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One memorable night Kissling,
Renee and I found ourselves outside the Moulin Rouge. We headed for the boulevard de Clichy, close by. Pascin lived on the top floor at number 36, not far from Braque and Utrillo, with whom he often spent time. A Strange Odor Greeted Us We puffed our way to the top floor. There, we found Pascin's door closed but unlocked. We searched for the lights and were well aware of the strange odor. It smelled like incense. When the lights went on we were greeted by one of the most gruesome sights I have ever witnessed. On the floor lay Pascin. He wore a dirty artist's smock. His legs were crossed and his arms in an outstretched position very Christ-like. Under his hands were two
deep bowls filled with bright red drying blood, about two inches deep,
slightly overflowing. His wrists had been cut by a sharp paring knife,
which lay nearby. The incense had burned itself out a day or two before.
There were canvasses lined up against the wall. Everything was in disorder.
A single, large light bulb hung Everyone Came to the Funeral They all came to the funeral: the artists, the models, storekeepers, musicians and bar waiters. Pascin had been a friend of the people. He worked hard, loved hard and never played. He was a seriously talented man who just got tired of the madness, tired of the loose women and lost loves. He tired of the daily struggle to succeed in a foreign land. His attitude and what took him from us was in the air. There was disillusionment among the expatriates. Even the best chocolate begins to cloy after time. People became homesick. The talk was turning back to home. People began cleaning up, selling their furniture and buying passage for home. The party was over. The scenario was played out. That great gaudy spree was a thing of the past. Those of us who found success returned home, having grown into adults along the way. Those who couldn't find the answers went home to dream of what might have been. Dreams Shattered by Suicides and Departures For many, those dreams were shattered by the suicides and departures. When we descended the gang planks in North America, there were no brass bands, photographers, or reporters. We came back to a lonely life of personal memories. Generally, people at home didn't care. Of course, the Great Depression and the end of Prohibition had something to do with it. Some stayed. Gertrude and Alice never left. Neither did Picasso or Max. Marevna and her daughter Marika just disappeared. I never had a chance to say good-bye. Some say she went to England. She never saw Diego again. But even though I was in Canada and out of the mainstream, many of my old friends would come back into my life by chance or by fate or because of something that had been left unfinished. The bookstore, started by Sylvia, fell on hard times and what did survive the grey thirties died when France and Germany went to war. There's a Shakespeare & Co in Paris today, but it's just not the same. "Paris Was Yesterday" Proved Too True Who said, "Paris was
yesterday?' Unfortunately that's true. It took years to piece together the puzzle that in one way or another touched us all. For me it was a matter of deja vu. End of Part 2
To read the next chapter,
click here.
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