955, presented the kind of nourishing and seductive mix that was our aim. It started out with that eminent British literary critic, Cyril Connolly, writing about the eighteenth-century Bavarian rococo. Cyril's prose was matchless, but so was his laziness. I knew that without close supervision he would spin his article in the stacks of the British Library instead of going to look firsthand.
So we took him ourselves and drove around Austria and southern Germany to see the splendors of those joyful churches and libraries. By now this circuit is high fashion, but at the time no one was interested. That summit of Bavarian rococo, the meadow church at Wies, was not even in the index of the Blue Guide to Germany.
I had always had a fondness for that life-loving sixteenth-century French king, François I, who brought Italian art to his country. This culminated in his château at Fontainebleau, where, among other things, he kept the
Mona Lisa
in his bathroom.
Mona Lisa
in his bathroom.
The leading authority on the subject was Charles Terrasse, who, incidentally, was related to Pierre Bonnard. He was director of the
Fontainebleau château that had just reopened after the war. He lived on the job, so to speak, in a little house near the entrance.
Fontainebleau château that had just reopened after the war. He lived on the job, so to speak, in a little house near the entrance.
My mission was to persuade him to take the time to write an article about the School of Fontainebleau for a magazine he had never heard of, for an editor completely unknown to him.
I went out to Fontainebleau on a chilly November day. Like most people when discussing their specialty, he was fascinating. The hours slipped by. The November light was waning fast.
“But I must show you,” he said. “Come with me.” And he led me at a brisk pace across the cobblestoned courtyard, up the famous double staircase into a completely dark interior.
Electric light had not yet been installed, but he knew every step of the way so well that he clearly saw every statue, every stucco relief, every garlanded fresco. I didn't. “Here we have a panel painted by Il Rosso,” he would say, pointing, as I strained through total darkness. Our entire tour of the château took place like that.
But we parted good friends, and he did write the article.
To round out that January 1955 number (besides an article on Giacometti), we had an interview with the venerable dealer Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, who had been Picasso's on-and-off dealer for fifty years. He had outlived and/or outwitted the competition. Picasso never really liked his dealers. He felt he had been royally robbed when he first arrived in Paris. The exception was Ambroise Vollard, for whom Picasso made many illustrations for his editions. But Kahnweiler had created a profitable German market for Picasso, and he had staying power over the long course. Kahnweiler also became Georges Braque's first dealer and presented Braque's first exhibition in Paris.
We accompanied the interview with a photograph of Kahnweiler taken by Picasso in 1912, and in a routine way we gave Picasso his photographic credit. He was absolutely thrilled. He took back a copy of
L'ÅIL
to his quarters in the rue des Grands-Augustins and proudly showed it to every visitor. “There's an intelligent art review,” he said. “They know I'm a photographer.”
L'ÅIL
to his quarters in the rue des Grands-Augustins and proudly showed it to every visitor. “There's an intelligent art review,” he said. “They know I'm a photographer.”
To commemorate the occasion of the first issue, my copy was signed by Picasso, Braque, and Kahnweiler. Braque was an early champion of
L'ÅIL
.
L'ÅIL
.
From then on, every month I went to Lausanne, and at 6:00 a.m.,
not my favorite hour, I was at the Imprimeries Réunies to see the issue through the press. Color corrections were made by hand in those days. I stood by to watch the color proofs churned out and to correct as well as I could.
not my favorite hour, I was at the Imprimeries Réunies to see the issue through the press. Color corrections were made by hand in those days. I stood by to watch the color proofs churned out and to correct as well as I could.
Naturally, we had to accumulate material well in advance of that first issue because we had nothing waiting in the larder. It was a high-wire act.
We owe our first big publicity coup to Picasso. When he heard about the plans to start an art review, he sent a message of solidarity via Kahnweiler and said that he had “
un regalo
” for me, a present. It turned out to be the equivalent of a gold mine.
un regalo
” for me, a present. It turned out to be the equivalent of a gold mine.
He was sending me to his sister, Doña Lola de Vilató, in Barcelona. I was the first person to be so honored. She had kept in her care a large body of his work that was totally unknown. None of it had been published. It included early sketches and family portraits and a substantial group dating from 1917.
All he asked in return is that when I got back, I would come and tell him all about my visit and show him some photographs. He had not seen his family since 1938; he had vowed he would never return to Spain while it was under Franco's rule. He had never seen his family's present apartment.
Picasso had painted the 1917 works when he had come to Barcelona with Diaghilev's Ballets Russes. He had fallen in love with one of the dancers, Olga Koklova, and was not letting her out of his famous
mirada fuerte
. Later he was to marry her, with predictably disastrous results.
mirada fuerte
. Later he was to marry her, with predictably disastrous results.
As a proper Spaniard, he didn't bring his mistress home. They stayed at the Rancini, an old hotel by the port, with a view of the Christopher Columbus column. He was to make a famous painting of the column. I saw it at the time of my visit to the family. Later it became a poster for the future Picasso Museum in Barcelona.
When he was returning to Paris, he simply didn't want to bother packing up the work he had done in Barcelona. He left it all with his sister, and she had kept it gathering dust for all those years.
Apparently, I was the first person Picasso had ever sent to the family. They had been alerted about my arrival and were in a high state of excitement.
I had been somewhat surprised, on telephoning when I arrived
in Barcelona, to be told, “Come right away! Come tonight! At half past eleven.” Since I knew his sister, Doña Lola de Vilató, was aged and a semi-invalid, this was an unexpected hour. In true Spanish style, the family lived by night.
in Barcelona, to be told, “Come right away! Come tonight! At half past eleven.” Since I knew his sister, Doña Lola de Vilató, was aged and a semi-invalid, this was an unexpected hour. In true Spanish style, the family lived by night.
The family apartment, at 48, Paseo de Gracia, was in one of the solid bourgeois buildings that lined the street. There was no exterior indication that it might contain unexpected treasure. The smoothly running elevator was in sharp contrast to Picasso's ramshackle staircase.
“We're so glad to see you,” they greeted me exuberantly, on opening the front door. I said I was glad to see them, but in fact I couldn't see a thing. The place was in almost total darkness. They introduced themselves: Lolita, a daughter of the house, and two sons, Javier and PablÃn. “We don't know what happens to our lightbulbs,” Lolita explained. “The fuses, they blow like that, for nothing.”
They steered me into the salon. There too the light was dim; only one part of a lamp was functioning. I could just make out a round shape swaddled in blankets, emerging from an armchair. It was Doña Lola. She suffered from acute arthritis, and it was painful for her to dress. But she presided like an empress from her cocoon of coverings. When Picasso saw the photograph we later published in
L'ÅIL
, he said, “Isn't she splendid! She looks like a bullfighter's mother.”
L'ÅIL
, he said, “Isn't she splendid! She looks like a bullfighter's mother.”
They thought it very dashing for a young woman to have made the journey from Paris by herself, but it had never occurred to any of them to actually go to Paris themselves. They spoke fondly of TÃo Pablo, but it was clear that they had no idea of his worldwide fame.
There were no hushed tones around the invalid here. One nephew played the guitar, and the others danced and sang around Doña Lola. The merriment continued until the wee hours.
Obviously, I was burning to see the work, but Spanish hospitality and folkways had me sitting in the family circle, sipping little glasses of sweet Málaga wine, and exchanging family news. They talked about Pablo's mother, Doña MarÃa. She was very much like him, they said, short, dark, vivacious. She believed in him implicitly. After he had gone to Paris, she wrote to him once, “Now I hear you
are writing poetry. I'm willing to believe it. If I hear next you are saying Mass, I'll believe that too.”
are writing poetry. I'm willing to believe it. If I hear next you are saying Mass, I'll believe that too.”
However, Pablo's father was Pablo's opposite in every way, tall, thin, and fair. His friends called him “
el inglés
Ӊthe Englishman. Pablo often recorded his careworn face.
el inglés
Ӊthe Englishman. Pablo often recorded his careworn face.
They also talked about someone Picasso had described as “a very boring old aunt, a religious maniac who was constantly telling her beads.” This was TÃa Pepa. The family wanted a portrait of her, but the old lady had always refused to pose.
And then, one scorching summer day when Picasso was back in Málaga for the holidays, she suddenly changed her mind and showed up despite the heat in cap and shawl, ready to be painted. Young Pablo, the family Polaroid, was out playing with his cousins. He was called in. He took out his paints and brushes and went to work.
He liked to claim that he had finished the portrait in an hour, but he was not above exaggerating in such matters. He also said, with some satisfaction, that she died the following week.
Finally, Doña Lola said kindly, “Maybe she would like to see the pictures.” Lolita led me through more darkened rooms, past a case filled with plaster casts of deformed feet, a specialty of PablÃn, who was a doctor. (This detail particularly delighted Picasso when I told him about it.) Sometimes the light was so dim that Lolita held up a lit match for me to get a better view.
“You can't see much, can you?” she said sympathetically. I agreed, and asked if it might be possible for me to come back by daylight. This caused consternation. The family conferred. No one stirred until midday. Since both nephews were doctors and had their offices there, I wondered about their office hours. Finally, it was agreed that I could come back at six the next afternoon.
Incidentally, everything I saw at the Vilatós' was black with grime. There were pictures all over the place, on the floor, propped against furniture, on the sofa, hanging askew from a single nail. Most of them were unframed and dim from decades of dust.
What I finally saw, and was able to photograph and publish for the first time, were early sketches and paintings of family members and friends and a whole group of paintings dating from the 1917 visit. Most of these works are now in the Picasso Museum in Barcelona.
They made a magnificent spread in the fourth issue of
L'ÅIL
and won us international acclaim. There were full pages in
Time
and
Life
and many write-ups in other publications.
They made a magnificent spread in the fourth issue of
L'ÅIL
and won us international acclaim. There were full pages in
Time
and
Life
and many write-ups in other publications.
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