Before it’s too late.
5
On Ottilie’s advice, Charlotte goes to see Dr. Moridis.
His office is located in the center of Villefranche-sur-Mer.
He receives patients in a room of his apartment.
Kika, his daughter, born in 1941, still lives in the same place.
She moved back here after her parents’ death.
When I tried to get in touch with her, I could never have imagined this.
That she kept her father’s office intact.
Thanks to her, I was able to walk through the décor of 1940.
To live inside my novel.
The plaque is still on the door.
DR G. MORIDIS
CONSULTATIONS FROM 1:30 TO 4
I stood there a moment, observing every detail.
Kika and her husband were so sweet.
The doctor’s daughter cannot remember Charlotte.
But her father often mentioned her.
What did he say?
She answers immediately: my father said she was crazy.
This takes me by surprise.
Not that he said it, but that this should be the first word.
Then Kika adds: like all geniuses.
Yes, her father was certain that Charlotte was a genius.
Just like Ottilie, the doctor is overcome with passion for Charlotte.
Admiring, tender, or simply concerned, he played a major role.
Every time he went to the Ermitage, he would speak with her.
And he was a frequent visitor.
Because there was often a sick child among all the orphans.
Charlotte intrigued him; her sensitivity blew him away.
For Christmas, she drew greetings cards.
With pictures of children descending from heaven.
Or attempting to reach the moon.
Something in those drawings touched Moridis very deeply.
A combination of power and naivety.
It was, he thought, simply grace.
The doctor takes Charlotte’s pulse, examines her.
He asks her questions about the camp in Gurs.
She responds with incomprehensible monosyllables.
He is horrified by the state she’s in, but doesn’t show it.
You need vitamins, he prefers to tell her.
She remains head down, silent.
Moridis seems to hesitate.
Charlotte, you must paint, he says at last.
She looks up at him.
He repeats: Charlotte, you must paint.
He says he has confidence in her, in her talent.
These are words of comfort, but also of expectation.
There is no question of her letting herself go.
If she is suffering, then she should express that pain.
What he says stirs her deeply.
Moridis continues.
He finds the right words.
He mentions all the drawings she’s made that he loves.
She has too much beauty inside her not to share it.
Charlotte is still listening.
What he says echoes what she feels.
And then Alfred’s face appears to her.
A vision that is more alive than ever.
She thinks about his final words, on the platform.
How could she have forgotten?
She must live so she can create.
Paint so she will not go crazy.
6
On the way back, she breathes deeply.
This day marks the birth of her work Life? or Theater?
As she walks, she thinks about images from her past.
To survive, she must paint her story.
That is the only way out.
She repeats this again and again.
She must bring the dead back to life.
When she thinks this, she stops.
Bring the dead back to life.
I must go even deeper into solitude.
Did she have to reach the edge of what is bearable?
To finally consider art as the only possibility of life.
What Moridis said, she already felt it.
In her flesh, but not in her consciousness.
As if the body was always one step ahead of the mind.
A revelation is the sudden understanding of what you already know.
It is the path taken by every artist.
That vague tunnel of hours or years.
That leads to the moment when you can finally say: it’s now.
She wanted to die; now she starts to smile.
Nothing else will matter anymore.
Nothing else.
Very few works are created like that.
With such a degree of removal from the world.
Everything is clear.
She knows exactly what she must do.
There is no more hesitation in her hands.
She is going to paint her memories like a novel.
The drawings will be accompanied by long texts.
It is a story that will be read as well as looked at.
To paint and to write.
This combination is a way of expressing herself entirely.
Or let us say totally.
It is a world.
It meets Kandinsky’s definition.
To create a work of art is to create a world.
He himself was subject to synesthesia.
That intuitive union of the senses.
Music guided his choice of colors.
Life? or Theater? is a conversation between sensations.
Painting, words, and music too.
A union of arts necessary for healing a wrecked life.
The choice that must be made in order to reconstruct the past.
And it is also a whirlwind of power and inventiveness.
What happens when you discover this work?
A major aesthetic emotion.
I have not stopped thinking about it since.
Her life has become my obsession.
I have pored over the places and the colors, in dreams and in reality.
And I have come to love all Charlotte’s work.
But the essential one, in my eyes, is Life? or Theater?
It is a life put through the filter of creation.
To produce a distortion of the real.
The protagonists of her life become characters.
As in the theater, they are introduced at the beginning.
Alfred Wolfsohn appears as Amadeus Daberlohn.
The Salomon family becomes the Kann family.
Charlotte speaks about herself in the third person.
If all is real, this distancing seems necessary.
In order to achieve real freedom in the story.
So fantasy can burst forth more easily.
A total freedom that is found in its form.
Along with the drawings and the story, she adds musical directions.
The soundtrack to her work.
We travel in the company of Bach, Mahler, Schubert.
And of German popular songs.
She describes her work as Singespiel.
The equivalent of a piece to be sung.
Music, theater, and movies too.
Her compositions are inspired by Murnau and Lang.
All the influences of a life are there.
But they are forgotten in the sparkle of her individuality.
To form a unique, unprecedented style.
…
It is time to begin.
Charlotte provides the user instructions for her work.
The setting for her invention.
The creation of the following paintings is to be imagined as follows:
A person is sitting by the sea.
She is painting.
A tune suddenly enters her mind.
As she starts to hum it …
She notices that the tune exactly matches …
What she is trying to commit
to paper.
A text forms in her head.
And she starts to sing the tune, with her own words.
Over and over again.
In a loud voice until the painting seems complete.
Finally, she describes her character’s precise state of mind:
She must disappear for a time from the human surface,
And sacrifice everything for this,
To recreate herself from the depths of her world.
Disappear from the human surface.
7
To begin with, she is unable to concentrate.
In the Ermitage, the children run all over the place, wildly energetic.
Ottilie tells them they must not disturb Charlotte.
She does everything she can to help her.
Finds her some very good paper, when food is becoming hard to find.
She and Moridis form an inner circle, protecting the genius.
Her grandfather is not part of the circle.
On the contrary, he harasses her.
As soon as he appears, she flees with her easel.
He pursues her, shouting out: you’re here to look after me!
I didn’t bring you here to paint!
He gets worse and worse.
When he steals fruit, he accuses the children.
Charlotte has no choice but to leave.
She must protect herself to continue her work.
Not long ago, she made the acquaintance of Marthe Pécher.
The manager of a hotel named La Belle Aurore, in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.
Marthe decides to let Charlotte stay there for free.
Is she, too, persuaded of her genius?
It’s highly likely.
She offers her a room for as long as she needs.
Room number 1.
Here, for nearly two years, Charlotte will create.
It’s a first-floor room, but the hotel is on a hillside.
All she need do is go outside and she can see the sea.
I have always imagined that room as a paradise, a refuge.
In reality, it is more like a cell.
A feeling accentuated by the brick walls.
The hotel boss hears her protégée singing as she works.
Yes, that is the expression that she uses.
Charlotte sings as she paints.
The music that she mentions in the margins to accompany her drawings.
According to Marthe, Charlotte hardly ever goes out.
Entire days consecrated to work.
That is, surely, the true measure of her obsession.
She remembers every word Alfred uttered.
And reproduces his dizzying monologues.
Page after page, she draws his face hundreds of times.
Years after their separation, without any photographs.
Charlotte’s creative apnea is ecstatic.
Like a total devotion to the past.
I walk around room number 1 under the gaze of the young receptionist.
Tissem—that’s her name—tries to help me.
While finding me rather strange, I imagine.
As I stare rapturously at the wall of a shabby room.
I wanted to know if the hotel possessed any archives.
The manager never called me back.
His name is Marin, the French word for sailor.
Must one have a seafaring name to run this hotel?
And most important: will he put a plaque outside the room?
I don’t know why I’m so obsessed by plaques.
First of all, the place needs restoring.
I could take care of it.
Do everything so that these walls, with all their memories, are respected.
Even more than memories, they were the immaterial witnesses of genius.
8
Reluctantly, Charlotte must sometimes go to Nice.
Her grandfather lives there on his own.
She finds him sitting on a chair, going over his memories.
During one visit, in the middle of summer 1942, she spots a poster.
A new law requires all Jews to present themselves to the authorities.
Back at La Belle Aurore, Charlotte questions Marthe.
What should she do?
Although in truth, her decision is already made.
She will go and declare herself.
Marthe asks her why: it’s absurd.
Charlotte replies: it’s the law.
On the day in question, she leaves for Nice.
There is a long line outside the prefecture.
This reassures her, all these other obedient people.
Everyone is well-dressed; couples hold hands.
It’s a hot day, and they have to wait for a long time.
After a while, several buses park near the square.
The people in the line exchange looks.
They try to reassure each other.
After all, there is nothing to be worried about.
Charlotte thinks about the camp in Gurs.
What if this simple census was actually a mass arrest?
Nothing could be worse than going back there.
In Paris, so it’s said, there has been a huge roundup of Jews.
But who here really knows the truth?
Who knows what’s happening in Germany or Poland?
No one.
Charlotte has heard nothing more from her father and Paula.
It has been so long.
She no longer knows anything.
Are they alive at least?
And Alfred, her Amadeus.
He is too unsuited to life to have gotten out.
No.
She cannot believe he is dead.
It’s not possible.
…
Gendarmes appear suddenly out of nowhere.
They have discreetly encircled the square.
No one can get away.
It’s a trap: everything is clear now.
How could she have been so stupid?
She and all the others.
The whole world is hunting them.
Why would today be any different?
They are told to get aboard a bus.
People rush toward the police to ask them questions.
Where are we going?
What have we done?
Calm turns quickly to dread.
The police start acting more firmly.
While trying to avoid panic.
It’s just a routine check.
There’s nothing to worry about.
Come on, it’s fine, just get on the bus.
We’ll give you something to drink once you’ve all sat down.
Charlotte sits with the others.
In that moment, she thinks about Life? or Theater?
What if she doesn’t come back?
What will become of her drawings?
She trusts Marthe.
She knows she will look after her work.
But all the same.
It’s not finished.
It’s nowhere near finished.
What on earth made her believe she had all the time in the world?
She is in exile, on the run.
A pariah.
If she gets out of this, she will complete her work.
As quickly as possible.
She cannot imagine it remaining unfinished.
A policeman walks down the aisle.
His gaze alights on Charlotte.
He stares at her with intensity.
Why?
What has she done?
Nothing.
Nothing: she tells herself she has done nothing at all.
So why?
Why does he keep staring at her like that?
Why?
Her heart is beating too fast.
She is going to faint.
Is everything all right, mademoiselle?
She is incapable of replying.
He puts a hand on h
er shoulder.
And tells her: it’ll be okay.
He tries to reassure her.
This policeman has stopped next to Charlotte because he finds her pretty.
Stand up and follow me.
She is petrified.
She doesn’t want to move.
Maybe he’s a pervert.
Like the guy in Gurs, who raped a girl each night.
What else can it be?
Why else would he pick on her?
She is the only young woman on the bus.
He wants to rape her.
Yes, that’s it.
What else can it be?
And yet, his face looks so gentle.
And he does not seem sure of himself at all.
Little drops of sweat appear on his forehead.
He insists: follow me, mademoiselle.
Then adds: please.
Charlotte no longer knows what to think.
She is slightly reassured by his youth, his politeness.
But she can’t really trust anyone anymore.
She decides to stand up and follow him.
Once they have both left the bus, he tells her to walk.
A few yards later, they are out of earshot.
Go, he says.
Go quickly, and don’t turn around.
Charlotte doesn’t move, so he insists: go on, leave now!
She understands what is happening.
He is, quite simply, saving her life.
She doesn’t know how to thank him.
In any case, she doesn’t have time to find the right words.
She must hurry.
She starts to walk.
Slowly at first, then increasingly fast.
In a back alley, she finally turns around.
There is no one behind her.
9
Back at La Belle Aurore, everything changes.
Charlotte is more than ever aware of the urgency of her situation.
She must act: there is no time to lose.
Her drawings become even more alive.
On many pages, there is nothing but text.
She has to recount her family history.
Before it’s too late.
Some drawings are more like sketches.
She is not painting, she is running.
This frenzy, seen in the second half of the work, is incredibly moving.
A work created on the edge of a precipice.
Reclusive, frightened, wasting away, Charlotte forgets herself, loses herself.
Until the end.
In a letter, she will write these concluding words:
I was all the characters in my play.
I learned to walk all the paths.
And in that way I became myself.
The last painting is startlingly powerful.
Charlotte draws herself looking out to sea.
We see her from behind.
On her body, she writes the title: Life? or Theater?
It is on herself that the work closes, a work whose subject is her life.
Charlotte Page 12
