QUID PRO QUO
| Everybody, it appeared to me, was after a Utrillo canvas, money in hand, ready to make a deal. This had been true even in the old days, when people stood in back of him as he painted a Montmartre, street scene. The work moved easily, nobody got into a sweat about it, and it was as simple and quick as that. What made the sales move faster, was the absence of Utrillos on the market--prolific as Maurice was in turning them out--in his urgent need to satisfy his thirst. In most instances, the canvasses moved from one dealer to another, the price rising as they reached the walls of the larger galleries. Profit-greedy characters, seeking a windfall, tried to ingratiate themselves with Maurice, tempting him with money for an extended binge, using every ploy they could think of. |
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It was dead wrong to think of these characters as fly-by-night con-men, bummers out to flim-flam a simple minded artist into handing over a valuable work of art. This is, simply, not the case, because among the crowd tailing my son were characters from all walks of life, at every social level. Among them, were art lovers, those who enjoyed an experience which extended beyond the poor soul who was at the center of it. This mystique, a phenomenon escaping description, was, in an astonishing way, not limited to the art world itself, but also touched the ordinary individual, the average Frenchman, who found interest in the art and the man. The confrontation between Maurice and his followers became high comedy when intelligent men tried every trick they could think of to get on the right track with a tipsy drunk involved in an extended binge that could go on indefinitely. It was an extraordinary sight to see the staggering center of all this attention; a bottle in each hand, moving slowly on the Rue des Martyrs, stopping now and then to drink deeply, accompanied by a dozen or so well-dressed characters, some in top hats and frock coats, all trying desperately to ingratiate themselves .... When Maurice entered a cafe, which he did at regular intervals when his transportable supply went dry, the group surrounded him, all shouting at once, striving to consumate a deal for a canvas. The favorite enticement, often accepted, was a guaranteed binge, complete, all expenses included, with no limitations. The arrangement would be sealed by a shake of the hand, a painting would go to the fortunate entrepreneur who had won out over the others, and Maurice would proceed with his process of intoxication. It all went on smoothly, a straightforward transaction, having little effect on the drinking which went on before, during, and after the wheeling and dealing. The funny part developed when one of the bourgeois personalities decided it was a good idea to go drink for drink with Maurice in his journey to oblivion, a friendly gesture, which was calculated to make a good impression. Others soon picked up on the idea, the top hats began rolling in the street, and whole group, as they marched, began to take on that peculiar walk of rolling on their heels. This invariably had fatal consequences, leaving a stalwart would-be dealer out cold on the street, or on the floor of some cafe on the La Butte Pinson. This disastrous result of a well-planned sales pitch, didn't discourage most of the con-men, but as time went on, they became more astute about what would work with Maurice and what would not, and eventually discarded the idea as an efficient way to conduct business. The simple reality was that Maurice saw no merit in tactics like this because his mentality was not subtle enough for such dealings, it was far more simple than they imagined, and was not much more to him than an exchange in which both sides benefited. It is my belief, actually, that Maurice never really grasped what all the excitement was about, that he wondered at the maneuvering around him. He did grasp, however, that money was involved, that the money kept the intoxication process going: and this, of course, was very important. I never heard any complaints from these bummers except that the tension of trying to effect a deal with Maurice; the constant uncertainties; was extremely stressful. After a time, Naly said, the group developed a certain camaraderie because of this problem, even to the point of helping each other if something promising demanded cooperation. But this eventuality was rare; they were competitors; and were more likely to be at each other's throats. Some of the more criminally-minded characters, pretending to be more compassionate than the rest, would help a staggering Maurice back to his room above the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, hoping that they might find a few canvasses lying around that they could pilfer. This resulted in a parade of dubious art lovers moving up and down the single flight of stairs to they artist's studio: if you could call it that. Sergeant Gay, on to the intended larceny, ordering them to leave Maurice on the street, and he would take over at that point, carrying his tenant up to his bed, When several of the Utrillo entourage resisted, Sergeant Gay threw the smart alecks down the stairs and out on the Rue Leval, a feat of muscular prowess which was accompanied by considerable cursing and a threat to break their necks if he caught them in the building again. The real reason for his anger was the suspicion that the group had been stealing paintings, some finished, and some unfinished, paintings that were showing up at some of the larger galleries on the Rue Peletier. Sergeant Gay, who wasn't shy about demanding some sort of provenance from the dealers for these works, was given the brush off and told to get a lawyer if he wanted to take it to court. Naturally, he avoided this because he knew he did not have a chance, in a legal sense, with the system set up to favor the bourgeoisie. "If I get evidence," he said, meaning that he might convince Maurice to testify, "I'll send the sons of bitches down the drain!" This idea didn't work out on account of Maurice having no memory about doing the particular pictures. Maurice, once a painting was out of his hands, forgot about it, and as far as he was concerned, it never existed. Ansoli gave Maurice a steady stream of pocket money; not big stuff; and Maurice passed over each canvas as he finished it. Sergeant Gay, displeased by the arrangement, made angry noises, believing he had been cut out of the picture, but he quieted down when Maurice assured him that everything was just as it had been before. Having money gave Maurice, briefly, a feeling of importance; he thought he had struck it rich, and having change in his pocket gave him added prestige among his alcoholic friends. It appeared, as things had worked out, that Maurice was set pretty well for the future, at least as far as finances were concerned, that money as a major problem was not his biggest headache.... I didn't trust Ansoli because I was certain he would cheat on my son, that he would take advantage of Maurice's inability to understand what was going on. This was confirmed when Naly told me that Ansoli was selling to the big galleries, making a big killing, while he turned only the small change over to Maurice. Ansoli was a slippery character like most of the small operators around the Montmartre, a man very difficult to pin down. He had survived the vanities of the framing business for twenty-five years, he was merciless, and knew how to come out on top in a deal. Ansoli knew about shady tricks on the hill; it wasn't considered bad at all, simply part of the act, with the aim of getting all you could get, but still staying within the margin of the law. Ansoli also knew that art dealers were frequently the worst of the lot, that successful dealing demanded a cold heart, that there was no room for compromise unless your back was against the wall. It was, then, no place for naive people, those who entered business with a dreamy-eyed idealism, seeing in art a romantic chance to make a cultural contribution to society in general. So criminal practices proliferated in the art game; the sophisticates who ran it were in up to their necks, and, it was absolutely necessary if they hoped to keep their heads abover the water. The chances, even so, of making a go of it depended on a little luck, and when things soured, sense enough to get out with both feet on the ground. This meant being alert to all signs which might indicate a trend in one way or another, those who neglected this were soon up to their necks in trouble, and consequently, they disappeared from the scene. Art was a sensitive and uncertain committment, with the weak falling by the wayside, and the strong surviving with a little luck along with a few francs they might have saved for a rainy day. With this kind of dog eat dog situation, exploitation of the artist was an everyday occurence. Almost all dealers did it, highbrow or lowbrow, it didn't make much difference, nor did any of these individuals have any conscience over their actions. Justice, as we normally interpret the word, just didn't exist in the art world, as far I could determine, anyway. In my mind, it was the fox in the chicken coop cliche repeated again and again; and the artist, in all this chicanery, was the victim, usually without recourse, and grateful for the few crumbs thrown his direction. Some, like Ansoli, came into the business already equipped with the wisdom to survive, enabling them to tiptoe successfully through shark infested waters. By making these derogatory remarks, I do not imply that there weren't honest dealers here and there, or that the bunch of them were culturally deficient. The basic problem, as it is, I suppose, in all of human endeavor, was survival; when this is the problem, it wasn't hard to understand that working around the law became a mandatory procedure, because without it, they'd be belly up in a very short time. One aspect of the selling and buying scenario, was the average Montmartrois's pleasure in the gambling process; for the typical dealer, it paralleled the risk they took in betting on horses, throwing the dice, or holding a tough hand in blackjack. It is well known that Frenchmen will wager their shirts on a three-legged horse if they are in the mood to do so. The odds never scared the typical citizen of the butte; and as a matter of fact, the added risk made the pleasure even greater, particularly if the venture came off successfully. The now you do it, now you don't, part of the adventure in art, and the nature of the game, for most of these individuals, provided a little class to an otherwise humdrum existence. As far as my own work is concerned, I never trusted any of these characters, but I have to admit, they are an unusual breed, more resourceful than people in other professions, capable of sacrifice if they think they can get the cash flowing into their pockets, and, on the other hand, if they are pushed by adverse circumstances, they wouldn't hesitate a second before cutting your throat. Maurice, in a limited way, was aware of the pitfalls involved in his deal with Ansoli; and as time progressed, there was doubt in his mind that he was getting a fair shake. Even someone as limited as Maurice realized he was painting more and receiving less in return. As I judged these characters, Ansoli included, they never rested on a fair exchange, but always opted for stealing as much as possible under the circumstances. This finally got to Maurice who asked me if I would front with Ansoli, check out the inventory for each painting, and try to make certain that we were getting the money which should be coming to us. At first I dealt exclusively with Ansoli, checking the canvasses he had at hand with the list provided by Maurice, whose memory, as I have said, had gaps that made the oversight very difficult. I thought Ansoli had a lot of nerve, considering his cheating, to complain about my son selling behind his back. Maurice had done this continuously since the day he discovered that painting could provide cash to satisfy his thirst. To make such a statement also demonstrated Ansoli's ignorance of Maurice's thinking, especially if he believed the criticism would have the slightest effect on the arrangement between them. Sales of paintings to buyers and deliveries to the dealer were governed strictly by the availability of the next drink. Anybody who happened along at the right moment, catching Maurice in a thirsty mood, had an optimum chance of acquiring a "Sacre-Coeur" or a "Church of Saint Pierre," for peanuts. It was their good luck; they had negotiated a real bargain.; and it was the reverse for the entrepreneurs who weren't Johnny-on-the spot.... Ansoli, angry about these sales, got into a furious argument with Maurice, waving his arms, shouting loudly, pounding the table in frustration, disturbing the customers at the Cafe Belle Gabrielle. Maurice's disdain of Ansoli's performance, acting like the dealer wasn't even present, made the contretemps even worse. He sipped his wine calmly, dragging on a cigarette, blowing puffs of smoke in the air, and staring coldly at Ansoli. The stare didn't signify much except he wasn't interested in what the enraged dealer had to say, that he was much more concerned about the full glass of red wine which sat on the table in front of him, and perhaps, additionally, what was beyond that. Eventually, Marie Vizier, tired of Ansoli's foul mouth, called the police, who escorted him unceremoniously out on the Rue Leval, still shouting obscenities. Whether Maurice got the drift of the emotional performance by Ansoli, I cannot say, but whether Ansoli liked it or not, he continued his practice of selling to the stuffed shirts from outside the Montmartre, the opportunists who followed him around, and occasionally, with the bagmen from the flea market in the Place Pigalle. His drinking buddies, in my opinion, were the most fortunate in acquiring his canvasses: sometimes obtaining several during a protracted period of intoxication. Sergeant Gay, wise to what was going on, had solid connections with these bummers, capturing a number of Maurice's best pictures. In a short time, they appeared magically in the small annex next to the Cafe Belle Gabrielle, hung among the rest of the products up for sale. Sergeant Gay still used the soft sell on prospective customers, buying drinks at first, and then showing them the art. "Le Moulin de la Galette," one of Maurice's favorite subjects, was sold to Castagary, an art critic for L'Evenement, this way. Castagary walked out of the Cafe Belle Gabrielle with his prize under his arm, delighted at getting a fine painting at a very cheap price. After a while, the news of this bonanza, a chance to buy good paintings at modest prices, spread throughout the art community, making the Cafe Belle Gabrielle a mecca for bargain-seekers. It was not unusual, Vizier said, to have several major critics in the cafe at the same time, all with the same idea in mind. Tabarant, an artist and writer for La Cravache, purchased his first Utrillo this way, a "Place du Tertre," which he described as: "A subtle and beautiful interpretation of the Montmartre spirit." Later, Tabarant got a "Sacre-Coeur," from Ansoli which he called "Miraculous, an extraordinary picture, a brilliant, brooding, canvas, enough to make you religious if you weren't." In a subsequent article, he devoted an entire column to Maurice, going over his problems, and concluding, by stating categorically, that it was the reponsibility of the French government to protect valuable artists from themselves. "Utrillo," he wrote, "is threatened by chronic alcoholism, which will, eventually, either kill him, or put him in jail. Can a painter of such importance be thrown into the darkness of the penal system, or allowed to destroy himself because he cannot control his addiction?" Tabarant suggested a fund be set up to study the case, and that measures be enacted to guarantee his safety. It included a yearly stipend with the State handling the art, and a special dispensation which would protect Maurice from arrest and incarceration for any criminal act taking place before he came under government supervision. Naturally, nothing came out of this, it was a hot potato which few politicians wanted to touch, because the idea of protecting a notorious drunk, a criminal who attacked pregnant women, and a pervert who made public displays of himself, was suicidal from a political viewpoint. The increased publicity coming from the story, spread Maurice's reputation even further, and the pictures moved more rapidly from Ansoli to eager buyers. My suspicions of Ansoli, in the meantime, had increased. I was annoyed at the uncertain state of affairs, so I decided, with Maurice's approval, to give Ansoli the sack. His qualifications for dealing, simply put, meant he had a real talent for steering most of the money into his own pocket. Our arguments with him had multiplied, there were indications of underhand dealings, discrepancies in a few cases where I managed to trace a sale back to the purchasers, and, of course, the main irritation, which was the small amount of money coming back to us.
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