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Let me tell you something about myself. It's not that I'm worldly or important. Even though I did accomplish something in the art world, the work I did for the next fifty years would go noticed by few people. But perhaps a little background would better inform you about my Paris days and the people I knew. A casual remark about cubism by a university professor and the stories I had heard about Paris gave me a gut-wrenching feeling of wanderlust. Paris became a magnet when I first graduated from McGill. Much of my desire was fed by stories told by my cousin Henry, who had been a soldier during the Great War. He had been to Vimy, a terrible place where thousands of Canadian boys had lost their limbs or their lives, mostly during one unforgettable weekend. Henry saw action but only from a distance. His job was securing supplies for the army corps of dentists who operated just behind the lines. They did what dentists do but they also became adept at reconstructive surgery on boys with distorting facial wounds. Henry rarely talked about the horrors. He passed them off as 'something I don't like talking about'.
(A Paris kiosk reflects the colorful life of the city)
The Importance of Life for the Moment For him life for the moment was more important than memories of a horrific past. It gave him an increased aura of mystery. I imagined the many horrors he must have endured but they were only the imaginings of a star-struck college boy. I respected this privacy and knew that it was futile to force the issue. He did talk about his frequent furloughs in Paris and what he said impressed me. When I finally came to Paris I carried the knapsack he had given me with his army serial number emblazoned on the side. D 106673. I'll remember those numbers to my dying day. He also gave me a lethal looking dagger in a canvass sheath. It was pointed and honed to perfection. I had visions of my cousin, constantly sharpening that dagger, keeping it at the ready. I don't really believe it was ever used for anything but cutting his meat or scraping away the mud from his boots. My cousin was a quiet, sullen man who probably never met the enemy but he did see what war could do. That dagger was with me during my stay in Paris. It was my protection and my insurance against the unknowns in a sprawling city teeming with potential dangers. I too used it mostly for opening parcels or cutting cheese. Cousin Henry told me many stories about Paris. He went there with his 'mates', an expression he had picked up from a group of Australians. Every picture he sent me from Paris showed him with another of his friends. He was quiet but very popular. He posed with a bottle of wine or in full uniform with rifle at the ready. In one picture he sat on a motorcycle. He probably never fired a shot in anger. Always Ready for Stories about Paris He wouldn't talk of the death and destruction. but he was always ready with stories of Paris. "I remember
the first time I arrived in Paris", he told me. "I jumped into an ancient
taxicab at the Gare du Nord. As the driver sped quicly along through the dizzying
traffic he asked where I was from." "He was my unofficial self-appointed one man city welcoming committee," my cousin explained." He spoke with the conviction that he was the spokesman for the entire population. "I was moved", he said, "and that feeling of welcome stayed with me wherever I went from then on." The story moved me too. I would go to my cousin's Paris. I'd go in search of a new beginning; a chance to be myself, free of the home pressures and outside the prying eyes of my neighbors with their conservative values and traditional attitudes. I'd throw over the old and start fresh. I'd paint and drink openly with true friends. I would discover my true identity. I would be accepted and I'd be finally free. I think it was freedom that I sought most. Yes. I would be free. I had to be free. But, I wasn't aware of what it was I wanted to be free of. Not completely... The First Winter in My New City That first winter in my new city I found many friends. It was easy when you spent long hours at the art school. You met other foreigners, other expatriates, looking for the same things. Some were bone fide artists. Some were writers, poets, musicians, booksellers, performers, publishers, newspaper people, photographers, models, entrepreneurs, business types; some honest, others unscrupulous. There were drifters with nothing but time on their hands. There were promoters, or should I say, impresarios, art dealers who had salons or those who sold paintings at the bars or from their homes. There were dreamers, schemers who thought only of profit, writers ready to complete that great masterpiece or the great epic poem. Everyone was ready to be discovered. They craved friendship, acceptance and affection. Some worked in seclusion while some flaunted their work. Others prostituted themselves for the almighty franc. They called it survival. I Was Luckier Than Most As for myself, I was luckier than most. I received a draft for $50 Canadian dollars every month. With the franc at 35 to the dollar and prices low, you could live like a king on very little. Hotel rooms were 50 cents a night. A good restaurant meal with table wine was about 35 cents but we ate in filthy surroundings where the charge was less than 2 francs for lunch. We lived in vermine-infested rooms rented by the month and did most of our cooking at home. Clothes were shabby, worn old things, but we made do. The important thing was the living itself and staying alive was itself an achievement. I truly believe we did achieve something important. At least, some of us did. We created new forms in art...music...literature...In a sense we created the twentieth century. In Canada, my family had a small business aside from the jewelry store. My older brother, with the backing of my father, started manufacturing and assembling stained glass windows. They were all in vogue around WW1. His specialty was church windows, which were usually large and profitable. He was very good at it. As these windows became more fashionable in homes, builders were always on the lookout for companies that could meet their ever-growing needs. Whole rows of houses in middle-class neighborhoods boasted small stained glass windows with the address built into the design. Some older homes still have those windows. I often wonder, when I see them, how many were designed by my brother, Brent. It was chic to be in that business. It was creative, in demand and profitable. There were always advanced orders and work for a dozen men. My father resigned himself to my studying art with the hope that some day I would return and work with my brother. I suppose it helped me to know that if all else failed, I'd at least have a family business to come back to. I Was No Picasso, Matisse or Modigliani... I was no Picasso, Matisse or Modigliani. I was no Braque, Chagall, Pascin or Kissling. Nor was I a Marevna Vorobiev who could make a living just by copying paintings. But I got to know them all and that made it worthwhile in itself. For some reason, they accepted me or should I say adopted me, and I did learned a lot from them. What I learned was not always about painting. And there were those younger would-be artists I met at L'Ecole des Beaux Arts, where I studied. I met models and painters, naturally enough, but I also met interesting and talented teachers who taught me to look beyond the ordinary. Sometimes they brought experienced painters to our class to help. Matisse himself gave a three hour class on color. We called him "Cher Maitre". We discussed form and imagination with Jacques Lipchitz who came to visit our teacher. He was not only a brilliant sculptor but an excellent gossip as well. He loved telling stories and dropping names. Years later I met him at Gertrude's. He said that he and Gertrude were like brothers. I never really understood what he meant. He was vivacious and tried to interest Gertrude in sculpture. He even did a bust of her that made her look like a Buddha. But she was Gertrude's where he sipped tea and ate cookies. Yes, it was cookies, little sandwiches and distilled liquors made of wild plums. One
day after I had become a regular at Gertrude's Saturday night soirees, I said
to Jacques, "How come Gertrude's brother Leo has disappeared from the soirees.
I don't see him any more." "Really!" I exclaimed. "Who told you that story?" Jacques smiled broadly and winked." Gertrude,of course." I can still hear him roaring with laughter. Jacques Lifchitz was as loving as he was talented. I miss him. Maybe we'll meet again sometime, wherever he is. To
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