Renoir's Dancer

by Catherine Hewitt

  But for all her jealous outbursts, Suzanne still exerted a powerful hold over her husband who, like an addict, was unable to resist the stimulus she provided. Refusing to exhibit was one way Suzanne could claw back control. Utter had been trying to persuade her to show work in Lyon, and he was both delighted and grateful when in January 1928, he got his way and a selection of her pieces appeared at the Galerie des Archers.

  Most of the exhibitions which followed that year were group shows, including the Salon des Tuileries and even an exhibition in Holland. But the usual schedule was punctuated dramatically in the summer when Maurice hit a particularly difficult period and was drinking more heavily than usual. The situation was not helped by the fact that Mme Thiériot, the primary school teacher who had been employed as an extra pair of eyes to watch over him, was the subject of malicious teasing on the part of the existing governess, ‘Mère Thiret’. By May, Utter had had enough of the family drama, and he drew up a formal contract in which he gave Maurice eight days to leave Saint-Bernard for good.16

  As usual, Utter’s temper eventually subsided, and despite the ultimatum, Maurice was still at Saint-Bernard once the allotted time had elapsed. Before long, Annette Jacquinot had become his primary supervisor as well as a general help at the château. A local woman, she was dumbfounded by the way the Unholy Trinity lived and the fiery scenes that took place between Suzanne and her husband. She regularly found herself caught in the crossfire. Mme Jacquinot’s responsibilities soon became clear: when Suzanne and Utter were obliged to return to Paris, she was to guard Maurice closely. He was not to be left alone, he was to receive no post or parcels and there were to be no visitors. He could go to Mass on Sundays provided he was accompanied. On more than one occasion, he broke free of Mme Jacquinot’s custody, and she telephoned Suzanne in a panic. ‘Don’t worry,’ was Suzanne’s usual reaction. ‘He’ll come back.’ And mostly, he did. Mme Jacquinot took to hiding keys.17

  When Suzanne was away, Maurice wrote to her every day, and Utter had any paintings he created sent on to Paris. The letters were invariably full of affection and love, and he always sent his warm regards to his stepfather. Never once did he complain about being left at the château.18

  Towards the end of that tumultuous summer, there was an unexpected cause for celebration: the Utter family learned that Maurice was to be awarded the Croix de la Légion d’Honneur for his contribution to French art. It transpired that Francis Carco had proposed Maurice as a worthy recipient, and Lyon’s favourite political celebrity, Édouard Herriot, was thrilled to support the nomination and present the award. So it was that on 1 August 1928, Maurice, washed and looking dapper in a dark suit and tie, accompanied by Suzanne in an unusually smart, light summer skirt, blouse and hat, as well as Utter, looking typically dashing, stepped out into the sun at Saint-Bernard to witness the commendation.19 Maurice seated himself on a low wall and played absent-mindedly with yellow leaves that fluttered down or fumbled with his hat.20 He would rather the award had been a Palmes, he told Herriot, since he preferred purple to red. The recipient was gently reminded that the Légion d’Honneur was a far superior decoration.21 The medal was ceremoniously bestowed, words of praise spoken and thanks duly muttered, before a lunch was given for all attending. When a toast was proposed and glasses raised, Maurice offered his audience a word of reassurance: ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘mine is watered.’22 With that, he drained the contents in one gulp.

  The press could not resist the opportunity to make a jibe at the great artist’s other famous passion. ‘This extraordinary man’ usually preferred a draught to a decoration, quipped Robert Destez in L’Homme Libre.23 No doubt his reaction when told the happy news was ‘shall we toast?’ The journalist related Maurice’s eventful past – including the popular view that Adrien Boissy was his father – and detailed his history of stays in clinics and sanatoriums. But Maurice was given full credit for his exceptional skill, and ‘if he has paid dearly for his ribbon, Suzanne Valadon has as well,’ the author conceded.24 Those present at the ceremony remembered Suzanne shedding tears. The event was cause for mixed emotions.

  Family was much on Suzanne’s mind that year. Besides her usual studies of nudes and of her beloved Saint-Bernard, she painted two sisters. She sat a pair of girls side-by-side, both scowling, their bodies close but their legs crossed. One sister had her arms folded. Suzanne arranged the composition so that her viewer was prompted to examine the similarities and differences between the girls, and to attempt to deduce the nature of their sisterly relationship.

  By the late 1920s, Suzanne’s work could be found all over Paris. In January 1929, the Galerie Bernier mounted a retrospective of her work, which was well received. ‘One gets the impression that the excellent artist makes drawing the very soul of her art,’ raved one reviewer, before quoting Picasso’s response when he made a visit to the Salon d’Automne: ‘If I were to purchase something here, it would be the picture by Suzanne Valadon.’25 Suzanne then exhibited two paintings of flowers at the Musée du Luxembourg in March and followed up her retrospective at the Galerie Bernier in July by participating in a group show at the venue. That same year, a monograph written by Adolphe Basler appeared. In September, Suzanne’s work was praised for its durability by G. Charensol in an article he wrote for Les Chroniques du jour. The author cited Marie Laurencin as ‘the artist best qualified to produce feminine painting’, but added that ‘while it is uncertain whether Marie Laurencin’s painting will appear as seductive to viewers tomorrow, by contrast, one cannot doubt that the work of Suzanne Valadon will touch people in the future and even more so than it does those today.’26 But as ever, the compliment came with a predictable conclusion: ‘Because if we love Valadon, it is not only because she is a great painter, but also because she has given us this fantastic genius who, to pay daily homage to his mother, signs his canvases: Maurice Utrillo V.’

  With Utter having commandeered the apartment at the Rue Cortot, Suzanne’s most productive periods now took place at the château in Saint-Bernard. Her oeuvre abounded with the evidence of it, with numerous still lifes of produce and flowers from the grounds.

  On a personal level though, Suzanne was pained to find Utter growing more and more distant. The Montmartre grapevine positively buzzed with tales of his affairs. There was talk of a girl named Madeleine whom, Utter claimed, it was impossible for him to stop seeing; there was a model called Eveline who expected a constant flow of presents; and still another mistress, a well-bred young lady referred to simply as ‘Yvette’ for reasons of discretion, whom people said had at one point been employed by the family as a secretary.27 One titillating story even had the man now ironically branded ‘the Pope of Montmartre’ taking his lover back to Saint-Bernard, whereupon Suzanne, tipped off, raced to confront the pair. Finding them in each other’s arms, people giggled that she had locked them in the bedroom and passed insipid meals of cabbage up to them through a window, using a bucket and pulley system. It was all they were given to eat for a week.28

  At Saint-Bernard, Suzanne often found Utter preparing to go out somewhere, at pains over his appearance, and ordering Mme Jacquinot to shine his shoes or iron his shirt. Then the request would invariably come: could his dear Suzanne lend him the money for the Metro? Or to buy Warnod a drink?

  ‘How much money do you want to stop seeing this woman?’ Suzanne asked once.29

  Utter’s response was immediate: ‘30,000 francs and it is over, I promise you Suzanne!’

  She could only laugh.

  Family tensions were hardly eased when, in May 1929, Maurice wrote a long and earnest letter to Germaine Utter, to clarify that their feelings for each other were the fondness of a brother and sister, not the love shared by a husband and a wife. Any impression he might have given to the contrary was, he insisted, a consequence of his psychological imbalance. The realisation that a new Utter–Valadon union was wishful thinking drove a further wedge between Suzanne and her husband.30

  But love and time and nece
ssity had forged a bond between Suzanne and Utter that was not easily severed. Professionally, too, Utter played an indispensable role in the maintenance of the Unholy Trinity’s career. Maximilian Ilyin remembered a business lunch where, after polite small talk, Utter and a prominent New York art dealer desirous of Utrillos, turned their attention to money. The dealer named an elevated sum.

  ‘That’s what you propose for paintings which are steadily going up in price!’ Utter fumed. ‘After his death they’ll bring absolutely fantastic amounts! Surely you’re making fun! I have four mistresses, my dear sir, and for each one I need furs and diamonds. And Suzanne! She throws money out of the window; she gives taxi drivers five times what’s marked on the meter … And the Château Saint-Bernard where we keep Maurice! … Waiter! The bill!’

  Utter threw down some money and stormed out. The dealer was dumbfounded.

  ‘What impertinence!’ Ilyin offered sympathetically.

  ‘But such a magnificent impertinence,’ the dealer murmured in admiration.31

  Utter’s reputation was legendary, so the handsome, blue-eyed, olive skinned Cypriot Paul Pétridès was understandably anxious when the opportunity arose to take lunch with him that year. Pétridès was working as a tailor at M. Mazella’s on the Boulevard Poissonnière and he had admired some Vlamincks and Utrillos on the wall of his employer’s home. As an amateur collector, he wondered how he might acquire a Utrillo. By chance, sharing this desire with a fabric merchant named Roussel, Pétridès discovered that his business contact was friends with Utter; would Pétridès like to meet him for lunch? Pétridès could scarcely contain his enthusiasm.32

  Roussel warned his colleague that Utter did not take kindly to people angling for an introduction to his wife and stepson. But when Utter discovered Pétridès’s trade, such a request was unnecessary.

  ‘Make me a suit, old man,’ Utter instructed Pétridès, ‘and I’ll do your portrait.’

  In a particularly good humour that day, Utter also proposed that they go and meet his wife and stepson straightaway. Pétridès was jubilant.

  Suzanne received the tailor warmly. ‘I like you,’ she announced finally after they had been chatting for a while. ‘I will introduce you to my son.’

  Pétridès was led up to Maurice’s room – and he was horrified: the artist’s careless, grubby appearance was as squalid as his living space. Sensing Pétridès’s unease, Suzanne broke the awkward silence.

  ‘Make him a suit in exchange for something.’

  A large gouache was offered. Pétridès agreed.

  ‘Blue,’ Maurice uttered mechanically.

  The very next day, Pétridès arrived to take measurements. As he fashioned a suit more fitting of a great artist, Pétridès’s work was punctuated by sittings with Utter at the Rue Cortot. He began to know the family better. At first, Utter’s warm and amenable facade seemed at odds with the popular image of him as a cut-throat businessman. But as he grew more relaxed in the tailor’s company, he began to vent his bitterness, which to Pétridès at least, seemed directed sweepingly ‘at the world’.

  The portrait complete, Utter took it to Suzanne for her approval. The critique resulted in her making some alterations.

  ‘Look what I’ve done, Annette,’ Utter triumphed proudly to Mme Jacquinot, who offered her compliments.

  Once he had left, Suzanne exploded. Mme Jacquinot bitterly regretted her misplaced praise.33

  One day, as Suzanne sat watching Pétridès make the final adjustments to Maurice’s suit, she suddenly declared: ‘I would like to do your portrait.’34

  Pétridès having agreed, a date for the first sitting was set. She told him to arrive at 9am.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ she warned.

  As requested, Pétridès arrived on the appointed day at 9am. Suzanne asked him to sit down and then turned her attention to her palette, which she began cleaning assiduously. Pétridès waited for further instructions. The palette cleaned to her satisfaction, she started to pet her dogs and cats and to lay out food. Not until 11am did she begin painting. At midday, she set down her brushes; the session was over.

  ‘Well then, see you tomorrow at 9am sharp,’ she instructed.

  Pétridès was bewildered. The pattern continued for the next two sittings. By the fourth, he had resolved to make better use of his time and arrived at 11am. Suzanne opened the door furious, her hands on her hips and a scowl across her forehead.

  ‘That’s what you call punctuality is it?’ she spat. ‘You are too late for today.’

  ‘But I was giving you time to clean your palette and see to your cats and dogs,’ Pétridès protested.

  ‘What? But I have not had time to do anything, I was waiting for you.’

  Pétridès was stunned.

  ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she instructed angrily, ‘and make sure you are on time.’

  The portrait was eventually completed to everyone’s satisfaction.

  From Pétridès’s unconventional introduction to the family, he developed a fondness for all three members. Henceforward, he became an important figure in their lives and a reliable purchaser.

  The year after the Unholy Trinity met Paul Pétridès marked the start of a new decade. The Wall Street crash in 1929 had set businessmen’s hearts racing, but as the months passed, Frenchmen were relieved to observe the impact on their country to be minimal.35 Optimism prevailed and Suzanne’s curriculum vitae glittered. The year began with an exhibition of her drawings at the Galerie Bernheim-Jeune, and the same month, André Salmon wrote an article complimenting her style, while acknowledging the hazardous journey she had taken to get to the position she had reached.36 Suzanne participated in the exhibition L’Art Vivant at the Théâtre Pigalle that year, as well as a group show at the Galerie Bernheim-Jeune from March to April. And throughout the year, the whole family were buoyed by the ongoing possibility of a sale, whether to Bernheim-Jeune, or the Pauwelses, or Paul Pétridès.

  In 1930, Suzanne capitalised on the fruits of her surroundings. She painted Saint-Bernard and numerous still lifes of flowers, gathered at the property and arranged to spectacular effect. Ripe russet apples along with booty from Utter’s hunts, whether a hare, duck or pheasant, were brought back to the house and transformed into rustic-looking still lifes which exuded rural plenitude.

  However, to Suzanne’s incomprehension, the greater her professional achievements, the more strained relations in her marriage became. Fights still prompted Utter to pen heartfelt apologies, in which he addressed her affectionately by her pet name as his ‘You-You’ and begged her to continue painting.37 But with Utter now in his mid-40s and Suzanne in her mid-60s, neither possessed the energy they had once had to weather the marital storms.

  In 1931, Suzanne explored her self-awareness in a devastating portrait. She showed herself at 66, nude to the waist, her breasts drooping, but painted surprisingly high on her chest nonetheless. Effort had clearly been made to prepare her appearance for the piece, but her jowls were now more capacious, her lips drawn and pursed. Her eyes, though still a striking shade of blue, were sunken, while her whole expression appeared tired, timeworn and resigned. Viewed with her other self-portraits, this was the next instalment in what had become a near-scientific charting of the effects of time on the female body. The work reflected a kind of naturalistic objectivity. Indeed, despite the ageing process, her self-portraits were noteworthy for their continuity. All were the product of merciless self-scrutiny and each was characterised by its honesty. Together, they showed mounting confidence and pride.38

  In that year, Suzanne’s paintings received international attention. Between December 1930 and January 1931, her work was on show at the Demotte Gallery in New York. Then an exhibition at the Galerie Bernheim-Jeune in February was followed by the show L’École de Paris in Prague. In May, Suzanne had an exhibition at the Galerie Le Portique, for which her friend Herriot good-naturedly wrote the preface. ‘Valadon is wholeheartedly within each of her works,’ commended René Barotte in L’Homme
Libre when he saw the exhibition.39 ‘I do not know what will last of the visual art of our era,’ concluded Barotte, ‘but Valadon’s work, elaborated in solitude, will remain outside time, like something at once sensitive, pure and strong.’ Suzanne’s work could also be seen at the Galerie Le Centaure later that year in November. However, she rebuffed the notion of involving herself with organisations like the Société des Femmes Artistes Modernes, founded by Marie-Anne Camax-Zoegger that year. Exhibiting abroad was one thing; marketing herself in gendered terms, quite another.

  By the end of 1931, Suzanne’s international profile was rising. But the increased publicity had arrived at an unfortunate time; as it turned out, the impact of the depression in France was not quite as negligible as people had hoped. It was merely delayed – and in 1931, it hit.40

  All at once, France’s overseas trade declined, while the balance of payments deficit increased. French goods – especially luxury goods – were considered overpriced on the international market and exports fell. Within the country itself, production diminished and profits and prices plummeted. The possessing classes had less ready cash available to fritter away on dispensable luxuries like paintings. Fear froze the purse strings of the art-loving bourgeoisie. Suzanne had never been able to boast the sales Maurice enjoyed. Her paintings were an acquired taste. In the current market, such work stood even less chance of securing buyers.

  ‘The abrupt halt of all transactions which are not completely necessary to daily life has affected modern painting, like all luxury industries,’ reported G. Charensol in Formes in May 1931.41 More hopefully, Maurice’s Lapin Agile had lately reached 10,000 francs, when it was only valued at 5,000. Perhaps, Charensol reasoned optimistically, the financial storm would ‘purify the pictorial climate, bring about a reassessment of values and an elimination of those painters too weak to weather the storm’. Maurice was one of the lucky ones. But Suzanne could not be so certain that she would survive the tempest.