continued ...

When Maurice, who had been sleeping in the flat again, decided to return to Sergeant Gay's room above the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, I was delighted because he and Utter had been at each other's throats. As far as the painting was concerned, I dealt with Libaude, although the money was very tough to get from him, and I expected he was up to the tricks of double dealing or failing to disclose the proper inventory. Gay, hoping for one canvas a week for rent, was keeping a sharp lookout, wanting to take over. This spelled out big trouble because Libaude hated to have anybody cutting in on his monopoly. A battle between two characters like Libaude and Sergeant Gay would be no picnic, a real war, no holds barred. When I visited Maurice in his room above the Belle Gabrielle, he whistled, shaking his head happily at the prospect. He was stretched out, disjointed as usual, his legs and arms seemingly disconnected from his body, half on half off the bed, which threatened to collapse each time he moved. His figure had an unreal quality, detached, like a puppet lying on a stage, and his hand, soiled with paint and tobacco stains, held a cigarette, moist and bent, which dropped ashes, some still glowing, on the floor. The place was dirty, a barren cubicle, no amenities, cracked plaster walls, peeling wall paper, and one small window, filthy with grime, overlooking the Rue Leval. The unstable wire bed made squeaking noises as he moved, its frame bent and protesting after many years of abuse. The ornate iron grill work of white enamel was chipped, twisted by various occupants, and burned in numerous places where Maurice had rubbed out a cigarette. The bed had survived many days of supporting an unconscious body, or two, if Modigliani had decided to stay for the night. One morning, after the both of them had gotten thoroughly soused, Sergeant Gay found Maurice, his head thrust through the ornate grill, a crumpled, formless figure, eyes open, sightless, with his arm over Modigliani's shoulder, still clutching an empty wine bottle. Modigliani, divested of his corduroy jacket, also knocked out, lay in the center of the bed, which sagged almost to the floor. "Except for the lines of hard living on Modigliani's face," Sergeant Gay told me, "his expression was childlike, very peaceful, not at all related to his ferocious attitudes toward life." Then thinking over what he had said, "Sergeant Gay shook his head negatively, and added: "That bastard is the devil himself!" There was nothing much in the place above the cafe because Maurice was not a collector of furniture, bric-a-brac, books, etc., the ordinary stuff the average person accumulates, objects of no interest to him. The room had the strange feel of space vacated in a hurry, of leaving behind piles of unwanted debris. Pieces of broken bottles, old clothes, empty glasses, cigarette butts, old shoes, and the like, were scattered everywhere. A small chair, the kind you find outside most cafes in Paris, wire backing, straw seat, frayed and stringy, served as an easel, supporting a medium sized canvas with the faint outlines of a church with two steeples barely visible. Next to it, a battered bureau, formerly in Madame Gay's room, standing precariously on three legs, was covered with bent and half-squeezed tubes of paint, none of them capped, lying in disarray. The paint from these tubes ran along the surface of the bureau, dribbling in long lines, and merging eventually into a rainbow of color. Maurice's palette, heavily soaked with dry and undried pigments, lay propped on the leg of the wire chair, the solvent flowing from a small cup attached to its side. In a cuspidor Maurice had stolen from the Cafe Deaux-Garcons, were a profusion of brushes, some caked with hardened paint, and some with no sign of use at all, apparently just purchased from the color-grinder who ran a shop on the Rue des Castiglione. The only evidence that the occupant ever ate were dozens of tins on the window sills and in the corners, piled one on the other, and emanating the foul odor of decaying food. When I suggested he might throw them out on the Rue Leval, holding my nose as I spoke, he acted like he hadn't heard me, and continued to stare at the ceiling. A small sink, the faucet dripping steadily, covered with rust stains and paint smears was positioned next to a small window. Above it, a shelf supported laundry soap, which Maurice used for shaving, and a razor, uncleaned, half-folded into the holder. The uneven shape of the room made you blink your eyes, an optical illusion that disturbed at first. Above, just peeling plaster, moisture stains from leaky roof, and a single electric light, the sole illumination when Maurice painted at night, hanging forlornly from a period fixture, candelabra and that sort of thing, a remnant of the past. Maurice could never get the unweighted string from the light to hang straight; a problem if he was drunk--so he tied one of his Joan of Arc religious medals on the string to provide a better grip. This heavy piece, which anyone could purchase at the souvenir shops in the Place du Tertre, hung dangerously low, was an obstacle for anyone moving around the room. When I advised him to shorten the string, he became upset, indicating the medal, as it was, had some significance for him. Visitors, invited by Sergeant Gay to see the notorious bohemian paint, were horrified when they entered the room, especially with Sergeant Gay describing it as, "The studio of Maurice Utrillo, painter of the Montmartre." Because of this there was a lot of shuffling around, pointing, and whispering, until Sergeant Gay put his finger to his lips, indicating he wanted silence. At times, as many as a dozen people crowded into the small room to watch Maurice create a Montmartre street scene from memory. The spectators, mostly English and American tourists, as Sergeant Gay explained to them, had the privelege of watching the creation of a work of art. Each group, in turn, were surprised by the sure approach, the confidence and concentration, and, of course, the result. Maurice had the marvelous knack of shutting out disturbing factors, working just as he would have if no one was there at all. Secretly, he relished the showing off, because he wouldn't have done it otherwise, besides, he shared the profits with Sergeant Gay, easy money which just dropped in his lap. The spectators at these demonstrations, were always warned by Sergeant Gay beforehand about asking questions, unless they did it through him. The ex-policeman made a ritual out of this, pompously putting on an attitude which pretended he was dealing with matters of great importance. The atmosphere, at Sergeant Gay's insistence, while the painting was in progress, was solemn, very dignified. The main character in this bit of theatre, sitting on his distant cloud, daubed at the canvas as the byplay went on, seldom looking up, nodding occasionally if Sergeant Gay needed reassurance, a bent cigarette dangling from his wet lips. When questions by the onlookers were whispered to Sergeant Gay, Maurice responded with a crazy jargon which made no sense. But, generally, people seemed satisfied, convinced that something of importance was going on, that they were privy to the event, and it was well worth the two francs they had handed over. When someone irritated Maurice, he showed his anger, staring the hapless victim down, eyes fixed hypnotically on his target. He'd relentlessly pursue this, until the person averted their gaze, or decided they'd had enough, and left. Maurice considered this an important victory, which put him in a good mood for the rest of the demonstration. A long silence would follow, no one daring to move, and Maurice made it clear that anyone who stepped out of line again would get the same treatment. Then, satisfied everything was under control, the painting would proceed, a fresh cigarette was lit for him by Sergeant Gay, and things would be rosy for the rest of the afternoon. Sergeant Gay took any breakdown of instructions he had given the group at the foot of the stairs which exited out on the Rue Leval, as a very serious matter. Those who violated these rules received an immediate lecture on the decorum required when a famous artist was creating a work of art. Sergeant Gay, when he referred to Maurice, emphasized the last two syllables, minimizing the first part, which was slurred, and the result was an abbreviated, "tree-oh." Any mention by a visitor, however, of the name Utrillo, either in addressing Maurice, or in reference to a canvas, was not allowed. Sergeant Gay had made every effort to establish this beforehand, but from time to time, it occured, disrupting the demonstration when Maurice refused to paint, forcing Sergeant Gay to escort an angry group down the stairs to the Rue Leval, where the argument over whether the two francs charged for watching Maurice in action, should be returned. In the end, the expoliceman, being an honest man, always returned the money, but not always graciously. He took out his spleen on his tenant by slapping him several times on the head; not enough to draw blood, but to remind him that he could be kicked out on the street if he didn't straighten out. The irony of the situation was, if you consider Maurice's own record of disruptive conduct, was in his not allowing the slightest breech of etiquette in these painting sessions. If he was addressed, he'd accept Maurice, Valadon, or from someone like Sergeant Gay, my dear fellow, but that was all. Any deviation, especially if he got the impression that a visitor was making fun of him, meant big trouble. His antipathy for Utrillo probably developed from the fact that it was a Spanish name, and, being a patriotic Frenchman, he hated the idea of someone thinking he was a foreigner. But this kind of analysis of his thinking never got me very far; just as you were convinced you had the handle on why he did this or did that, he would react in way which would contradict everything you had figured out. Maurice didn't have to have reasons for believing anything; if the thought was in his head, it was right, and he could never understand why everybody else didn't think the same thing. For the most part, Maurice was not interested in exchanges with other human beings; he had his set program, it satisfied him, and that fixed boundaries he preferred not to cross. Silence was a critical part of his mental processes, preserving his personal world, the one he had created for himself. Silence was meaningful because with it his mind could function easily without distractions. Within its protective borders, he was not required to deal with any kind of rationale, and he was able to seal off intrusions which could be disturbing to him. When a visitor to the demonstration in his room above the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, talked without Sergeant Gay's permission, Maurice would react instantly, his veil of silence penetrated, to his obvious annoyance. He detested formal restraint of any kind himself, but he insisted on it with others if they were in his presence. When Maurice believed he was in a situation where the intrusions were becoming unbearable, he would become extremely agitated, jerking about nervously, making threatening gestures. In a number of instances, these preliminary manifestations of inner turmoil, turned to violence. Under such circumstances, he was carried along by his emotions; he resented the effort to invade what he thought was his special place, the other world which was so much superior to the one which oppressed him; and the resentment, if it was brought to a boil, ran out of control, or pushed him to escape to other circumstances where he could more effectively protect that inner self from outside invasion. Questions on art, something everybody assumed he could handle effectively, were answered by a shrug of the shoulders, a disdainful stare, or they were ignored. When, on rare occasions, he understood the thrust of a statement, he stumbled, unable to put the words together that were in his head. The embarrassment of this turned him suddenly silent: he had decided it was better to get out while the going was good; and he was removed from contact even though he still sat in the same chair, sipping the same glass of wine. Maurice found this technique useful in keeping a hostile world at a distance, off balance, at a disadvantage, particularly when they were out to get something from him. Actually, if you studied his overall performance, his actions were not inconsistent; he was the same way with everybody: his drinking buddies on the hill, the dealers who followed him around, the collectors of his painting, and the critics, as well. When the latter tried to get a good story from Maurice, trying all sorts of tricks, he was a master of evasion, just giving them enough to keep them interested. The truth, as I saw it, was that his need to defend himself pushed him into isolation, which could be either psychological or physical, depending on the circumstances. He was determined to protect the fragile world he had built up in his imagination; it was, in his mind, the refuge necessary for his survival .... Explanations, a breakdown verbally of anything as complex as art or religion, analysis in all forms, was anathema for the very good reason of his not being able to handle it. Sergeant Gay said that Maurice had never made one single statement about painting: not a single one in all the years he had boarded above the Cafe Belle Gabrielle. In my son's mind, however, he visualized himself as Sergeant Gay's mentor, although I don't believe that Sergeant Gay or anyone else ever took this claim seriously .... It was high comedy when the two artists were together; the communication between them was negligible, nothing which would provide Gay with a master technique for the big-time. All Maurice did was to sit in his chair, not uttering a single word, a silly smile on his face, with his landlord waiting patiently for words of wisdom. Sergeant Gay, of course, understood he wasn't going to get much from Maurice, but he took it in good humor, nodding his head, an shaking his instructor's hand when the session was completed, which could be from one minute to five, but not much more because of Maurice's inability to concentrate for longer periods of time. During these periods of teaching, Maurice's idea of getting a point across, was a positive or negative shake of the head, or a raising of eyebrows to acknowledge they were in agreement. The ex-policeman, respecting the eminence his tenant had achieved in the art world, hadn't the slightest understanding of what was going on, but he kept a straight face while saying: "I see, I see!" Maurice got great gratification from this, blowing huge puffs of smoke from his cigarette, and smiling, as he took long drinks from a bottle of wine, "Napoleon's Pride," which Gay had brought along as repayment for all the valuable insights he had been given directly from the mouth of the man who had dumfounded the sophisticated Parisian critics. Curiously, some critics, who should have known better, assumed that Maurice did have tricks up his sleeve--dark secrets unknown to other artists who toiled in obscurity, a magic formula for success. Art experts never seemed to grasp that this kind of thinking was a left over from the academic theoretical meandering which was rapidly turning into an anachronism.... "I do what I do," Maurice told them over and over again. "What comes out--comes out--I cannot do it any other way!" Maurice was perfectly honest about it, a truth which provided small comfort for reviewers looking for good copy to satisfy their editors. Mainly, it was a one-sided interrogation with the critics faking their own version, dramatizing fictionally, and creating the actor who played Utrillo.... Maurice, if he wasn't in one of his anti-social moods, and it didn't interfere with his drinking, was delighted with this kind of attention. He believed the reputation he had established meant that he was something special--above the average citizen. I do not mean to imply Maurice was arrogant about this because nothing would be further from the truth. But it is correct to say, I think, that Maurice took a certain pride in being singled out on the hill as a well-known personality, on familiar terms with the critical press and those who were knowledgeable about what was going on in the art community. Moreover, and this was perhaps the best part of it, it gave him added status among his drinking buddies, not only as a splendid drinker, but as an individual who had achieved notable success in the other world of social respectability and artistic accomplishment.

to be continued...

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