When the house was complete to Lucie’s satisfaction, all that was lacking was a name. The solution was felt to be an inspired choice: from now on, all Maurice’s correspondence would be addressed to ‘La Bonne Lucie’.
Maurice Utrillo, people joked, had become positively bourgeois. Suzanne refused to visit.
Lucie suspected that Suzanne had thought her daughter-in-law would be unable to handle Maurice; but a blend of Charentais and Vendean blood coursed through her veins.35 And when, as the couple were preparing to move, Lucie lost her own mother, one of the effects was that now, all her focus could be directed on Maurice.
Suzanne’s behaviour betrayed increasing resentment of Lucie’s authority and the couple’s affluence. She continued to refuse their monetary gifts, yet her financial situation was now bleak.
On several occasions, Naly was shocked when he arrived at the Avenue Junot to discover a fundamental appliance like the boiler had broken and Suzanne was sitting in the kitchen shivering.36 At one point, the gas company threatened to cut off her supply when her bill was left unpaid. Suzanne was incensed: they would not dare do such a thing to a loyal customer like herself.37
Still Suzanne would not go to Le Vésinet. The painter and Mme Utrillo – as Lucie signed their Christmas cards – would have to come to her.
Nonetheless, Suzanne’s bond with Maurice was titanic. And there were still enough civilised exchanges with the Utrillos as a couple to maintain face-to-face contact. In 1937, Suzanne sought to understand the unfathomable creature her son had married in the way she had always done when faced with a disconcerting individual. At last, mother and daughter-in-law sat down together, Lucie eager to be glorified by Suzanne Valadon’s famous hand, Suzanne ready to scrutinise with her merciless brush.
‘To see Suzanne Valadon paint was enchanting,’ Lucie recalled, ‘like hearing some kind of soothing prayer that lifted you, because at that moment, calm washed over you and she herself was transformed; her face became angelic, her art had taken hold of her and turned her into another creature.’38
Lucie was endlessly reverent: ‘What masterly art! What powerful drawing! What vigorous marks!’ Lucie glowed with satisfaction whenever she told people that Suzanne Valadon was her mother-in-law, whom she delighted in calling ma Grande.39
But Suzanne left Lucie in no doubt as to her aesthetic ethos: ‘None of those sweet, syrupy embellishments which women adore. The uglier they are,’ Suzanne informed Lucie pointedly, ‘the more I enjoy painting them.’40
Suzanne showed Lucie against a deep pink background, wearing a fur coat over a brown bodice with a bold white collar. Lucie sported one of her famous hats as she stared fixedly at her viewer – and, simultaneously, at the artist. The expression on her face spoke a thousand words. Her plump neck led down to an exposed décolletage, while her jowls appeared flabby, her jaw set and determined. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, her mouth unsmiling and her eyes hard and obstinate. The painted figure was bold, dramatic and uncompromising; it was a vision Suzanne knew only too well.
‘For the excellent, for the best, I urge my reader to go straight to the back of the last room, where a canvas by Suzanne Valadon awaits,’ advised G. Brunon Guardia when he reviewed the exhibition Salon de portraits contemporains where the portrait of Lucie was shown later that year. ‘In this little canvas, I can see a “great portrait” in the traditional sense, insofar as it is the image not only of a face, but of a soul.’41
Suzanne’s interpretation of Lucie’s soul did nothing to mitigate the friction between the women. Suzanne still would not visit Le Vésinet, and in any case, she tired too easily to undertake much travel these days. From time to time, Lucie brought Maurice into Montmartre, where they would take lunch with Suzanne (usually at the Moulin Joyeux), often in the company of Paul Pétridès and his wife.42
Pétridès remembered Suzanne’s disbelief when she witnessed the transformation her son had undergone. Under Lucie’s sovereignty, he was pampered, cosseted, contained and, with some help from Pétridès, turned out in the finest suits Paris had to offer. Lucie smothered her husband with care and anticipated his every need.
But more than Maurice’s incongruous embourgeoisement, it was his submission to this formidable female that most bewildered Suzanne. Perhaps, Pétridès surmised, she had simply grown too tired to fight the ongoing battle that shadowed Maurice. No doubt that was what had prompted her to give her son up. But, the transfer of power complete, it was unsettling to see the new authority excelling in Suzanne’s former role. At worst, it seemed Suzanne was now redundant.43
Under the circumstances, professional recognition was more reaffirming than ever. It rekindled her vitality and her playful spirit. That spring, Suzanne showed work in the exhibition Femmes artistes d’Europe at the Musée du Jeu de Paume. Reviewing the show, La Revue de l’Art branded her a ‘valiant survivor’, while Le Figaro picked her out for special praise.44 Suzanne had always held great pride in her art, maintaining that she did not seek celebrity, merely recognition for her work. Now, she was being exhibited alongside artists like Berthe Morisot and Mary Cassatt. When Suzanne visited the exhibition and studied the other women’s pieces, friends remembered her reaction: ‘You know, chérie, I often boasted about my art because I thought that was what people expected – for an artist to boast. After what we have seen this afternoon I am very humble. The women of France can paint too, hein? … But do you know, chérie,’ – Suzanne’s eyes sparkled – ‘I think perhaps God has made me France’s greatest woman painter.’45
In May, the Galerie Lucy Krohg mounted a show of Suzanne’s and her students’ work. Suzanne was praised for the consistency of style in her paintings, which G. Brunon Guardia wrote ‘show this frankness, with an almost virile temperament that is found in identical form in her very first canvases’. Meanwhile, her students Germaine Eisenmann, Odette Dumaret and Pierre Noyelle, though influenced by their teacher, were felt to have retained their individuality.46
And there were still more professional accolades that year. Suzanne’s international profile was growing, with paintings being shown in Chicago, Prague and Berlin. Then the crowning glory in 1937 came in the form of a very special sale. This time, the buyer interested in her work was not a dealer or a plucky avant-garde connoisseur – it was the state.
Adam and Eve (1909), The Casting of the Nets (1914), Maurice Utrillo, his Grandmother and his Dog (1910) and several drawings, including one of Suzanne’s earliest studies of her mother, were purchased and duly added to the state’s collection. Suzanne Valadon had received the recognition she had always craved. In her 71st year, it was a spectacular achievement.
Throughout all her professional successes, Maurice would always be a source of anxiety. That summer, he became the unwitting subject of more probing public scrutiny than usual when the catalogue entry for a recent exhibition at the Tate Gallery in London declared that he had died in 1934 due to alcoholism, and an absurd court case ensued.47 But on a day-to-day basis, Suzanne was no longer the first to be alerted if something were amiss.
Now that she had lost Maurice, young people and her painting kept her going. Gazi could often be found ensconced at the Avenue Junot, where he and Suzanne would talk for hours. Gazi had not abandoned his quest to turn her to religion, and on one occasion he showed her a small icon of the Virgin he kept by his bed. Suzanne scoffed at his veneration and an animated dispute erupted. The next day, Suzanne confessed sheepishly that their argument had reminded her of an experience she had had as a child. She had injured herself and was taken by a friend to meet the friend’s grandmother who would tend to her wound. When a small fragment of stone which was on display in the house caught Suzanne’s attention, the grandmother explained that it was a piece of the statue of Our Lady of Montmartre which was destroyed during the French Revolution. Gazi protested: both the statue and the idea of a cult of Notre-Dame-de-Montmartre were unheard of on the Butte, he explained. But Suzanne insisted that he investigate. When he did, Gazi was astounde
d: there had been such a statue in Montmartre and the cult associated with it had petered out after the Revolution.48 The authentication of the childhood story unnerved even Suzanne. She never declared herself a believer, though as she felt herself weakening, it seemed reasonable to entertain the possibility of faith.
Meanwhile, Suzanne’s complicated relationship with Utter continued. Officially, they were still married. Suzanne’s friends reported that she sent him money when she could, while he surveyed her social activities with a critical eye. They fought like husband-and-wife when they were together. And when they were apart, Utter wrote her brooding letters steeped in nostalgia over how things once had been.49
Two days before Suzanne’s 72nd birthday, Maurice sat down to write his mother a greeting in a small white card with a humble illustration of flowers on the front. It was a twee offering from a revered painter of international renown. The endearing simplicity masked the depth of their shared experience. In saying so little, it expressed so much.50
Early in 1938, Suzanne sent work to the Salon de la Société des Femmes Artistes Modernes. Critics welcomed her appearance, and now even her arch nemesis, Louis Vauxcelles, had positive words to say. ‘Valadon is one of the very strong painters of our day,’ Vauxcelles admitted when he reviewed the women’s offerings.51
But Suzanne’s work had grown stronger than its creator. Francis Carco paid her a visit at about that time and he was shocked by the woman he beheld. Suzanne, he recalled:
had taken refuge in the downstairs room in the house in the Avenue Junot, where she had installed a divan among stretchers and frames that made the room look like a dusty and bizarre property room. My first impression was so vivid I was unable to dissimulate it; it was almost a year since I had seen Valadon and I had some difficulty in recognising her. One felt that she was at the end of her strength. Her worn-out shoes, grubby dressing gown, the strands of white hair falling over her forehead, and the deterioration in her shiny, wrinkled face made her look like an old woman whose body appeared to have shrunk …52
Carco was horrified by her apparent submission, so out of character.
‘Why should I struggle?’ she asked. ‘For the sake of whom? As long as I had Maurice to look after, my life had some meaning.’ Was painting no longer enough, Carco wondered?
‘My work? My work is finished, and the only satisfaction it gives me is never to have betrayed or surrendered anything which I believed. You will see that is true one day, perhaps, if anyone ever takes the trouble to do me justice.’53
Justice was closer than Suzanne imagined. That spring, a magnificent retrospective of her work opened at the Galerie Bernier. Reviews were laudatory.
‘Of all the women painters, Suzanne Valadon is the most justifiably famous of our time and also the most personal,’ commended George Besson in Ce Soir.54 ‘Rarely has painting by a woman been less feminine,’ added the reviewer for La Renaissance.55 He continued: ‘Valadon’s art is sure, cruelly realistic. However glittering her colours they never destroy the line. She follows the chromatic formulas of Cezanne [sic] without imitating Cezanne in the least.’ ‘One of the most virile painters of our time,’ seconded the critic writing for Marianne, ‘her place in the history of 20th-century painting is already assured.’ He concluded with a familiar, double-edged compliment, describing Suzanne as ‘this painter to whom the French school is doubly indebted: firstly for her oeuvre, and secondly for a gifted son, Maurice Utrillo.’56
The exhibition had not yet been dismantled when the sun rose over Montmartre on 7 April 1938. Suzanne set up her easel to paint.57 She had felt particularly drawn to the theme of a nude standing by a fig tree recently, and as her fellow Montmartrois began their day Suzanne absorbed herself in the all-consuming world of her painting.
April was mild that year and Suzanne’s studio window was open when her neighbour, Mme Poulbot, walked past and heard a cry. Alarmed, Mme Poulbot summoned her friend, Mme Kvapil. When no answer came at Suzanne’s door, the two women forced their way in. Suzanne lay motionless on the floor in front of her easel.
A doctor was called and Suzanne’s neighbours waited anxiously while he made his assessment. They soon learned that Suzanne had suffered a stroke.
Dr Gauthier telephoned for Lucie. When she arrived, Suzanne was unable to speak. She looked Lucie straight in the eye, took both her hands and squeezed them. Lucie understood.58
The doctor insisted that Suzanne be taken to hospital, so Lucie called an ambulance before going on ahead to see to the administrative necessities. Mme Kvapil travelled with Suzanne in the ambulance.59
As it sped towards the Clinique Piccini, the ambulance traced the streets and boulevards Suzanne knew so well. The capital’s landscape had been her playground, her school – her life. It was her Paris. The vehicle turned a corner at the Arc de Triomphe – and it was at that moment, Mme Kvapil recalled, that Suzanne let out a long sigh. She was gone.60
The ambulance arrived at the Clinique Piccini too late. André Utter rushed to the hospital as soon as he heard, choked with emotion, and proceeded to receive the visitors who were not yet reconciled to the notion of ‘Mme Utrillo’.
When he was brought to the clinic, Maurice broke down. Lucie decided that it would be best for him not to attend the funeral.
When Suzanne’s death was made public, the art world of Montmartre was rocked. Writing in Le Figaro, André Warnod thought back to the show at the Galerie Bernier: ‘Who would have thought on the day of the private view, that this was to be a truly retrospective exhibition?’61
At 3.30 p.m. on Saturday 9 April 1938, a stream of solemnfaced artists, friends and family began arriving at the church of Saint-Pierre in Montmartre to attend the funeral service of Suzanne Valadon. White lilacs blossomed on a wall in front of the church as mourners made their way to the ceremony. Édouard Herriot could not help but be struck by the poignancy, nor by the wreaths – one composed of purple lilacs – fitting tributes for the woman known for her love of flowers and colour. Besides Herriot, the gathering included the General Director of Beaux-Arts, Georges Huisman, as well as Lucie Utrillo, Francis Carco, André Warnod, André Derain, Raoul Dufy, Marc Chagall, Georges Kars, Emilie Charmy and André Salmon. André Utter could also be seen, sobbing uncontrollably. Several moving speeches were given.62
Afterwards, Suzanne’s body was laid to rest with her mother Madeleine at Saint-Ouen.
Robert Le Masle received an overwhelming number of condolence letters after Suzanne’s death. He was determined to keep her memory alive and instigated the issuing of a commemorative bronze coin. Its face bore the profile of Suzanne as she depicted herself in her 1883 self-portrait.63 And on the reverse was a heart with a rose in its centre and around it, three words:
Give, Love, Paint
Suzanne Valadon’s life had been an ode to all three. And she had done each as she did everything – with passion.
Epilogue
Finally, the curtain was drawn back and a murmur rippled through the crowd gathered in Bessines-sur-Gartempe:
In this house was born the great artist
Suzanne Valadon
1865–1938
Mother of the artist Maurice Utrillo
‘It is a great honour for Bessines to welcome such a guest,’ the mayor began solemnly.1
A small girl was summoned to the front to read a poem specially composed for the occasion. Mlle Meyrat gave a well-practised recital of Suzanne and the Fairy, which told how one of the Limousin’s fairies had blessed Suzanne with her creative gift as a baby. It was a touching addition to the ceremony. But as she read, people could not divert their gaze from the gaunt-looking man at the front. Maurice’s eyes had filled with tears.
Next, it was Lucie’s turn to take the stage, and she did so with aplomb, giving a polished performance of Maurice’s own poem to his mother. At the end, Maurice motioned the sign of the cross over his chest.
Then, Jean Vertex, president of the ‘Amitiés de Montmartre’, and Edmond Heuzé took it
in turns to pay their respects. How hard it was for young artists, Heuzé’s discourse concluded, when they did not receive the recognition they deserved.
The ceremony finished with a tour of the Guimbaud inn, before the illustrious guests were ushered across the town, past the church, to the Hôtel du Commerce for lunch. But as Maurice made his way, his path was repeatedly blocked by swarms of men, women and children, waving cards and pieces of paper in front of him, pressing for autographs. Though bewildered by the confrontation, Maurice started to gratify the requests. But soon he was overwhelmed.
‘This is exhausting me,’ he pleaded. He was swiftly led away.
The French table had suffered cruelly at the hands of the Nazis. Rations on bread had only been lifted that February. Coffee and sugar were still restricted. The spread at the Hôtel du Commerce seemed little short of miraculous. There was jellied York ham, chilled cantaloupe melon, celery remoulade, crayfish, fillet of beef with mushrooms, chicken with cress, and a selection of fine desserts. When the wine was served – a 1934 Châteauneuf-du-Pape – a quick exchange of glances established that the visitor’s glass should be small and topped up with water. But Maurice was accustomed to such ploys. He grew angry and swept the adulterated drink aside. A fresh glass was hastily brought to him.
In the middle of the meal, one of Lucie’s maids appeared with a request: might it be possible to have a little beef fillet for the two Pekinese dogs they had brought with them? They had been waiting so patiently in the car.
Lunch was rounded off with a champagne toast by the mayor and then Maurice and Lucie were treated to a guided tour of the area. In the small country town, the landmarks which had charted Madeleine’s daily routine had become veritable tourist attractions.
Renoir's Dancer Page 35
