Renoir's Dancer

by Catherine Hewitt

  In Portrait of the Utter Family (1921), Suzanne showed Utter’s closest relations sat tensely in a richly furnished, middle-class interior. Dark and solemn despite the evident material comfort, the lack of interaction between Suzanne’s in-laws was unsettling.42 The sense of discomfort and absence of visible family cohesion hinted at underlying tensions. Instead of the affirmation of unity expected in a family portrait, Suzanne’s picture harked back to Degas’s unsettling portrait of The Bellelli Family (1858–1867) and reflected a similarly remorseless treatment of family members.

  Suzanne’s genre painting The Abandoned Doll (1921) was still more challenging. Seated on a bed next to a mother or carer, a naked, pubescent girl with ripe breasts was shown regarding herself in a hand mirror. Suzanne depicted her subject having abandoned her doll, and by association, her childhood, a link the artist nudged her viewer to make by placing an identical bow in the hair of the toy and its owner. The older figure was shown attempting to towel dry the younger, but the latter turned away, rejecting the care which would fix her as a child. People who knew Suzanne insisted that the models were Marie Coca and her daughter Gilberte. But as the non-specificity of the title stressed, the identities of the sitters were irrelevant; only the message was of import. Just as the child discarded the doll, so the older woman had to release the child. The painting explored questions relating to age and transition, self-awareness and innocence. It was a poignant composition as Suzanne contemplated the autumn of her life. Painting enabled her to sift through the strands of multiple complex issues; seldom did it provide a neat resolution.

  By the early 1920s, Suzanne was regularly attracting notice from the critics. Her 1921 Salon d’Automne entry earned her a front-page mention in Le Gaulois.43 Then at the time her work was shown at the John Levy Gallery in Paris that December, plaudits began to flood in, many from committed allies.

  ‘She excels […] in the handling of charcoal and red conté,’ Adolphe Tabarant wrote, ‘this explains the lively admiration Degas held for her drawings of nudes, which, ironically he contrasted with those of Mary Cassatt.’44 ‘Suzanne Valadon’s nudes,’ André Warnod declared, ‘painted in such a clear and radiant palette, enchant the viewer by virtue of the truth that emanates from them; powerful nudes, nudes in action, nudes stretched out on a divan.’45 Robert Rey was even more laudatory: ‘I cannot insist emphatically enough that in Suzanne Valadon, we have a great artist on a level at least equal to Berthe Morisot and whose talent we have not yet given due credit.’46

  Though Morisot’s class and style differed markedly from hers, and though Suzanne railed against the notion of the femme artiste, a comparison with such a renowned painter could only be reaffirming.

  Professional recognition was indeed mounting. In February 1922, Le Bulletin de la Vie Artistique consulted Suzanne when seeking the opinions of seasoned exhibitors at the Salon des Indépendants on the renewed emphasis on easel painting at the expense of larger decorative works. ‘Decorative painting never having lacked architecture, and our era being entirely without it, it is natural that this style of painting be abandoned,’ Suzanne reasoned.47

  As the critical responses to her work proliferated, so did her creative output. Portraits abounded in her oeuvre. In 1922, Suzanne painted her housekeeper, Lily Walton, seated in a chair in the Utters’ comfortable interior, her legs crossed and Suzanne’s cat perched on her lap. Miss Walton appeared dignified and demure, while comfortable in her own skin. The viewer was not presented with a deferential servant, but an individualised figure worthy of a portrait, one defined by her identity not her role; now, even Suzanne’s employees had shifted social register. Another picture produced that year showed Mme Zamaron, the wife of the local police secrétaire général, whom Suzanne had encountered through Maurice’s suite of escapades. Léon Zamaron was also an art enthusiast who purchased paintings and had used his influence to extricate Maurice from more than one scrape.48 He and Suzanne had become great friends. She painted a portrait of M. Mori too, a respected curator. Then there were numerous landscapes, including a romantic and timeless study of the gardens at the Rue Cortot.

  Suzanne’s production was reaching its peak when her friend and admirer Robert Rey, the acquisitions adviser and conservationist at the Musée du Fontainebleau, started work on the first monograph of her painting. It was an important landmark. Then besides the Salon des Indépendants, Suzanne had two exhibitions at Berthe Weill’s gallery that year, and acknowledgement from her pays in the form of an exhibition at the Galerie Dalpayrat in Limoges.

  By the end of the summer, there was much to cheer the Unholy Trinity. Maurice’s work was selling well, and for magnificently high prices. Utter, with his business acumen and charm, and ‘laughter bubbling up in his great clear eyes’, was proving himself a shrewd manager.49 And Suzanne was in her element, professionally and socially, with an ongoing stream of exhibitions and even more lively parties hosted at her home, which, to her delight, was now regularly filled with people.

  But the exhilarating highs the trio enjoyed were matched by devastating lows. Maurice was virtually a prisoner under his own roof, since the cost of his freedom had repeatedly proved too terrifying to sanction. In fact, his continued release was only permitted on the understanding that he would be closely guarded, a condition to which Utter had been made to formally agree by signing a contract.50 Moreover, living and working so closely told on Suzanne’s and Utter’s relationship.

  Utter was constantly inspired by Suzanne’s talent and passion, just as he was astounded by Maurice’s unassuming production of masterpieces. But as the youngest of the three, he found the extremes visited by his companions tested him to the limits. Suzanne was a woman of dramatic contrasts; her tempers could be fierce and she was invariably the last person left dancing at a party, despite her age. Those bright blue eyes were always lively and quizzical, while from her petite frame she exuded a strangely masculine confidence and strength. At social functions, her extraordinary stories and excited, high-pitched laughter kept her audience gripped. Electricity seemed to crackle through her, and friends noticed that it was only growing more pronounced with age. Such energy and eccentricity made her an irresistible guest or host. But for Utter, living permanently on the edge was stressful. Besides, now that money was starting to flow into the household, Suzanne’s generosity was being given free rein, and she showered her friends with gifts, sometimes offering paintings by either herself or Maurice.51 Such gestures flew in the face of Utter’s project. Those were assets too valuable to simply squander. Meanwhile, Maurice had taken his stepfather on a hair-raising tour of Paris’s most sinister institutions. Cells, sanatoriums, psychiatric units – places Utter never thought he would experience; now, he knew them all intimately.

  He found that the occasional drink made the task of corralling such volatile characters more manageable. Still, he had less mastery over his reactions when softened by alcohol. Suzanne discovered that when pushed, her husband could more than match her tempers. When the fire of rage was ignited, Utter would shout, swear and seize whatever object was nearest, indiscriminately, on which to vent his anger. Often it was a piece of furniture which met its sorry end, sometimes a canvas – representing the source of his woes as well as his wins. Exquisite paintings were thus mercilessly slashed or torn.52

  But when apologies were made and the air cleared, the ripples from such terrible outbursts soon dissipated. With Suzanne’s infectious passion and impetuous nature, Utter came to see each of their arguments as the precursor to a heartfelt making-up.

  A change of scene could often smooth family frictions too, and at the end of the summer 1922, the trio travelled to the little village of Genêts in Brittany, in the picturesque Baie du Mont-Saint-Michel, not far from Avranches.53 It was a welcome break which allowed all three to concentrate on landscape studies. But once they had returned from their holiday and the Salon d’Automne was successfully complete, the sense of anticlimax began to grate. Suzanne decided that something must be
done. What was called for was a party.

  Arrangements were made, invitations issued, and then on the appointed night, the apartment at 12, Rue Cortot filled with festive merrymakers intent on partaking in the most frolicsome Christmas party imaginable. The buffet Suzanne and Utter laid on was magnificent, Berthe Weill recalled, the frenzied dancing and singing went on into the small hours.54 And miraculously, nobody drank too excessively. Even Maurice kept his alcohol intake in check.

  But the high-spirited revelry with which 1922 culminated merely provided a temporary respite; the New Year began eventfully. Not long after the opening of the Salon des Indépendants, Maurice was diagnosed with a double hernia and speedily admitted for surgery.55 A joint exhibition of Maurice’s and Suzanne’s work at the Galerie Bernheim-Jeune in June gave the family a focus while he convalesced. Again, Maurice Utrillo far outshone Suzanne Valadon, who was now more than ever defined in terms of her relationship to the great painter of Montmartre. As the summer approached, the need for a break was again making itself felt. And it was then that a marvellous project began to take shape.

  Two of Suzanne’s and Utter’s great friends were Georges and Nora Kars. Georges was a Czech painter, fine-boned and pallid, who had arrived in Paris not long before the war. By contrast, his wife was a dark-haired, round-faced woman with a double chin and a severe appearance. Notwithstanding, Suzanne had warmed to her, having painted her portrait the previous year; as she had got to know her subject better, the closer the two women had become.56 The Karses were regular guests at the Pauwelses’ little gatherings, and in conversation it emerged that they owned a property in Ségalas near Orthez, in what was then the Basses-Pyrénées.57 When they invited the Utter family to stay with them in the summer of 1923, Suzanne was delighted. After recent upheavals, the prospect of a holiday was thrilling.

  The two families, along with Suzanne’s current maid-cum-cook and occasional model, Paulette, set out on what they anticipated would be a glorious adventure. Georges had hired a car; he had not driven before, but how hard could it be, everyone reasoned? The drive was terrifying; the party were bombarded by a hailstorm (nobody knew how to close the stylish open-top roof), brought to a screeching halt by a stray cow, and confronted with a serious mechanical setback when the car lost a wheel.58

  When at last they arrived at the country retreat, the group were in greater need than ever of a relaxing break. With its cream paintwork and terracotta roof, the Karses’ holiday house was grand and well maintained with a neat garden.59 And as the guests settled in and began to discover their surroundings, Suzanne realised that there was much to admire on the mountainous French–Spanish border. The vivid colours of the landscape were just to her taste, and she began to paint.

  As the days passed, close proximity encouraged more intimate acquaintances, while time to think gave rise to new ideas. It occurred to Suzanne that the union she had ultimately been unable to secure between Maurice and Gabby might be formed more successfully between her son and Paulette. Paulette was a sturdy and straightforward girl, who had formerly sold fish in the market at Les Batignolles. She was a simple soul who could cook a decent meal and keep a good home. It was just what Maurice needed. When presented with this idea, Paulette began to consider it. Suzanne was hopeful. Would she be able to wear a pretty dress in cerise-coloured satin, the girl enquired after a while? Suzanne promised she would. Then she would do it, she announced.60

  Suzanne was ecstatic. Arrangements were made for an engagement party, the requisite cerise satin gown duly shopped for and the mairie notified. But before the vows could be made, Suzanne awoke one morning to find that Paulette had left, without so much as a goodbye or an explanation. It was a chastening disappointment to all but Maurice, who seemed unfazed.

  But Suzanne had not given up on her son yet. And the stay in the Karses’ holiday home had sown the seeds of an idea. What if they too had a country property to which they could retreat whenever life in Paris became too intense? Somewhere more rural, like the house they had owned in Montmagny, but deeper into the countryside, further from the capital. It would surely be beneficial to Maurice and a little novelty could only add spice to her relationship with Utter. And that was to say nothing of the artistic inspiration they might all glean. Suzanne knew how well they had liked the Beaujolais countryside around the area where Utter and then Maurice had convalesced. With preparations for the Salon d’Automne complete, Suzanne conducted her family on a reconnaissance trip to the Saône Valley in the Ain department.

  As they scoured the area, the trio came across the little commune of Saint-Bernard. The area was familiar to Suzanne, for she had painted there on a previous trip. In one of her studies, she had been enchanted by a small and picturesque 18th-century château on the edge of the village.61 It had its very own moat and drawbridge, and a stream could be heard bubbling close by. It was a timeless romantic wilderness – and by chance, to Suzanne’s delight and disbelief, the family discovered that since their last visit, the château’s owner M. Goujat had resolved to sell the property. It was a marvellous stroke of good fortune.62

  Upon Suzanne and Utter making enquiries, a visit was arranged. And as soon as she stepped through the gates of the imposing structure, Suzanne fell deeply, hopelessly in love.

  The whole property looked like a miniature fort. It comprised a main building and two towers, one round and one square, which overlooked a terrace garden with a rounded support wall. A staircase had been cut into one of the thick, 2.5m-high walls, and it gave access to a rampart walk which ran along beneath the roof. Inside, the suggestion of idyllic rural living continued. In the main reception room, Suzanne beheld an enormous fireplace – ideal for roaring log fires when the cold wind licked at the thick stone walls. The grand staircase led the party up to the first floor, where they found the room situated in the square tower to be especially narrow. Notwithstanding, it afforded a tremendous view out over the garden and the nearby church. With secure bars on the windows, it would be the perfect space for Maurice, who needed a safe environment in which to live and paint, and who seemed to thrive working in confined spaces. Nobody could deny that the dilapidated structure, with its flaking paint and crumbling stonework, demanded serious renovation. There was no electricity and no running water, merely a well from which heavy pails would have to be heaved up and transported back to the house. Winters would be glacial and living focused on survival. But instead of flaws, Suzanne saw only potential – both for the building and the life she now believed to be within reach. Saint-Bernard was a fairytale castle. Suzanne determined that it must be hers.63

  That November, Suzanne’s The Blue Room (1923) turned heads at the Salon d’Automne. In it, she depicted a rotund, brunette model reclining seductively in a richly patterned, blue interior. Hovering between a genre painting and a portrait, the subject’s stance subverted traditional conceptions of femininity. The model lay back in an ungainly fashion, a cigarette dangling from her lips, at once sexually available, yet self-assured and confident in her own feminine prowess. Strength, Suzanne suggested, was compatible with and even complementary to the idea of ‘woman’. The canvas was a triumphant homage to feminine fortitude, and Suzanne was commended for her ‘fresh’ and ‘lively’ style, while Comoedia picked her out as one of the exhibitors who proved that talent abounded at that year’s Salon d’Automne.64

  And just two weeks after those laudatory reviews, Suzanne acquired her own trophy of prowess: on 14 November 1923, André Utter signed for the château at Saint-Bernard. It was bought with proceeds of painting sales, including a picture by Maurice of the village of Maixe, sold to the Pauwelses.65

  In the year before she turned 60, Suzanne Valadon’s life bore little resemblance to that of the infant Marie-Clémentine, born in a rural backwater far away from the clamour and culture of the capital. From commoner to châtelaine, Suzanne now witnessed more and more money flowing into the house, much due to Maurice’s talent and Utter’s salesmanship, but a good proportion a consequence
of her own increasing success. With the future bright, money in her pocket, and with a backdrop to suit, Suzanne stopped keeping track of her expenses. At last, she started to live.

  That year she bought a gleaming Panhard car and hired a chauffeur to drive it, whom she dressed in white flannel livery.66 If by chance she was inconvenienced by the car being serviced or repaired when seized by the whim to escape to Saint-Bernard, she simply took a taxi the 440 odd kilometres from Paris. More than once, she told the taxi driver to wait while she saw to this or that task, and then forgot all about him – and the mounting cab fare. Similarly, Suzanne had always regarded fashion with a disdainful eye, but now she purchased expensive hats and fur coats in all colours and shades from Paris’s top designers, most of which she would never wear. In fact, when her mongrel dogs L’Arbi and La Misse showed a liking for an astrakhan coat she had just bought, it immediately became their bed.67 Those dogs, housewives in Montmartre hissed, now dined on juicy sirloin steak which Suzanne had specially prepared by her favourite local restaurateurs. Meanwhile, her cats’ palates had become accustomed to the sophisticated taste of caviar. The stories of Suzanne’s largesse abounded: she had picked up 50 children from the local area and treated them to an evening at the circus; she had seen a young artist working in the street on a cheap canvas and replaced it with one made of linen; she noticed a cigarette burn on a friend’s sofa and promptly ordered them another one. She remembered important personal dates too, so her generosity seldom lacked an outlet; she was sure to give the postman a card on his wedding anniversary, or a local laundress a bunch of flowers on her birthday. Taxi and train drivers were given eye-watering tips, while tramps found themselves able to dine like kings for a week when just the day before they had thought they might starve. Often, Suzanne left the tips anonymously and when questioned, denied any involvement. Her altruism and extravagance were such that it was hard to know which of the many stories to believe.