continued ...

In one instance, when the ex-policeman entered Maurice's room, concerned about the noise, particularly audible in the Cafe Belle Gabrielle below, he saw the chair, the burning candles, the matches scattered all over the floor. Cursing, he ran to a small sink in the corner, filled a washing basin with water, and poured it over the entire setup. Having done this, he slapped Maurice several times, very hard with his open hand, driving him off the bed onto the floor, where he sat, a dazed look on his face. The landlord, who had warned his tenant about using candles because of the danger of fire, especially with someone as irresponsible as Maurice, was furious over what he considerable a threat to his property. "If I find you lighting candles again," Sergeant Gay shouted, between obscenities, "I'll break every bone in your body!" Then leaving, he turned, shook his fist, and said: "I've taken a lot of shit from you--you're pushing your luck. Wise-up or you'll be in deep trouble!" Maurice, still stretched out on the floor, just stared at Sergeant Gay with pain-glazed eyes, not understanding a word he was saying. He knew he had done something bad because the ex-policeman was so angry. What really puzzled him, was that he had made a difficult effort to placate God, doing penance, praying, and all he had gotten out of it was to become more miserable than he had been before. And in the bargain, he had antagonized the one person who could throw him out on the street in a second whenever he was in the mood to do so. In time, a very short period of time, as a matter of fact., Maurice's desire for alcohol overcame his fear of God's retribution. With his religious fervor burned out, he was out on the street again, drinking as much as ever. The twin tortures of Maurice's life, a wrathful God and his alcoholism, never out of his mind, lived with him day and night. His only escape came when he was intoxicated, completely unconscious, or suffering from severe injury which blanked out his desire to drink. When he had too little, or too much alcohol, he was in excruciating pain, his body shaking, beads of sweat on his brow, his hands incapable of lighting a cig- arette, eyes fogged, unable to focus .... One night he came to the flat on the Rue Cortot, climbing the stairs laboriously, covered with filth from the gutter, intoxicated, arms hanging loose at his sides, like a puppet thrown carelessly on a table. I cried when I saw the pale face, the gaunt emaciated body, and the desperate condition he was in. This time was different than the others: no anger, each movement was difficult, and there was a resignation which was alarming. He sat by the window for two entire days, staring out at the scene on the Rue Cortot, his face devoid of expression, his body slumped shapelessly in the wicker chair. I tried to communicate, to get a message across, to reassure him that I would help if he needed me, but it was a blank wall, impenetrable, a wall erected by his suffering which shut out the world. The life he had chosen had come to a standstill, nothing moved, he was dead inside. In his mind, there was no reason for going on, strength and will were eroded, and the thirst that drove him had been defeated by a body which could not absorb any more punishment. I wisely allowed him to sit where he was; he remained in the same position through the night; and he never touched the food I placed on the small table next to his chair. When darkness came, it gave me an eerie feeling to see the silent silhouette of his figure outlined against the window with the blinking lights of the city visible in the background. Sergeant Gay advised me to be patient, promising Maurice would come out of it. Sergeant Gay had empathy for my son's alcoholic addiction; he had been through similar experiences many times as a police officer, and he knew that the severely depressed phase would be overcome when the desire for drink was dominant again. I was astonished at Sergeant Gay's restraint with someone like Maurice; he was a compassionate and respectful listener, a tactful person, although when he believed it was necessary, he could use force. Any conversation with Maurice, however, was brief because my son could not concentrate effectively beyond a certain point. These talks, naturally centered around the boozing, the futility of doing so, and what was going to happen unless drastic changes took place. "You are in bad shape," Sergeant Gay told him, and dramatizing this by drawing his hand knife-like across his throat, he said, "go on like this and you'll be a dead man. I guarantee it!" The effect of periodic lapses in Maurice's intoxication routines, the physical debilitation, the trauma, the meanness of the life-style, was entirely absent from his painting. When you studied the work, there wasn't the slightest evidence of the pyschological turmoil which made Maurice's existence a living hell. Elie Faure, a prominent critic for La Parisian, described Maurice's art accurately when he wrote: "Utrillo's painting is pure imagination, something one cannot see in nature, an instinctive interpretation based on feeling, invention, an order fixed by inner choices. It is an expression wholly devoid of the rationale which creates stereotyped and imitative art, a phenomenon of which we have an abundance, something we choose to reject. In an Utrillo canvas, a viewer is invited into the picture, he is charmed, and the mind is soothed by what he sees; a freshness, a simplicity, a lyricism, an unusual experience when one considers the explosive nature of post-19th century experimentation." Many critics, sensitive observers, and certainly, the gallery owners, thought along these same lines; they were touched by the effects within Maurice's paintings which made lasting impressions; they remembered what they saw like an event of long ago that survives in the emotions. The patterns of my son's canvasses had begun to develope tendencies and cycles. Reviewers were very much aware of these changes, writing extensively about them, and judging each as possessing qualities quite different in an evolving process. The comments, for the most part, were favorable, although most critics expressed a preference for the earlier phases, describing them as the most pure, more lyrical, less stereotyped. The first stumbling efforts under my tutelage had been original, fresh in interpretation, painted with a sureness quite unusual for a beginner. During the period 1906-1908, Maurice's painting was characterized by naivete, devoid of excessive detail, a simple statement, with an unhesitating directness. The works are loosely rendered, fluent in their brushwork, but lacking his later concern with formal structure. As Maurice progressed into his "white period," paintings were done on cardboard, paper, occasionally wood, his technique became more controlled, and, as some critics have suggested, a kind of instinctive formalism evolved which tightened the overall harmonious effect. In these works, the design becomes contained, and there is a passion for surface textures that was combined with sensitivity for form and subdued color, the lyricism intensifies, and the combinations of flashing whites and ivory blacks strikes the eye with stunning impact. When I spoke to Maurice about his obsession with surface textures, he spoke of constructing the buildings in his paintings, making them exactly like the concrete and plaster surfaces he had lived in and looked at since his childhood. Each object, he had told me, as he he painted it, was not considered an imitation, a mere pastiche, as most artists might think of it, but as something, as it was created, piece by piece, that was meant to exist just as it did in nature, responsive to his viewpoint, and this, in my thinking, transformed the natural phenomena Maurice painted into very special works of art. At the conclusion of a painting, Maurice would puzzle over the proper manner to sign it; this aspect of his work was the only part that gave him trouble; I've seen him put off the signing for days when confronted with the problem. Signing his name seemed to have particular significance for him, a purpose that stretched beyond identification, because basically, vanity was not involved in it at all. I believe his real purpose was to balance the work out, creating effects which he hoped would enhance the harmony of picture. For him, this was a carefully assessed process, and, in the study of his art, it is easily seen that the lettering, his name and that of the locality, play an important role in the overall effect. In most works, he was able to solve the difficulty spontaneously, without deliberating about it, instinctively finding the answer he was seeking. As time went on, Maurice used several names, just Maurice, at first, then Valadon, Maurice Utrillo, V., or Maurice Utrillo Valadon. The personal significance of signing remained critical for him; he never commented on why this continued to bother him, but I believe the use of a particular way of signing his name was related to past events in his life, events which had varying degrees of importance to his concept of himself. Some memories were, no doubt, disturbing: the uncertainties of those early days, his Spanish name, stimulated dark thoughts which had unpleasant implications. Fellow students, during those early days, first at primary school, and later, at the College Rollin, had taunted Maurice about his foreign name, his bastard birth, and his lack of a male parent. These cruel events had left an indelible mark on his character; he hated what he was; he hated the world which he felt oppressed him; and anything which related to these happenings of the past, activated. a response which forced him to strike back at the source of torment. But these introverted moments were not common occurences; mostly, life flowed around Maurice like water around a fish: he was not conscious of it, nor did he feel the normal annoyances or pleasures the average person would experience. What was real to him, becoming his world, was the presence of pain, or the absence of it. He measured life this way, a kind of sin and punishment process, within the orbit of his own consciousness, rather than that of the social system. This made for two worlds; the one he made for himself, and the one that existed outside of him. He was, paradoxically, separate, yet part of, the society which had given him birth, but I do not believe that at any time, he felt the slightest affinity for what it represented. In the constricted circle of his existence, it was only the vehicle which carried him; and, as far as he was concerned, this was the extent of society's importance. Maurice could never understand why he had to follow laws prescribed by society because he believed they were invalid in the world he had created for himself. One peculiar aspect of this insensitivity to what was going on around him, especially where his art is involved, is that his painting, at different periods, had a direct relationship to avant-garde art being done during the first decade of the 20th century. Maurice, I can only guess at this, had absorbed, God knows where, perhaps in the subconscious recesses of his brain, an extra-sensory awareness of things. This, mind you, without showing the slightest interest in exhibitions, articles on art, reproductions that were readily available, or any source that I could think of. For him to do this, was a mystery to many critics, historians, and sophisticated collectors. Maurice's paintings never looked like dated imitations of another age, anachronisms, nor did they have any problems being shown sided by side with the work of Monet, Van Gogh, Pissarro, Cezanne, or if you want to push it a bit, with canvasses by Derain, Vlaminck, Vuillard, Bonnard, and maybe, even Picasso.

CHAPTER 6  -->

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