Renoir's Dancer

by Catherine Hewitt

  Of the myriad of entertainments on offer, few appealed to such a broad social spectrum, nor promised the same surge of adrenaline, as the circus. Paris had a long history of passionate circus attendance. Philip Astley first brought the modern circus from England to Paris in the 18th century, before the Italian Antonio Franconi transfixed the city’s audiences with his breathtaking feats of horsemanship. By the 19th century, the circus was a well-established feature of the Parisian social scene. In 1860, the Cirque de l’Impératrice had fed Paris’s insatiable hunger for all things death-defying when the acrobat Léotard had inspired gasps as he leapt through the air to catch the flying trapeze.54 ‘In Paris, the man who risks his life […] is sure to start a general infatuation,’ proclaimed Henri Dabot the same year.55 In the 1880s, Paris’s enthusiasm for the circus showed no signs of dwindling. One contemporary review summarised popular opinion: ‘The proliferation of circuses […] is a blessing!’56

  The circus was familiar to Marie-Clémentine. While the thought of spending money on such frivolities as leisure was unthinkable in the Valadon household, Marie-Clémentine could hardly ignore the brightly coloured circus posters pinned to walls as she tried to edge her way through the throng of eager spectators queuing on her very own street. For in 1875, when Marie-Clémentine was ten, a new circus had come to town and set itself up at 63, Boulevard de Rochechouart, on the corner of the Rue des Martyrs.

  The Cirque Fernando was a curious wooden building whose posters promised all manner of wonders and delights: there were acrobats, jugglers, tightrope walkers, performing animals and a fine equine section with skilled equestriennes.57 Bright lights made exotic costumes sparkle, while breathtaking gymnastic feats were performed to the crack of the whip and the triumphant sound of brass. ‘The horses are magnificent,’ raved one review. ‘The performers could rival the best in the profession. The clowns are the most original to be found. The inhabitants of the west of Paris no longer have far to travel to see such a popular show: they have the Cirque Fernando.’58

  Of all Montmartre’s temptations, it was the circus that most captured Marie-Clémentine’s imagination. It seemed the very antithesis of the existence she was being urged to accept, and encapsulated everything she wished her life would become. The circus was unusual and exhilarating, colourful and exciting. It pleased the eye, roused the emotions and lifted the soul. And above all, the circus showcased the extraordinary capabilities of the human body, a distinguishing feature which made it eminently attractive to artists. It certainly had everything to appeal to Marie-Clémentine. And it just so happened that now she was a teenager and in need of work, a new circus was about to open. By chance, the owner was a man with a soft spot for amateurs, a keen eye for potential and a nose for new talent.

  Round-faced with a spectacular moustache, Ernest Molier was the 36-year-old son of a wealthy treasurer and magistrate from Le Mans.59 He had arrived in Paris in his twenties with a passion for horses that was greeted with disdain by members of the Haute École, on the grounds that he was no more than a rich, eccentric amateur. The charge was difficult to dispute; but as for his skill, Molier’s critics had sorely underestimated his capabilities. Molier schooled himself in equestrian science, and through sheer determination and hard work, by his mid-twenties, he had become an outstanding horseman and a competent trainer.

  In 1880, Molier’s equine skills, combined with his eccentric streak and backed up by his personal affluence, were mustered to launch one of the most outlandish entertainment ventures Paris had ever seen: a superb private circus, run entirely by amateurs. Having bought terrain on the Rue Bénouville near the Bois de Boulogne, Molier constructed his very own circus, with a 13m-diameter ring and seating for some 100 spectators. Then, he sought out performers, initially among his friends (many of them aristocrats like the Comte Hubert de La Rochefoucauld), who practised boxing, fencing and gymnastics in their extensive leisure time. His acquaintances also included a number of actors, actresses and singers whose regular performances took them to the capital’s most esteemed stages, such as the Opéra and the Palais Royal. Molier had all the ingredients for success.

  The first performance was by invitation only. And just before 9pm on 21 March 1880, the tiered wooden seating at Molier’s circus began to fill up with curious guests. Men in best suits craned their necks, chicly dressed women chattered excitedly. And all around the ring, posters whetted the appetite with illustrations of the remarkable feats about to be performed, heightening the sense of expectation.

  Given the vogue for equestrian acrobatics and gymnastics (inspired, critics sneered, by fears over the degeneration of the privileged classes), the opening performance was a wild success. ‘A private circus!’ one review exclaimed. ‘You have to admit, it’s a highly original and brilliantly funny idea […] quite English […] I declare M. Molier an utterly unique circus director.’60

  Unique the circus certainly was. Like all circuses, there were acrobats, jugglers, clowns, monkeys, horses and pretty young girls in revealing costumes performing gymnastics on their steeds’ backs. There was music, there was humour and there was dancing. But the show also included a horse that would hunt – and retrieve – objects on command. And one of the most popular acts proved to be a rabbit assault course. ‘We have all heard of dressed rabbit. Now, M. Molier has launched dressaging rabbits! It’s the maddest thing!’61

  Before long, all high society was clamouring for a ticket. Everyone wanted to see this much-hyped Parisian folly. Molier’s background and social position made him uniquely placed to appreciate the subtleties and delicate balance of Paris’s complex social strata. The inaugural show proved so popular that Molier decided that henceforward he would give two or three performances a year, and that there would be two sittings for each show: one for his eminent friends and another for their mistresses. Molier was thoroughly in tune with the desires of his public, and Paris loved him for it. The cream of Paris society, from financiers to physicians, began eagerly awaiting the shows, each of which was followed by a sumptuous dinner accompanied by fine champagne.

  The performances went from strength to strength. ‘The first performance was a great success,’ declared Le Figaro.62 ‘The next year […] the Molieros surpassed themselves.’ The following year ‘marked a new era for the Molieros’. The multi-talented Comte de La Rochefoucauld in particular received endless plaudits. His trapeze work ‘was enough to make a person forget the great Léotard’, his routine agreed to ‘surpass the very best seen at the Hippodrome’.63

  Molier’s circus was the show all Paris was talking about.

  Always passionate about the circus, Marie-Clémentine’s ears pricked up when she overheard two painters discussing the circus in one of Montmartre’s popular bars one evening.64 She quickly joined the discussion, from which it transpired that the men knew the owner of the circus. Marie-Clémentine was clearly enthusiastic, claimed to enjoy amateur gymnastics and believed she could handle a horse. Now a ripe adolescent poised on the threshold of womanhood, she was undeniably alluring. And she needed work. The men could introduce her to Ernest Molier. For they did know him, very well indeed – one of them was the Comte de La Rochefoucauld.

  Molier was only too conscious of the power of a pretty young girl to arrest an audience’s attention: he also staged pantomimes for his friends where scantily clad women were the main attraction. In addition, he was a keen benefactor where young talent was concerned and had acquired a reputation for training up protégés who would earn a small wage for their efforts.65 Marie-Clémentine was hired.

  At last, her passion for acrobatics had an outlet where it would be appreciated. She would perform as a multi-skilled gymnast and try her hand at a variety of circus skills. Working for Molier was exhausting, but Marie-Clémentine loved every minute. Each experience provided rich material for her drawing. Besides, Molier had a refreshing approach to established convention which appealed to Marie-Clémentine. He even shunned the tradition of women riding side-saddle, which was wi
dely agreed to be the only decorous way for a lady to travel on horseback.

  Much of Marie-Clémentine’s time was spent in the stables, where quick banter with upper-class, older men and matronly warnings from women more worldly-wise than herself matured her fast and exposed her to a side of life which was still new to her. But Molier worked his trainees hard, his favoured teaching methods alternating between patience and the horse-whip.66 Marie-Clémentine had to put in innumerable hours perfecting the art of the trapeze. It was strenuous, but the rewards – and the applause – were well worth the exertion. It was not unheard of for trainees to be picked out for special praise in the press. At one show, a young female protégé of Molier’s ‘was especially applauded’ when, standing on a horse’s back, her performance ‘would have made any of M. Loyal’s students envious.’67

  For six glorious months, Marie-Clémentine’s physical stamina and suppleness impressed her fellow performers.68 The toned muscles of her tiny limbs became taut as she stretched out, bent and wrapped her body around the unforgiving steel bar of the trapeze.

  And then one day during a rehearsal, something went wrong.

  There was a slip, a gasp, a thud. And then nothing. Marie-Clémentine’s body lay crumpled and motionless on the floor of the arena.69

  CHAPTER 4

  Inspiring Painters

  L’un ne po pà essei a lo proucessi e sounà lo clocho.

  (You can’t follow the procession and sound the horn.)

  OLD LIMOUSIN PROVERB1

  Physical fearlessness like Marie-Clémentine’s can seldom be attributed simply to reckless self-neglect. More often, it results from an unconscious, intuitive understanding of the body, of its capabilities and limitations; from a self-knowledge so instinctive that the owner herself is barely conscious of it. Marie-Clémentine had just such an innate understanding of her body. She knew how it behaved and responded. Without realising, she had trusted it, believed in it, based her dreams on it. She had relied on its support, and taken that support for granted. But it had let her down. Now, all she could think of was the pain.

  Marie-Clémentine’s fall left her with acute back pain – the kind of deep, sickening ache which cuts straight to the soul, tears at the emotions and seems to alter the very character of the sufferer. Marie-Clémentine had flown, and she had soared. Her body had sprung lightly and done just as she commanded. Suddenly, it was not responding as it used to. It was impossible to ignore its weight, its very earthly quality.

  There were no more bright lights, music, people, excitement, energy. The scents of horses and straw, of body odours mingled with cigarette smoke, had evaporated. Everything was still and quiet, colours sober and muted. The walls of the dingy bedroom became the teenager’s unchanging horizon; while outside the distant sounds of life going on without her were a constant reminder of what she had lost. Even the prancing creatures drawn in her own hand on the walls of the apartment seemed to mock her. The girl who had finally found happiness in movement among people had been grounded, confined, isolated.

  And it soon became clear that while her back would improve, she would not be able to perform acrobatics again – and she would not be returning to Molier’s circus. All that had been pleasure and light suddenly became dark and serious. Eventually, denial was impossible – her body was fallible. It was a chastening realisation, a brutal confrontation with physical vulnerability at such a young age. And all the while, the pain persisted.

  Of course, Marie-Clémentine could still draw. While she recovered, she continued to sketch and reluctantly tried for the first time to paint; it made her uneasy. There was something committal about the medium which unsettled her. ‘I was so wild and proud that I did not want to paint,’ she explained. ‘I tried to make my palette so simple that I wouldn’t have to think about it.’2 And conservative 19th-century artistic discourse projected colour as feminine, line as masculine.3 Drawing was a way of brazenly rejecting established artistic – and gender – conventions. Besides, decent pigments were expensive and hard to come by. ‘I painted with whatever I had, indiscriminately,’ she remembered.4 Then there was the question of subject matter. She could always paint her mother, but her efforts seemed little use when there was nothing new to commit to paper. Memory was not a limitless source of material. To create, Marie-Clémentine needed to experience.

  Madeleine, meanwhile, was preoccupied with a more pressing concern. When all due sympathy had been paid, for them to survive, Marie-Clémentine needed to earn.

  Marie-Clémentine eventually agreed to take on some sewing work. It exasperated her. To be confined to the apartment engaged in such tedious industry felt like taking a step backwards – towards imprisonment and away from freedom. The only paid employment she had ever enjoyed had been in Molier’s circus. Now that opportunity had been snatched away, she had just one passion: art.

  If a woman must work, painting was hardly a reasonable or lucrative employment option. A lady amateur’s nonchalant interest in art or music was considered enchanting, a sign of good breeding; painting as a serious female profession, on the other hand, was nothing short of scandalous. It was viewed as deeply unfitting.

  Certainly, there were recognised female artists who had made a successful career – as much as it could be called one – out of painting. Acceptance at the prestigious Paris Salon remained the ultimate testimony of painterly attainment in the 19th century. This huge exhibition was the most important event of the artistic world, for it was here that reputations were made, commissions earned, and skill showcased and assessed. Gradually, the conservative Salon jury was growing more receptive to women artists, and even went so far as to award fourteen women first-class medals in 1879.5 But a skilled woman artist had to expend an inordinate amount of energy to gain even a fraction of the recognition that a man of similar talent might readily enjoy. American Mary Cassatt had her first Salon piece accepted in 1868.6 Throughout the 1860s and 1870s, Berthe Morisot had been a regular exhibitor at the Salon. But both those women came from wealthy families with contacts and the capital to back what were widely perceived to be their daughters’ flights of fancy. Even then, each had to suffer the critical rebuffs of their immediate circle. Berthe Morisot and her sister’s painting teacher Joseph-Benoît Guichard underlined the danger of nurturing female artistic talent when he wrote to their mother: ‘With characters like your daughters’, my teaching will make them painters, not minor amateur talents. Do you really understand what that means? In the world of the grande bourgeoisie in which you move, it would be a revolution, I would even say a catastrophe.’7

  The Salon jury tolerated women artists. It condescended to acknowledge exceptional female talent where there was no alternative, but praise was rarely offered ungrudgingly. When Morisot’s and Cassatt’s paintings were shown in public, they were shielded from the most biting criticism precisely because their pictures conformed with the main tenets of Impressionism. They worked on small canvases, used a delicate palette, and drew their subject matter from their immediate environment. Their canvases often showed women, children and domestic scenes, all of which were considered appropriate subjects for their sex, although too inferior to be seriously considered in the context of high art. Clearly, conservative critics reassured themselves, Cassatt’s and Morisot’s paintings were those of women who knew their place. In 1881, J.K. Huysmans described Mary Cassatt’s paintings as ‘impeccable pearls’, before adding: ‘but of course, a woman is equipped to paint childhood. There is a special feeling men would be unable to render unless they are particularly sensitive and nervous.’8 Marie-Clémentine’s brushstrokes and charcoal lines were already bolder, more defiant – far less feminine.

  If a girl from a poor family like Marie-Clémentine truly wanted to make a living in the art world, there was only one way she could be sure of doing so. She needed to approach the business from the other side of the canvas: she would have to become a model.

  One of the friends Marie-Clémentine had made in Montmartre was an Italian
girl named Clelia.9 Clelia knew all about the rigid, gendered framework of the art world and the business of modelling. She was one of the countless Italian immigrants (many of whom originated from the countryside around Naples), who had settled in Paris and found work as an artist’s model.10 It was a problematic career choice. Models were shrouded in a dark cloud of social stigma. Popular stereotype cast the artist’s model as little better than a prostitute, as happy to satisfy her employer’s sexual urges as she was his creative impulses. So ingrained in the Parisian psyche was the connection between posing and prostitution that artist’s models were frequently referred to as grisettes, the name also used to designate working-class girls who supplemented their income through prostitution.11 But when the most coveted asset in rural Italy was a piece of land and given that meagre wages were typically paid in kind, not coin, the Parisian model market was a deeply attractive option.12 In Paris, a female model could make ten and sometimes up to twenty francs per day, more than a peasant – or a charwoman like Madeleine – could ever dream of earning.13 Whole Italian families would be uprooted and migrate to Paris, where just one or two of their number could secure the future of all.

  When Marie-Clémentine found herself incapacitated, despondent and in desperate need of work, Clelia good-naturedly suggested that she too try modelling. It seemed a perfect solution. Marie-Clémentine was passionate about art, and her fall had not altered her physical appearance – or her appeal. Besides, models had to be resilient, flexible and have total command of their body, all skills Marie-Clémentine had perfected in the circus. The model must have the stamina to hold a pose for as long as a painter required, and above all, remain absolutely still – an ideal job description for a pretty girl who had to avoid excessive movement. At the very least, Marie-Clémentine could accompany Clelia to some of her assignments and see for herself.