Renoir's Dancer

by Catherine Hewitt

  Maurice’s unquenchable thirst combined with Suzanne’s profligate spending had led to him producing vast quantities of canvases and passing them off quickly, sometimes with the paint still wet. Lucie knew that in a saturated market, scarcity generated desire – and where there was demand, there was money. She scaled down Maurice’s rate of production and was selective in her choice of sales. Dealers began to take notice. The price of Utrillos soared.9

  With Maurice now a passive pawn, Lucie took a hands-on role in all his important business moves. That August, she travelled alone to Paris to attend to their affairs, and, ever subservient, Maurice wrote to assure his queen that he was behaving:

  My dear Lucie,

  I am writing to you on Saint Bernard’s day to reassure you on my account, I am well, as is your mother. I took lunch with her yesterday, she is very content.

  On Sunday, I worked on my Cathedral of Angoulême and I have started another painting.

  I hope that you have seen my mother and that she is in good health. Send her my love, and to Utter as well. In any case, do not worry about me. I think that Monseigneur Palmer is on good form, last Sunday I was at Mass at the Saint-Ausone church and everything went well, so you can feel reassured and have no worries about me.

  I look forward to seeing you my dear wife Lucie, I send you lots of love.

  Your dear husband,

  Maurice Utrillo, V.10

  As it happened, Suzanne was not in as good fettle as Maurice hoped. For one thing, her beloved mongrel, La Misse, the loyal companion who had been by her side through countless dramas with Maurice and as many fights with Utter, was still unwell.11 Added to the loss of her son, Suzanne felt there could be no suffering more cruel than the kind she was experiencing now. Furthermore, if her paintings did not sell (and sales were sporadic), her income was entirely dependent on Lucie’s inclination. To feel beholden was dispiriting enough; that her benefactress should be ‘that woman’ was positively humiliating. Every exchange with her daughter-in-law precipitated a fresh surge of anger.

  ‘You know,’ Lucie mused when speaking to one of Maurice’s biographers, ‘Suzanne Valadon, all the time I knew her, right up until a few days before my marriage with Maurice, was one of my best friends. But then she became very jealous of me.’12 Lucie was incredulous. Why, when discussion had turned to the property in the Avenue Junot, she had even been so altruistic as to tell Suzanne: ‘And you may stay in my house until you die.’13 Her mother-in-law’s feral reaction surpassed ingratitude. Meanwhile, having retreated with his mistress to the Rue Cortot, André Utter received nothing.

  Save for the odd visitor or her neighbours the Poulbots, who called regularly to check on her, Suzanne now rattled around at 11, Avenue Junot quite alone. Withdrawing, she moved her painting equipment from the studio she had latterly occupied outside into the main house, where she set her workspace up in Maurice’s old ‘cell’.14 She scarcely painted though; in that first year without Maurice, she produced little besides a few etchings.

  Maurice was anxious about his mother. He wrote to her in October enquiring as to how she was and asking whether La Misse was a little better, since he too was desperately fond of the animal.15 He assured Suzanne that he was very happy, that the people in Angoulême were friendly and the weather decidedly clement. He asked after Utter, and at the end of his letter, earnestly implored her to come and stay and to share in his newfound joy. It was the express wish of his wife, he said.

  But Suzanne would not leave Montmartre. That was her home.

  In Suzanne’s mind, Montmartre was still the hive of camaraderie and community it had always been. Blossoming window boxes and open doors welcomed you in summer; neighbours huddled together contentedly behind battened hatches in winter. Montmartre was yet the essence of the life Suzanne had known as a little girl – an existence which was, in many respects, akin to the one she had experienced in the Limousin. Besides, she was not alone for long.

  Her uncertain relationship with Utter persisted. Half-married, not officially separated, they squabbled as they always had whenever he called in. Suzanne was a difficult woman to leave and impossible to forget. Utter continued to badger Naly to keep watch over his ‘wife’, and now, Suzanne was glad of the company.

  For several months, Naly arrived each evening to sleep at the Avenue Junot. In practice, though, not much sleep was had. ‘This little woman, a bundle of nerves, did not sleep,’ Naly corrected. ‘She kept me up all night talking about painting with an insatiable passion. She would take down an album of Venetian art and proceed to analyse the technique of Titian or Tintoretto with extraordinary intensity and lucidity. She taught me everything I know.’16

  As a consequence of Suzanne’s pride and her disgust at the prospect of accepting handouts from Lucie, money was now scarcer than ever. Suzanne started taking on the odd art student for coaching if she felt they showed particular promise. Her pupils satisfied her need for youthful companionship, though how much money changed hands remained an opaque matter.

  ‘I need some cash,’ Suzanne announced one day to Naly. ‘Let’s go and see Mettey [sic].’17

  Jean Metthey was the dealer through whom both Maurice and Suzanne had sold work recently, and Suzanne had fallen into the pattern of heading straight to see him whenever she was short of money. She ushered Naly into a taxi, with just the fare to get to Metthey’s in her pocket. When they arrived at the dealer’s, Naly urged her to settle the cab fare immediately.

  ‘No, we will keep it running,’ Suzanne told him. ‘We won’t be long.’

  The discussion with Metthey lasted two hours. Finally, the dealer grudgingly handed over 200 francs, and Suzanne and Naly got back into the taxi.

  ‘Now I need some face powder,’ Suzanne declared. The taxi driver was told to stop in front of several boutiques, where Suzanne repeatedly rejected the samples Naly was asked to go and fetch. None was sufficiently high quality – or costly enough. At last, she settled on a pot and they returned home. Once the taxi had been paid, only 60 francs of Metthey’s payment remained. When they got to the door, Naly had a shock: there in the entranceway was a gift of a small box of face powder. It had been left by one of Suzanne’s students. Smiling, Suzanne took the powder and squirrelled it away in a drawer with the one they had just purchased. Naly could scarcely believe his eyes: in the drawer were at least ten other packages of face powder. Suzanne never powdered her face.

  Once Suzanne was known to be alone, Gazi also made himself a more regular presence, so much so that many maintained he had moved in with Suzanne that year.18

  All the same, Maurice continued to fret about his mother. The death of La Misse before the end of the year, the pet he knew Suzanne loved so much, only sharpened his anxiety.19 Lucie shuttling between Angoulême and the capital brought a degree of reassurance and the sense that he was somehow closer to his mother. And his wife was doing a magnificent job as his personal ambassadress. The Christmas holidays barely over, early in January 1936, Lucie was again in Paris promoting. She negotiated an exhibition at the Galerie Frappat in Grenoble that New Year. Time in Paris also gave her the opportunity to meet with Paul Pétridès, who was now working as an art dealer.

  ‘If you have the chance, do come and see us in Angoulême,’ she purred when she left her rendezvous with the dealer. ‘It would bring my husband so much pleasure, he has such fond memories of you.’20

  Maurice was sure to keep in touch with his wife while she was away (though he reminded her that, like his mother, he hated writing letters). He complained that the weather in Angoulême had turned unpleasant, but was nonetheless at pains to impress his gratitude: ‘I thank you wholeheartedly for the good work and effort you are putting in to manage my painting,’ he wrote sincerely, before urging his wife to pass on his warmest regards to everyone he held dear in Paris and assuring her that he had kissed her darling Pekinese dogs, Baba and Lolo, on her behalf.21

  But Lucie was not the only one nurturing an artistic career that New Year. With h
er strength a little restored since her hospital stay, Suzanne began painting again in earnest. She produced several still lifes, including many flower studies (one with the triumphant battle cry ‘Vive la Jeunesse’ inscribed on the vase), and a portrait or two. One of these was a portrait of Geneviève Camax-Zoegger, the daughter of her indomitable friend and founder of the Société des Femmes Artistes Modernes, Marie-Anne Camax-Zoegger. Geneviève was a bright girl who was currently enrolled as a student at both the prestigious École du Louvre and the École des Beaux-Arts, testimony to her excellence in both the theory and the practice of art. Suzanne thought her distinguished and erudite sitter charming, and she called her Angelique on account of her golden hair and heavenly appearance. Geneviève recalled that she only posed for three, three-hour sessions at the Avenue Junot, and during that time, she noticed that the vigour and stamina for which Suzanne was famed seemed to be faltering. Geneviève suspected the end result to be unfinished. But the piece Suzanne produced in those sittings was as remarkable as ever, and featured her characteristic bold outlines. Suzanne showed a head-and-shoulders view of the young girl seated in a rose-coloured chair which brought out the healthy glow of her cheeks. Her dark clothing merely emphasised the light, ethereal tone of her décolletage, peachy skin and golden hair, while her sweet, rosebud lips betrayed the flicker of a smile as her dark eyes invited the viewer’s gaze to meet hers.22

  While she paid homage to the daughter, Suzanne also brought pleasure to the mother. She submitted Adam and Eve (1909) to the Salon de la Société des Femmes Artistes Modernes that year. The exhibition highlighted the extent to which the artistic climate in Paris had changed since Suzanne first started showing her work publicly. ‘Increasingly, women’s art must be produced and judged according to the same criteria as are applied to men,’ wrote the reviewer in L’Art et les artistes. Suzanne was one of the artists picked out for special praise. ‘A painter of real distinction,’ the reviewer mused, ‘it is hard to know whether one prefers the energetic drawing or the deep harmonies she creates.’23

  Suzanne’s work appeared in several other shows that year. But despite his mother’s renewed spasm of industry, Maurice was conscious that age and financial anguish threatened her well-being. The possibility of making their new home with Suzanne was something he and Lucie were seriously considering.24

  ‘I hope you have been to see my mother,’ was one of his first utterances when Paul Pétridès accepted Lucie’s invitation to visit them early in the year.25 The dealer had travelled to Angoulême sooner than expected in order to confirm the suspicion that one of the supposed Utrillos he had recently handled was a fake – an increasingly common problem.

  Pétridès assured Maurice that he had visited Suzanne, and had even purchased several paintings from her. Maurice sat back in his chair and smiled, visibly relieved.

  In fact, Suzanne was now gathering around her a swarm of loyal, mostly younger friends. Her students Germaine Eisenmann, Odette Dumaret and the devoted Pierre Noyelle rekindled her vitality and gave her purpose now that the responsibility of Maurice had been lifted. The young Robert Le Masle was a great source of companionship too, and paid her frequent visits. Suzanne, Lucie remembered, ‘coddled this pretty boy’, since she ‘always held masculine beauty in higher regard than its feminine counterpart’.26 In her letters, Suzanne scolded him with exaggerated displeasure if he failed to pay her a visit she had expected, and Le Masle teased her playfully and appealed to her pride with gushing hyperbole. On at least one occasion, Suzanne also wrote to Le Masle’s mother to express her appreciation of her son’s time and care.27

  Male friends like Noyelle and Le Masle were youthful, vital and bursting with artistic stimulation. Like Gazi, they saw Suzanne as a mother figure. André Utter was irked. He made his dislike of Suzanne’s new social circle abundantly clear.

  Utter had at least come to accept that he was no longer the primary puppeteer in the Maurice Utrillo show. But little by little, it occurred to him that if he could overcome his anger, the marionette might still dance to his tune. All he had to do was charm its new operator.

  ‘Dear daughter-in-law and friend,’ Utter wrote to Lucie Utrillo on 8 October 1936.

  Yesterday, I received the 400 francs from Methey [sic] that you wrote asking him to give me […] thank you, you have done me a great favour.

  The Indépendants de Bordeaux sent me an urgent telegram asking if I could get hold of one of Suzanne’s canvases. I did what was required and then at the last moment, when the packagers came to collect the delivery, she refused the canvas she had promised. So she will not be exhibiting in Bordeaux. My own canvas has gone off […]

  Suzanne grows more and more incomprehensible and is going through a proud and immeasurably pretentious phase. Modesty became her so well, but I believe that this modesty was merely superficial and that only pathological shyness disguised an obstinate pride. It’s too bad.

  Utter could not resist agitating the family cauldron by confiding in Lucie that he had heard Suzanne making snide comments about a letter she had sent. ‘I see from your last letter that you are again considering your project of living with Suzanne and Maurice in the Avenue Junot,’ Utter continued, before making his feelings clear:

  If you will permit me to say, I think that you are incorrigible and your optimism leads you to take on projects which will be impossible to bring to fruition. In this combination, there will certainly be a victim: You! Maybe Suzanne … or Maurice … perhaps all three. But victim there will be, whether morally, artistically or financially.

  Cohabitation, Suzanne–Maurice with you in the middle, is practically impossible. Besides, Maurice cannot be in Montmartre for any stay extending beyond two days. Believe me and don’t attempt it. What Maurice needs to the end of his days is isolation. Have you not yet understood? If you have witnessed satisfaction and a semblance of calm in Maurice’s life recently, it is due to the isolation in which you keep him and an organised life with routine. With Suzanne it will be anarchy. She lives by night, and is used to receiving 20 people a day and given her age and character, you won’t be able to stop her.28

  Utter’s counselling issued, he turned his attention to pecuniary concerns: could Lucie send him two gouaches and two paintings as soon as possible? He could get a good price for them.

  On one matter at least, Lucie’s plans correlated with Utter’s desires: M. and Mme Maurice Utrillo would not be returning to the Avenue Junot to live.

  Le Vésinet was a well-to-do, leafy suburb twenty minutes west of Paris that boasted tree-lined avenues, tranquil lakes and neat bourgeois homes with occupants to match. Learning of the Utrillos’ property hunt and search criteria, Lucie’s contact, the novelist Jean Boulant, whom she and Maurice had met on their travels that summer, enthusiastically recommended the area. The clean air and quiet, and the respectable properties with their discreet residents who kept themselves to themselves, was just the environment Lucie had had in mind. That autumn, she leased a rental property on the Route de la Plaine so that they could verify that Le Vésinet would satisfy her requirements for a permanent move.29

  In Montmartre, gossip was rife. Such an elegant corner of the globe was hardly the place for a savage alcoholic painter like Utrillo, people sneered. But Lucie was defiant: her Maurice, now washed and clean-shaven, dressed in smart suits and hats, took his meals in a civilised manner in a dining room whose walls were lined with beautiful paintings. He smoked a cigarette after supper, petted his pedigree dogs and attended Mass on a Sunday. Besides, Maurice Utrillo was a great artist: what home could be more befitting than the commune which had once been the residence of the poet and dandy Count Robert de Montesquiou, who attracted celebrated personalities and intellectuals like writers Marcel Proust and Anna de Noailles?30

  By the end of the year, the Utrillos had settled in and they extended an invitation to Paul Pétridès and his wife Odette to join them for the Christmas festivities.

  ‘Since you are selling my husband’s work so well
and you like what he produces,’ Lucie had pushed Pétridès, ‘why not offer him a contract?’31

  On 1 January 1937, a contract was duly signed. Pétridès had a sales strategy in mind which he immediately set in motion. The Cypriot did the rounds of Paris dealers, explaining that he was in desperate search of Utrillos, because he had a contract with the artist but that he was producing less and less. Word spread. Maurice’s paintings became even more sought-after and his prices rocketed.32

  Meanwhile, Lucie had decided that she liked Le Vésinet very much indeed and that M. and Mme Utrillo should begin to look for a permanent home. She found a property which had formerly been owned by the sculptor Antoine Bourdelle. The house needed work, but the location was superb. And what was good enough for Antoine Bourdelle, Lucie reasoned, was good enough for Maurice Utrillo. With a loan from Pétridès, Lucie purchased the property, and set to work redesigning the house and gardens, employing the necessary tradespeople to carry out substantial renovations and landscaping.33 The finished result was grand, imposing and immaculate. The house was a masterpiece of geometric symmetry. Windows brought light flooding into rooms which were finished with parquet flooring and rich rugs, while Maurice had a studio built specially, and was given his own private chapel; from now on, he could worship without exposing himself to the temptations which lay beyond the property’s boundaries. Lucie staffed the home with plenty of servants, including a Polish valet named Valentin and a personal secretary, Mlle Marguerite Manbre. Meanwhile, the garden was clipped into a tidy display of carefully pruned bushes, gravel pathways and neat lawns, complete with Grecian statues and ornamental frogs. There was an aviary for birds and even a run for the Pekinese dogs with which Lucie loved to compete in shows.34