4. "Joséphine, What's This?"
Four years after the appearance of Crespelle’s Modigliani, a Polish writer named Thaddeus Wittlin (1909–1998) published a “biographical novel” titled Modigliani: Prince of Montparnasse (1964)…perhaps the most colorful portrait ever rendered of Léon, and one in which we learn the name of the fillette who accompanied him into that Belle Époque labyrinth packed with artistic treasure…:
Judging by the way in which the author paints this scene, one assumes that Léon’s abode is a chamber de bonne: a classic Parisian garret that offers basic shelter to so many marginal, impoverished tenants (some achieving their first foothold in Paris; others tenaciously grasping their last). Wittlin describes this “gloomy,” “murky attic” as a grubby single room stuffed to the gills with assorted paraphernalia:
Judging by the way in which the author paints this scene, one assumes that Léon’s abode is a chamber de bonne: a classic Parisian garret that offers basic shelter to so many marginal, impoverished tenants (some achieving their first foothold in Paris; others tenaciously grasping their last). Wittlin describes this “gloomy,” “murky attic” as a grubby single room stuffed to the gills with assorted paraphernalia:
At a kitchen table stood a young girl holding a pot over a spirit stove. She was ugly, uncombed, and clad in an unbuttoned dress. Angély scurried to the back of the room, which was cluttered with old furniture, frames, and pictures…
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Modigliani settles on a windowsill and introduces himself as a “professional artist” who recently held an exhibition at La Grande Chaumière (a celebrated artist’s school, still in existence in Montparnasse). Attempting to enter into the collector’s good graces, he adds: “My friends told me you’re an art lover who discovered Matisse and Cézanne. Picasso speaks of you as a real expert.” To which Léon replies:
“But what kind of an expert am I? Simply a collector. I always loved to own pictures which pleased me. I spent practically all of my small earnings as a tax official on them. Once, I myself tried to paint. Every Sunday I would go to the Seine with my easel and palette. Joséphine, get moving and pour us a glass…But then I had to drop my one pleasure because my eyesight was failing. And that was the disability that befell me, a man who loves painting.”
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Angély also admits that he’s driven as much by a love of art as by an ardent desire to gamble:
“Now, since I’ve retired, I use my pension to buy the works of young people, because you never know. It may happen that suddenly there will arise a new Ingres or Toulouse‐Lautrec, or perhaps on a painted over canvas I’ll discover a Rembrandt or a Botticelli. I’ll be able to sell it at a profit and go to Nice for the rest of my life. Obviously I’ll take Joséphine. Dear girl.”
“Your daughter? “No, a friend.” He raised his glass. “Santé! A daughter wouldn’t stay with her father like this.” “A la votre!” Amedeo could barely hide his amazement. |
Then the collector asks to inspect Modigliani’s work:
Père Angély put on wire‐framed glasses and stuck the drawing under his nose. “Hm, must be very delicate lines, for I can scarcely make out anything.” He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and put the sketch to his red eyelids. “No. Nothing doing. I told you I was almost blind. I can make out your features at this distance. But such fine drawing, no. Joséphine, come here. What’s this?”
The girl drew near and looked over his shoulder. “A young woman, to the waist. In pencil.” “Good?” “Good.” It never crossed her mind that she could dare to criticize the work of such an elegant gentleman. “A sad blonde with bare breasts.” “And the breasts, are they small or large?” “Average.” Joséphine shrugged. “Some might call them large.” “I’ll buy it. What else do you have?” “Here is a head of Anselmo Bucci, whom you know. Tempura.” “No, thanks. Anything else?” “A standing nude.” “Joséphine, what do you say?” “Long legs.” “I’ll take it…’ Modigliani suddenly felt deeply humiliated by the judgments of this dull girl. He felt sorry for the drawings he had sold as dirty pictures designed to excite old men. He would have preferred to have them rejected as unappreciated works of art. “That’s about all there is of interest.” He shut his folder. “The rest are unfinished sketches.” (Wittlin 1964) |