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Among the models I met were characters from all over France and beyond. They were not always beautiful and came in all sizes and ages. At the art school, we tried to paint or draw them as we saw them. Reality came first. Imagination would come later. We used to joke that if a model was ugly and needed work her best advice was to model for Picasso. The women in his pictures, at that time, seemed grotesque to us. Cubism can do that to a subject. But it was useless to seek work with Picasso. Aside from Gertrude and his close personal friends, he never hired models. Meeting a Woman Named Caresse Sometime after I settled in at the Beaux Arts, I met a very remarkable lady. She was in her thirties, well dressed, soft-spoken and not without talent of a certain kind. She never became a great artist or even a serious one, but she certainly was a help to many of the students in our class. Her name was, Caresse. I thought it a rare name for an American, but Caresse Crosby was noteworthy in many ways. She was married to Harry Crosby, a flamboyant man who worked at the Morgan Bank, but spent most of his time writing poetry, smoking opium and following Egyptian mythology. I remember the first time
I spoke with Caresse. One afternoon, after a painting session, I was
sitting in the small courtyard cleaning my brushes when a voice behind
me interrupted my mundane thoughts: I looked around. We were
alone in the garden. The voice seemed vague, distant, and almost mystical. She continued, " A very large bathtub, almost like a small swimming pool. It holds at least six people comfortably. Perhaps you'd like to take a bath?" My face turned a deep shade of crimson. "Yes," I smiled nervously, "perhaps one day." I looked more closely at
Caresse. She was attractive for an older woman and had a disarming smile.
I was barely 26 and she was at least 35. She dressed more fashionably
than the other students and had an air of sophistication about her.
She also had a superb figure, both sexy and athletic. She was very attractive
with a disarming smile. Caresse Reaches Out Caresse reached out took
my hand and continued her hold while she said, "And I'm Caresse.
You and I are going to be friends." Caresse let go my hand and became serious again. "Everyone needs baths," she announced. "You, me, Harry, everyone. I just happen to have a wonderful bathtub. You and I are going to be friends, and we are going to bathe with me in my bathtub. Maybe even with Harry." I went back to cleaning my
brushes. She sat quietly watching me, then announced: Keeping No Secrets from Each Other "Of course there is. If we're to be friends, we'll have no secrets from each other. We will be friends completely. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Richard...We were married. It was part of the nervous exhilaration of the war. Our romance moved at an accelerated pace. I was to remain the perfect playmate. Our son, William, was born in 1915. He was the firstborn in that Boston circle. Oh, did I tell you that old Richard was from the Boston Peabodys? But he wanted no part of the nuisance of being a father. He would just walk off and come back inebriated. It was hardly a joy at all- - just a strange, muted, uneventful, and dull life. I saw no farther than the walls of my prison, like a mussel in a mud bank. And we had no money. Richard had lost it all in the shipping business during the war. But I made some money. I invented the "Jewel Case," the backless brassiere. I sold the idea to Warner Bros. Corset Company in Bridgeport, I received $1,500. Imagine, $1,500!" Caresse watched me put away my brushes. "Come to our home," she suggested. "We can get into the tub before Harry returns." Flattered But Confused I was flattered but confused.
"But won't he mind?" I asked nervously. "Nonsense", she replied, pulling me to my feet. "You're coming and that's all there is to it." I couldn't believe this was really happening. We didn't have far to go. We had been talking within sight of her building all along. She slipped her arm in mine as we walked down the street to the rue de Lille like lovers or, at least good friends who had known each other for a long time. The windows of her apartment looked down on the courtyard of the art school. "I often look down at all the young students," Caresse murmured. "How I wish I was young again." "But you are young," I protested, "and you're very attractive." "Well, thank you kind
sir," she replied with a theatrical flutter of the eyes. We'd smoke, argue, paint each other's portraits, take long walks, or just go down to the river and watch the boats glide by. Sometimes we'd sleep together, but that wasn't the main basis of our friendship. Often we would be joined by Harry and his ubiquitous friends, who came and went like moths on a summer's night. A Magnificent Apartment There had been other houses over the years. One was a small cottage behind the Montparnasse Cemetery, which Caresse called a "pavillon." Harry liked the location because it was near the grave of Baudelaire. He had always had a morbid interest in Baudelaire. He often visited the cenotaph of the great French writer. Harry also liked to visit the catacombs and once came home with a skull he had pilfered from an unsuspecting corpse. They had also lived for a time in Baudelaire's apartment on the Quai d'Orleans on Ille St. Louis. Harry read and reread Rimbaud, Verlaine and Baudelaire, but it was Baudelaire who held a fascination for him. "There exist but three respectable beings," he had said, "the priest, the warrior and the poet." Harry had been a soldier. He had his personal religion. He would become a poet. When they lived on the Ille St. Louis, Harry was still working at the Morgan Bank on the Place Vendome, in the shadow of the Napoleonic column. He commuted to work aided by Caresse in a red canoe. He sat in the prow wearing a bowler hat, spats, cane, and gloves while Caresse, clad only in a red bathing suit, paddled him to the Quai des Tuileries near the Pont Solforino. She would paddle back alone, up- stream. "It was great for developing the breasts," she reported. "Men applauded and whistled." This, of course, delighted her. Living in the Lavish Faubourg St. Honore When it became available, they lived in the lavish Faubourg St. Honoré, original home of Hungarian princess Bibesco with two maids, a cook, a chauffeur, and a nursemaid. There were also the necessary American luxuries like real American bottles of milk, hors d'ouvres from Pruniers or Fauchon, pastries from Rumplemayer's or Gateau Penny. By that time, Harry had left his uncle's bank, but he never had to worry about money since his family included Van Rensellears, Morgans, and other great Nantucket names and Caresse was a Boston Peabody. Homes were places to invite people, not always friends. But their home on the rue de Lille was something special. Harry hoped that one day the city of Paris would put a plaque on the door announcing to all that he and Caresse had lived there. They should have done just that. But they haven't. We arrived at the magnificent apartment to find the bathtub waiting in silence. Harry wasn't home. To read the next chapter, click here.
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