Alone, like this, the door locked securely against intruders, Maurice felt free, and, if he was in the mood, he painted, working in the dim glow of a single suspended light from a broken fixture in the ceiling. As he worked, he drank, but it was not the kind of drinking he favored when he was ready for a real drunk. It did, however, fill in the time between that desirable objective, and being cold sober, something which was to be avoided at all costs, and was, for the most part.
As we began to depend on Maurice for our income, we were happy when he holed up like this and got down to solid work. Unfortunately, these periods of concentration by him were usually of short duration: it wasn't in his nature to be consistent about painting because his capacity to fix his interest on anything for an extended period of time was severely limited. The work phase always reached a point where the money gave in to the relentless demands of his thirst. He'd suddenly vanish: no one would have the slightest idea of his whereabouts; not Vizier, Sergeant Gay, nobody. When he was finally located, usually out cold in the street, we'd go out and drag him back to his room above the cafe. Curiously, before he disappeared, he'd finish what he was was working on. Libaude, aware that Maurice did this prior to a big binge was Johnny on the spot to pick it up before anyone else could get their hands on it.
The critics, who had been nurtured on the idea of outdoor painting as practiced by the Impressionists, criticized Maurice's use of postcards, saying it had an adverse effect on his art and should be stopped. The latter, particularly, was described as reducing his art to the level of a tourist attraction, a popular representation of some geographical feature, a glorification of the banal, a catering to the lowest common public denominator, usually something which could not in any way measure up to the so-called high ideals of art. This kind of criticism, of course, was absolute nonsense, even an anachronism, a throw-back to the days before the new movements had changed the face of art. The facts were something else because Maurice took what was, on the face of it, mundane, pedestrian, run-of-the-mill, and converted it into a sensitive lyricism which eventually became his trademark. The more sensitive reviewers, however, never bothered their heads with this kind of thinking: they saw the the poetry, the visual beauty, centering their attention on this, as did the public, who, lacking the sophistication of the critics, reponded instinctively to what they saw. Actually, this kind of observation on Maurice's art was relatively rare, not meaning a God damn thing as long as there were lines of people ready to hand over cash in order to have an "Utrillo" on their wall. The amazing thing about the strong market for the work, was that the interest was not confined to one group, but was spread widely across the whole spectrum of the population.
In a strange way, because Maurice had no awareness of the art developments going on around him, his painting paralleled the latest styles which had begun to dominate art in general. Investors in painting had begun to think for themselves, no longer listening to long-winded experts, but deciding. instead, to strike out on their own. The idea, prevalent in the early days when I began studying art, that an entrenched academic bureaucracy: essentially the tool of vested interests, had the handle on what was and what wasn't the truth, had been rejected by a new generation of artists, dealers, collectors, and writers.
As the feverish pace of change altered the appearance of the Montmartre, Maurice, painting from old postcards, showed landscapes which no longer existed. It really didn't matter that much because the world he created was not the visible world, but another, wrapped in his own special vision. Through his brush, in the most extraordinary way, disorder was transformed to order, harmony was established through color and form, and a new concept was created. This concept, was personal, imaginative, yet it was still spiritually representative of the subject-matter. Many Montmartrois, knocked over by the art, have asserted that that Maurice, of all the artists who have painted the hill, caught the exact psychological effect of the place. Castagnary, a critic, summed it up by saying that: "Utrillo's amazing ability to catch the ambiance of La Butte Pinson is nothing short of mirculous, a tour de force of the first order; an encounter which leaves a lasting impression!"
Maurice's skill in achieving accolades like this, undoubtedly played a role in creating the legend of a gifted inebriate who defeated the odds by subduing the French sophisticates. It was a complete package for dealers: a built in mystique, a paradox, splendid painting, all enabling a lot of people, on various social levels, to make good money on the art of a poor drunk. The drunk, almost, but not quite, oblivious to the flow of life around him, sailed on, a ship in distress, but so far, managing to survive the storm.
Maurice became more confident of what he could do as an artist, as time passed. He knew what was possible now, he had a market that demanded his work; it was a question, then, of getting the canvasses done, and that, by no means, was a small problem. Everyone was amazed that, despite the intoxication, which went on furiously immediately after his return from Sannois, the pace of the production line accelerated, and remarkably, with his new assurance about himself, the technique improved, delighting Libaude, who was building up his bank account with the proceeds. Libaude bent over backwards to be nice during this period: and why shouldn't he? Things were very rosy, he had a list of prospective buyers as long as his arm, and he had, for the moment placated Utter and myself. I knew we were still getting the crumbs, but it was a steady income, one I was not ready to jeopardize until I felt there were better prospects in sight. Also, I didn't want to upset the applecart as far as Maurice was concerned: things were rolling along smoothly, he had made a good accomodation with Libaude, and, unless the government stepped in again, we could look forward with a guarded optimism.
One of the astonishing aspects of Maurice's work was how he got variety out of a limited technique: each painting had its own vitality.; it lived for the particular emotion and construction he had incorporated into it. Within the limited range, he always seemed to find attractive possibilities, making each motif individualistic, as well as appealing. The instinctive sense Maurice exercised for the creation of the work, the formal discipline of painting, seldom failed him, although, as the years passed, there was a gradual watering down of vision and technique. The subject became less solid, more of the naif qualities predominated, and the color turned somber with only occasional bright patches to relieve the dark grays, the umbers, the ochers. and a variety of contrasting whites.
The change, as far as the buying public was concerned, was not discernible; sales were unaffected; nobody complained about it; with the larger galleries showing new interest in acquiring Utrillos. A number of critics, those who had criticized Maurice's painting habits in the past, centered in on what they called "the anemic phase," implying that the warnings they had made about the heavy drinking, the random choice of subject-matter, the use of rulers for perspective lines, working from souvenir postcards, etc., etc., was coming home to roost. The decline in the art, they emphasized, was the inevitable result of allowing a talented artist to get away with a lifestyle which eroded his health and genius .... These were the words one writer used, denouncing an errant government which had leaned in the wrong direction in the application of the law, an act, he said, that deprived the French people of a critical body of work. Other critics, like Tabarant, Castagary, and Mirbeau, who had defended Maurice on other occasions, came to his defence, saying that: "Despite the deterioration, an obvious fact, the painting still retains its appealing qualities." From my viewpoint, I saw the debate as pointless, because Libaude reported that sales continued to improve, that the market was expanding steadily, and that prices were higher as the demands diminished the inventory on hand.
When Tabarant asked Maurice about the changes in the quality of the canvasses during an interview at the Cafe de l'Abreuvoir, he shrugged his shoulders, turned away, an empty look in his eyes, unable to understand what the critic was talking about. He hadn't the slightest concept of aesthetics, he hated to discuss such matters, distressed by the inability to understand. He lived with his instincts only, and they represented his limited contacts with his art and the real world. I think the greatest fear in Maurice's mind was of a hostile society depriving him of the very precious closed place he had developed in his relations with other human beings. The accomodation he had worked out was a shaky one, always uncertain, dependent on the benign attitude of a social system, which, at the moment, was willing to look away when he violated ethical and moral values.
Maurice's confidence in his ability to turn out a successful picture, to handle the complex processes involved, to repeat it again and again, did not lead to experimentation, as it did with most artists. He was content, as he had been right from the beginning, to remain within the boundaries of what was possible--accepting these limitations. The wild fluctuation of ideas, exploding before and after the turn of the century, never touched Maurice. He understood perfectly that exclusion of outside criteria, no matter how valid it was in pragmatic sense, was absolutely critical to his survival as an artist. He was complete if you forgot his dependence on alcohol, his inability to function socially, and his reliance on a number of well-intentioned people to service his lifestyle.
The truth, as Maurice saw it, was essential to keeping this anti-social mode of existence afloat. He visualized life as puzzle which demanded a solution, and the answers he arrived at enabled him to tolerate the extremely negative aspects of his life. Primarily, it was the alcohol that fueled the escape route, the catalyst the underlying factor behind crazy paradox without any sense. Finally, everybody involved understood that this was the basic ingredient making everything go, that without it, nothing would work, and. the "Utrillo Affair," would be a memory.
Maurice had achieved success on his own, and this constituted his conception of what he did--nothing else. This was the quality which made his work so appealing, full of human qualities, little touches that could never originate out of a controlled rationale. People didn't buy his work for this at first:, it was the realism, the depiction of familiar scenes which attracted them and it was only later that they began to appreciate the more subtle nature of what they had purchased.
Maurice was still fighting his old enemies; they had grown exasperated at the leniency of the law, and were just waiting for a chance to pay him back for the trouble he had caused. Many of them had wives and daughters who had been assaulted physically or insulted by his perversities, and were demanding satisfaction. In addition to these citizens, there were organized groups who had joined together to put the pressure on Beraud, who they said "sat on his hands" every time Maurice committed a crime. A woman's group that had been formed several years ago to get Maurice off the streets, still existed, and had not forgotten their grievances--not by a long shot. They still sent Beraud angry letters asking why a pathological drunk should be allowed to prey on the women and children of the Montmartre. This was all well and good, but to all intents and purposes, the "Utrillo Affair," had fallen into limbo--nothing was being done--and to my knowledge, nothing was contemplated by the police or the State.
The old feeling remained of Maurice as an evil spirit, satanic in essence, a devil's presence out to harass decent, law-abiding Christians. When you think about it, they had every right to be furious because the evidence was clear, the guilt was established, and there were no mitigating circumstances. If our positions had been reversed, as far a Maurice was concerned, I would, no doubt, act as they were doing. As it was, I was torn, as I had been in the past, when the first symptoms of his problems began to appear; profoundly disturbing mental and physical habits; between my feelings for him and the simple justice as demanded by his victims. The dichotomy remained, haunting me, a torturous on-going experience, and I still had no clear-cut answers about what I could do about it. The legend which had sprung from the contradictions of his art, the violence of his life as an alcoholic, and his perverted attitudes, made him two totally different people in the eyes of most Frenchmen: one screamed to have him put away in jail, and the other saw him as a national treasure. Obviously the answer was somewhere in between, but up to this point, nobody had come up with anything without taking the good that my son represented along with the bad.
Much of Maurice's notoriety, if you overlook his vendetta against pregnant females, came from the performance he put on when he was dead drunk, stretched out, leaning on one elbow, a bottle in hand, his body half in, half out of the sewerage drain on the Rue Vincent as it passed the Cafe Lapin Agile. In this position, eyes falling out of his head, his features distorted, hair wild, arms reaching up with claw-like hands for each passersby, the apparition appeared to be a reincarnation of the devil. Women, only too aware of Maurice's animosity toward them, held their children close, edging by, being careful to stay as far away as possible. The men, in contrast, saw it as an opportunity, kicking the prone figure, while boys threw rocks, laughing as they did so, and dancing around Maurice as he made futile efforts to get his hands on them. When the small crowd which usually gathered, got tired of the game, they drifted off, leaving Maurice face down, semi-conscious, his body soaked by the filthy sewerage, unable to help himself. To get him back to the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, I usually borrowed Aristide Bruant's small wagon from behind the cafe, a vehicle that easily accomodated Maurice, and with the help of Utter, or Max Jacobs, I'd lift him into it, dragging the whole mess back to the Rue Leval, where Sergeant Gay, possibly even Libaude, who hung out at the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, carried him up to his room to sleep it off.
When Maurice was in his cups, he was an actor, and a damned good one. He loved the effects he caused in others by his by arsenal of tricks which ranged from practical jokes to intimidation. Each thing he did was carefully evaluated from a theatrical viewpoint, its reaction on a cafe crowd, and whether it would help or hinder his intoxication process. Fear was behind it all; he had learned this at home with Madeliene and myself by using scare tactics; and he was an expert at bending others to his will, especially those who were not looking for any trouble.
It wasn't always like this: if he was in the mood, getting drunk was an extremely serious matter, very dignified, very lugubrious, no laughs, a project which required extreme concentration. The thespian-type approach, as far as the customers in a bistro were concerned, could be the source of some big belly-laughs. Maurice understood the routine, milking an idea for all it was worth, as long as the drinks kept coming. It was clever, in its way, like a comedian on stage repeating some gag and getting a bigger response each time. This could go on for the course of an afternoon; he'd ride it out for every glass of wine he could get; but when the scenario flattened out, Maurice would dump the phony business and be on his way.
I asked old friends to help me rescue Maurice if he happened to be trapped in a desperate position, a fairly frequent occurence, and it wasn't too often that they would step forward. Not many volunteered because dealing with a drunk could sometimes result in serious injuries and no one was that eager to get banged up; after all, every person has their own responsibilities: life is touch and go for all of us, and why stick your neck out to rescue a drunk from his own folly? Despite the odds against it, there were still a few good Samaritans who were ready to come to our assistance. One of these was Theodore Gannet, a would-be writer, a literate and decent fellow who had taken an interest in Maurice, his crazy lifestyle, the phenomenon of his art, and was thinking of a book which explored the relationship of bohemia, the high life, and the artists who followed a hedonistic existence. The idea, as Gannet expressed it, was that he believed there was some kind of connection, a raison d'etre between debauchery and creativity. Anyway, Gannet was a regular at the Cafe Lapin Agile, friendly with Derain, Naly, Picasso, Vlaminck, the whole crowd that attended regularly, and when he was available, he was very generous about lending us a hand. Gannet was a cool customer, fearless, not afraid of the devil himself, unselfish to a fault, and aggressive if aggressiveness was called for. In several instances he had saved the day for Utter and myself, providing the extra muscle needed to handle a tough situation. I desperately needed this kind of help because incidents involving Maurice had started to multiply again. Complaints at the flat and at the Prefecture had become routine--committees, merchants, furious females who had been offended--made each day a real challenge. With the exception of Gannet, the burden fell entirely on Utter and myself; life had become unreal, three adults following a crazy drunkard around the streets, taking abuse for their efforts, not only from the public, but from the principal himself.
When we got the signal, usually from a cafe proprietor or a policeman, we rushed out to the rescue hoping to save Maurice from a severe beating, or worse. Most of the time, we were late, with the result that he was knocked unconscious, bloodied, arms and legs awry, along the street. Those passing by hardly gave him a glance, he was no longer dangerous, he was an unwanted thing, discarded and scorned. Our choices were simple, on the face of it: either to his room over the Cafe Belle Gabrielle if his injuries were not serious, or if they were, we carried him to the Charitee Hospital were he might be held for a day, a week, and in some instances, even more. Miraculously, he always managed to survive these injuries, walking out of the medical center under his own power, and picking up where he had left off. Eventually, he became well-known at the place, he knew the doctors and nurses by their first names, setting up convenient relationships which made it easier for him. Maurice's reputation had preceded his arrival providing an edge not available to other indigents who used the facilities: a room of his own, special nurses, and the personal attention of Doctor Morstatt, who ran the institution. The Doctor, during each of Maurice's stays, made certain that Maurice was given art materials and postcards of the Montmartre, enabling the physician to hang two fine Utrillo's over the fireplace in his Georgian home which adjoined the cluster of larger structures on the hospital grounds.
Rumors, Naly told me, were going around that the owners of a half-a-dozen cafes were getting together and planning a careful campaign to eradicate Maurice, information he had picked from the Prefect Beraud, who, despite the trouble caused by my son, still thought that the art being produced was important enough to supercede the laws of the State, social justice, or the maliciousness of a few entrepreneurs preparing to take law enforcement into their own hands. I wasn't too upset by this because Maurice had a long record of surviving every move made by his enemies to eliminate him, emerging from all sorts of encounters somewhat battered, but with his lifestyle more or less intact, and I had no doubt it would work out this way again.
The resort to the iron-fist technique in dealing with violent drunks on the hill was a common practice even though cafe proprietors did it reluctantly because it tended to give the drinking establishments a bad reputation. The cruisers who were looking for a good time in bohemia were usually middle-class characters from the Montparness, the Batignolles, from Paris proper and the other suburban areas. These outsiders took a dim view of the rough stuff, and usually boycotted those places which had developed a notoriety for banging heads and breaking up things. So, naturally, this was a touchy subject with owners who wanted to run a decent business, but weren't interested in subsidizing bums to achieve this desirable objective. In the end, they took the moderate approach, using brutality when they were forced into it, and at other times, opting for more diplomatic tactics. This did not solve the problem, by any means, but it permitted them to function reasonably well without losing the lucrative trade from sections of Paris on the perimeter of the Montmartre.