Picasso's Weeping Woman- Dora Maar

Dora Maar is usually depicted as a fragmented, sharp-toothed, tortured soul in the paintings of Picasso. And maybe she was. When they first met in the Café Les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris, Picasso was attracted by her classic beauty, and by the fact that she sat, smiling, cutting her fingers and the table at which she sat. Picasso was so moved by her bizarre behavior that he kept her bloody gloves and exhibited them on a shelf in his apartment.


This meeting was the beginning of a nine year relationship between the two artists, and some of Picasso’s most memorable, if not disturbing work. When they were first together they inspired each other to create beautiful work-her in photography, and him with such great images as Guernica (inspired by the devastating bombing of the town by the Fascists). As their love began to sour and Maars mental state to deteriorate against the rocks of Picasso’s sadistic indifference he created the Weeping women series-featuring of course, his lover Dora Maar.

Dora kept all of his paintings of her for herself until her death in 1997 at the age of 90. They were souvenirs for their extraordinary love affair which made her famous forever. For him she was the "woman in tears" in many aspects. She suffered from his moods during their love affair. Picasso sent Dora to his friend, the psychiatrist Jacques Lacan, who treated her with psychoanalysis. Also she hated the idea that in 1943 he jilted her for a new lover, Francoise Gilot (mother of Paloma).

In Paris, still occupied by the Germans, Picasso left to her a drawing of 1915 as a good-bye gift in April 1944; it represents Max Jacob his close friend who had just died in the transit camp of Drancy after his arrest by the Nazis. He also left to her some still lifes, and a house at Ménerbes in Provence-which he had received in exchange for one of his paintings. She hated the house, and while it was his gift to her, Picasso and Francoise lived there for a time in spite of her.

But there was a time when he loved her in a way that only Picasso could love a woman. She was his “secret muse” and as usual it came through in his work. It is not often we are able to see these rare pieces when their love was new and Picasso portrayed her as a beauty rather than a harpy. Currently, Sotheby’s is releasing images of Tete de femme, Dora dated from 1941. This bronze sculpture depicts her sans the tears and jagged teeth, without the gnashing claws and red gaping mouth. Tete de femme, Dora is almost sanguine and serene-her wide eyes, softly curving ears and tiny rosebud mouth. Sotheby’s expects the piece to sell for $20 to $30 million dollars.

Ah, to have all the money in the world. Lets just hope that whomever does buy the piece doesn’t lock it away in their private collection. It would truly be a shame not to be able to view this piece beside the Weeping women and gain perspective on the woman who gave Picasso so much inspiration.

"Nude Woman Reclining" Rediscovered and Revealed

A few years ago my mother passed along to me a collection of prints that she bought at an estate sale. Centered on women in fine art, in her lovely Southern accent she warned “there are a couple of dirty ones in there as well”. Needless to say I was more than a little interested to see what my mother considered dirty. No doubt, she was referring to Gustave Courbet’s “Origin of the World” – the controversial cornerstone of the French painter’s career.

Created in 1866, and now a resident of the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, this still somewhat stunning portrait of a, how shall we say, “Le blason” (a delicate paean to the “most beautiful treasure of the female anatomy) still draws scandalized gasps even in the 21st century. Several of the paintings previous owners kept it concealed. A Hungarian baron hung it in his bathroom, while the celebrated psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan bought it and hid it behind a panel that he uncovered for guests.

Courbet’s work is drawing a new round of gasps these days, but for different reasons. Until recently art experts believed that another of his salacious works ‘Nude Woman Reclining’ had been lost, maybe even destroyed, a casualty of Red Army or Nazi looting in Hungary during World War II. Fortunately for us, they were wrong.

Previously owned by the same collector who hung ‘Origin of the World’ in his loo (Baron Ferenc Hatvany) the painting was stolen from the bank vault where the baron had put them for safekeeping during WWII. The baron, who was Jewish, survived the war but lost all of his art, the largest collection in Hungary. He tracked down and bought back some of his lost works, including ‘The Origin of the World,’ but he never knew what happened to the other Courbet nude.

During the war, 'Nude Woman Reclining' wound up in the possession of a Soviet soldier who gave it as a gift to a doctor in Bratislava (part of Slovakia). The painting hung in the doctor’s home for decades until his death. His family then attempted to sell it. After negotiations and a reward of nearly three-quarters of a million dollars to the doctor’s family, the painting was returned two years ago to the baron’s heirs.

Currently the painting is appearing at a special show at the Grand Palais in Paris through January 28th. Then it will come to New York and be shown at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York from Feb. 27 to May 18.

As the Musee d’Orsay is actively seeking funding to purchase the painting for its collection, it looks like another trip to New York is in order.

“Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.”

When was the last time you were in the reference room of your local library or university? No doubt, not as often as in years past thanks to the Internet. I don’t remember the last time I referred to an encyclopedia. But, I still love those giant tomes full of “famous quotes”. It has always amazed me that these things get written down. Who was Bartlett and did he really spend his time putting together the best quotes ever uttered? And who made him the judge above all others? Don’t get me wrong. I find them fascinating. I have learned to love and admire certain politicians, artists, philosophers and such by just their witticisms.

One-hundred and fifty-three years ago one of my favorite and most quotable authors was born- Oscar Wilde. Brilliant, viper tongued, terribly kind, self-deprecating and self-destructive, Wilde is considered to be one of the wittiest men ever borne in England. The fact that the foul-mouthed Liam Gallagher (of Oasis fame) is mentioned in the same breath as Mr. Wilde is seriously disconcerting. But, I feel a bit better when also adjacent to Wilde is Stephen Frye (who coincidentally played Wilde in a film several years ago).

So, a happy birthday to you Mr. Wilde! Thank you for all your truisms. I leave you with a few of my favorites.

"It is absurde to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious."

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

“Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.”

“Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes.”

“I see when men love women. They give them but a little of their lives. But women when they love give everything.”

Magnificent Jewels…Indeed

Oh to have all the money in the world. I would be kind to my fellow man. I would do good for others, share, be kind. Help kitties and bunnies, cure world hunger, avoid crooked politicians and garden for good. I wouldn’t become a snotty, manicured charlatan and swan off to Biarritz to play cards with the hoi-polloi. I promise I wouldn’t.

Jins trapped in bottles in the deserts of Egypt and Saudi Arabia…are you listening?

If I had all the money in the world I’d be front and center this coming week in the great halls of Christies Auction House in New York. I’ve been reading Manon Lescaut of late, so maybe I’m primed to be taken advantage of by the French and their great ability to make even the most decadent look stylish. With that in mind, I’ve fallen in love with a little beauty created by the House of Boucheron that goes up on the auction block this coming week. First- it’s a Boucheron. Enough said? The audacious 28 year old Frederic was the first jeweler to open premises on the Place Vendome in 1858. Luxurious and utterly opulent, decorated with crystal chandeliers and velvet fabrics, his boutique quickly attracted a prestigious clientele. His experiments with diamond engraving are simply breathtaking, and were the precursor of the “nature” style that he created by using snakes and other symbolic animal figures of the 19th Century Art Nouveau period.

Simple but intricate, like the very subject itself, this divine Art Nouveau bumblebee brooch is adorned with diamonds, sapphires and enamel. Valued at a paltry $60,000 to $80,000 dollars its a bargain of the day in my humble opinion.

Oh, this piece must have such a history. Where has she been? What balls and fine restaurants and soirees has she attended? What envious eyes have been cast upon her graceful beauty? The unknowable history of the piece makes it more appealing to me than its monetary value.

Come on-give a girl a present. You know you want to.

By the way, should you feel so moved, there’s also a pretty scrumptious Belle Époque diamond aigrette bandeau by Cartier (estimated to auction for $450,000 to $650,000) that would look divine on my cat Meshinko.

Sigh. A girl can dream. And with creations like these, what sweet dreams.

Book Autopsies

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I love books-any book. I love the smell of them, the feel of them, the fonts, the paper, the words that tie them together, even most of the people who are brave enough to write them-even twaddle. I hate going into a bookstore and seeing someone slamming books on and off shelves. I literally shudder when I see people mistreating books. Not being a fan of small human beings I hesitate to compare them to babies-but they are-they are like delicate things to be treated with caution and love.

So, the concept of someone taking a scalpel to an old tome to make it into a piece of art should raise my hackles? No? Well-I thought it would but I’ve found a considerable exception to the rule. I can barely find a way to explain the amazing work that Brian Dettmer is doing. They are called Book Autopsies.

I’ve tried to find more information on the artist, but there’s not much on the Internet about him other than lots of images of his work, which in my opinion is a harmonious balance between the collage work of Joseph Cornell and the intricate perfection of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

Brian Dettmer-I’m looking for you. I want to own some of your work. I want to see inside your head. I am officially fascinated.

Very superstitious, writings on the wall....

A black cat crossing your path signifies that the animal is going somewhere. --Groucho Marx

Yes, I am actually pretty superstitious. I admit it. I embrace it.

I'm 36 and I lift my feet when I go over railroad tracks.
I cross myself when a hearse drives past me.
I throw spilled salt over my shoulder.
I don't walk under ladders.
I get the willies when a broom falls.
I never put my shoes on the bed.

I started thinking about superstitions the other day when I was out shopping and watched a man take four umbrellas from a Marshall's store, walk outside and open them to see which he liked best. Nobody jumped him. Nobody yelled "STOP THAT WILEY UMBRELLA THIEF!". It was just like he was stopping to tie his shoes. He made his selection, went back inside and made his purchase. In these cynical, wary-eyed days I thought it was fairly amazing to see that our superstitions are still so prevalent. We might not believe in the words of the press-but dangit, we're not breaking a mirror in fear of 7 years bad luck.

These things seem so amazingly silly. I mean, do you know anybody who has ever broken his mothers back by stepping on a crack? Have you seen someones car break down after they said "this thing never breaks down"? But still we do it. It's like blinking-it just is.

I honestly think that we're a bit superstitious whether we're willing to admit it or not. I've never gotten the "evil eye" but I think I'd know it if I saw it. And, I'd probably follow suit by going "phoo, phoo" while spitting between my pointer and middle finger of my right hand. Hey, just being cautious. Why the heck not.

I think the thing about superstition is that it's not provable. Why did Uncle Jethro loose his job? Not because he was a total slacker, or the stock market plunged. It must certainly be because his daughter touched his shoe with a broom while sweeping the kitchen.

Why did I get a raise last week? Because I had an itchy palm.

See-good or bad. There's a superstition for everything.
So, I admit it. I'm superstitious. Why not? If there's fate, then maybe there's superstition. Meanwhile, I'll continue to terrify my passengers by lifting my feet while going over railroad tracks. Chill. I haven't killed anybody...yet.

Resume for a Season

Fall is here, and I'm far from down at the mouth about it. I, unlike many others find that the dying days of summer and approaching of winter is my most vibrant time of the year. While others are knocking up their daily dosage of Prozac, fall seems to bring an absolute calm to me. Maybe it means I should go live in Portland. When I tried to explain my "spring blues" to my psychiatrist this year he gave me a quizzical look, and said "I should write a paper on you." I love that. Someday I'll grow up to be a lab rat.

A friend just called and said he'd procured a book for me at a Salvation Army in Gastonia, North Carolina. It's "Might As Well Live" about Dorothy Parker. I've been meaning to buy the book forever. Thank you Clay! Thank You Gastonia Goodwill!

In tribute to my favorite time of the year, and my favorite melancholy mistress of dark prose, I give you this poem. Smile when you read it, it makes life look much brighter.

Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

When Art Inspires Literature

There is a story which has been handed down through literary history, which may be an urban myth, and might well be fact. It is that of a nightmare sparked by a famous (or rather, infamous) painting by Henri Fuseli upon the opium addled mind of Mary Shelley which led her to create the story of Frankenstein.

Years ago, I saw a rather bad film called “Haunted Summer” which was based loosely upon the relationship between Shelley, her husband and Byron. The painting by Fuseli looms throughout the film and eventually causes the nightmare which spawns Frankenstein. This was my first encounter with the famous painting and my first with the incubus, which I have since often mixed-up with the other soul sucking demon, the female of the type; the succubus. So remember boys and girls- incubus is a boy, succubus is a girl. Both are nasty little buggers who suck your soul out and rape you in the night.

So-other than a nasty nightmare, how do the two intersect? Interestingly enough, the artist is said to have had a very odd affair with one Mary Wollstonecraft- Shelly’s mother. Seems that Wollstonecraft fell utterly in love with the married Fuseli, and she poured her platonic love over him like the waves of a turbulent storm. So enamored with him was she, that she approached
Fuseli’s wife with a proposal. Since her love for him was so utterly platonic, wouldn’t it be lovely if the three of them lived together? With that, Fuseli had to end their odd unconsummated affair. Heartbroken, Mary Wollstonecraft went on to marry someone else. Then she died giving birth to the girl who would become Mary Shelley.

Nineteen years later, back in Fuseli's homeland of Switzerland, Mary Shelley penned Frankenstein as an exercise in Gothic style. The day of Gothic novels was past by then, but Frankenstein became the most famous Gothic novel of them all.

There are two versions of this painting-once much more sinister than the other. In the first, the incubus seems almost munchkin-like, and there is less terror in the scene overall. In the second, it seems that Fuseli delves deep into horror for inspiration. The eyes of the horse are stricken with fear, and the face of the incubus is much more sinister.

As a final tasty little note; Sigmund Freud was known to have an engraving of this work in his Vienna apartment in the 1920s.
Interesting, eh?