Ary In Paris
(1920-1933)
It is quite impossible for me to convey in words
what Paris meant to Ary. One would have had to see the slow
on his face and hear the note in his voice as he spoke of the
city, which was so dear to him.
|
La Place de
la Poste, Cansis, France
1928
oil on canvas
21 x 25
Green Room
University of Houston,
Moores School of Music, TX |
Ary's scrapbooks with catalogues and reviews
and press stories about his activities, and the books "Tetes
de Montparnasse" by Nesto Jacometti and "Artistes
Americains Modernes de Paris" by Chill Aronson, which include
Ary, cover quite well his work during those 12 years. I can
only relate some of Ary's reminiscences that may help to fill
in the picture of his personal life at that time.
Ary and his three companions didn't settle down in Paris at
once, for after a short time Raskin and Ginsberg wanted to see
something of Germany. The three of them visited various sections
of the country together, and then Ary stayed on after the others
had left. He explored the Rhine country, walking with rucksack
on his back. Tired eventually of wandering he found a comfortable
room in a pension in Berlin. The landlord, a former army officer,
was a lover of music, and he initiated Ary into the beauty of
Beethoven. This world of majestic and romantic sound was a thrilling
new experience to Ary. Two or three times a week he would go
to a concert, and before each concert the landlord would play
on the piano the themes of the symphonies to be heard, and explain
to Ary something of the structure and development of the composition.
It was one of the highlights of Ary's musical experience that
he was present to hear Nikisch at what proved to be that famous
conductors last concert.
The concerts would begin early, and there was a long intermission,
during which the audience would repair to the adjoining beer
hall, where they would drink beer and eat the sandwiches they
had brought with them. The pension would give Ary a bag of sandwiches,
which he brought with him in his pocket.
There were poetry evenings also, the most memorable one being
the appearance of the Russian poet Mayakowsky, who was the idol
of the young people of the day. Ary said the magnetism of his
looks and his voice was indescribable. But he was a disturbed
soul and eventually committed suicide.
Often Ary would spend an hour or two at the well-known Romanische
Cafe or some other coffee-house. And of course he acquainted
himself with German art. But architecture and art in Germany
were not really to his taste. There was a heaviness, which did
not appeal to his aesthetic sensibilities.
“It was the income from
this apartment house that enabled Ary to remain in Europe
for 12-1/2 years, long after his companions Raskin and Ginsberg
had returned to the United States.”
Through chance Ary learned of a man in Berlin
who was in financial straits and was very eager to sell an apartment
house which he owned. The price was attractively low, and Ary
managed to interest a friend, Dr. Jacques Eskin, whom he had
met on ship-board, and together they bought this property. It
was the income from this apartment house that enabled Ary to
remain in Europe for 12-1/2 years, long after his companions
Raskin and Ginsberg had returned to the United States. It meant
occasional visits to Berlin from Paris, where Ary took a studio
after spending a year in Berlin. But it was well worth his time
and effort, for it meant that he could live modestly in Paris
and travel when the spirit moved.
In Paris Ary tried several temporary studios and eventually
found one much to his liking. The man who had occupied it sold
his furniture to Ary mostly antique pieces of very good
quality. It was on Rue d'Alesia, either in or just beyond the
Montparnasse Arondissement, not too far from the Dome and the
Rotonde, the popular cafes for Montparnasse artists, and from
several restaurants, principally. Le Corbeille, where Ary became
a regular customer.
“He was madly in love
with Paris with her beauty, her spirit, her language,
her art. Here was an ambience in which he felt entirely at
home.”
Then began for Ary what undoubtedly was the happiest
period of his life. He was madly in love with Paris with
her beauty, her spirit, her language, her art. Here was an ambience
in which he felt entirely at home. There was a subtlety, a refinement,
a delicacy, a "bon gout" which set every fibre of
his being to vibrating. He was suddenly set free from all the
bonds, which had been shackling him all those years in Sioux
City.
He would paint hours on end, and when he was tired he would
walk about on the streets, sit in the parks, explore the museums.
He got to know every corner of Montparnasse, the Latin Quarter,
the Place de la Concorde. He spent countless hours at the museums
the Louvre, the Musee de Cluny, with its medieval art
treasures, the Musee Guimet with its marvelous Oriental pieces.
He went to the opera and to the Comedie Francaise (both subventioned
by the government, and therefore low in price). He stood on
street corners listening to the vendors, so as to become acquainted
with the French language; he attended meetings and lectures
so as to become familiar with the best diction. He sat at the
Montparnasse cafes, in a circle of painters Russian,
American, French discussing heatedly every phase of art.
I need not dwell on Ary's painting, for his press reviews from
Paris tell the story. Before too many years he was exhibiting
in the French salons, helping to arrange exhibits of American
groups in the American Club or in galleries; and the French
critics, not too kind to most American painters, welcomed him
warmly as an artist of great gifts and sensibility.
“His studio seems to
have been quite a gathering place for American artists and
their friends. Once a month, on a Saturday, he had open house
and a big crowd came, bringing food and bottles of wine with
them.”
Although Ary was very much an introvert he seems
to have blossomed out in every way during these years. His studio
seems to have been quite a gathering place for American artists
and their friends. Once a month, on a Saturday, he had open
house and a big crowd came, bringing food and bottles of wine
with them. The "femme de menage" who cleaned the studio
and did his laundry once a week would be on hand, and occasionally
she would bring her teenage daughter with her. Ary would ask
some of the artists to dance with the child, and the mother
would watch with tears in her eyes, proud at the honor being
done to her daughter. It was almost impossible to make her take
money for her work at such times.
In the summer there would be an influx of American school teachers
and other young women daring enough to make the trip to Paris
(it was quite an undertaking in those days). Ary evidently had
a sympathetic ear, and sound good advice, and he played the
role of confidante many times. He wasn't often caught up into
the role of lover himself, for his was a very serious nature
and he didn't take anything lightly, and he was still afraid
of being tied down by wife and family and thereby losing his
freedom as an artist. The summer of 1928, however, he spent
in the town of Moret, France, preparing for his first one-man
show, and there he met and fell in love with a very charming
French girl. It was the difference in religion that held him
back from marrying her (she was Catholic). Although she herself
was very liberal in her views Ary sensed a restraint in some
of the members of her family. The year he spent in the United
States, in 1929, gave him a chance to think it over from all
aspects and he came to the conclusion that the barrier was too
great for them to have a chance for a happy marriage. With Hitler
coming along, it proved to be a very wise decision. However
I think this girl was always in his mind, and it was only when
he met me years later that he felt he had again found someone
to whom he was really attuned.
“Ary couldn't compromise
in portraits or anything else, and had utmost scorn for pictures
of pink-cheeked dowagers and dynamic-looking businessmen.
To him it must always be a composition, a work of art, not
a surface likeness.”
Ary painted many portraits at that period his
own kind of interpretive portrait. Sometimes he would work from
the models at the Grande Chaumiere, which was near the Dome;
other times he would have models or friends pose for him in
his studio. He told me various anecdotes of these sittings
the model who was unhappy about her too-thin breasts and who
wept for joy and embraced Ary when he painted her full-breasted;
the American woman who didn't like the double chin Ary was painting
on her portrait, and when he left the room for a minute, went
up to the canvas and tried to paint out the too heavy chin (he
ordered her out of the studio when he saw what she had done).
Ary couldn't compromise in portraits or anything else, and had
utmost scorn for pictures of pink-cheeked dowagers and dynamic-looking
businessmen. To him it must always be a composition, a work
of art, not a surface likeness. In this connection I recall
the portrait Ary painted of me the first year we were married.
He wasn't satisfied with it I guess because he had gone
beyond the stage of enjoying this kind of work and he
never finished it. But I remember saying to him that perhaps
it wasn't the way I looked but it was the way I felt inside
of me.
Leo Stein one of Ary's friends at that time. He would come to
Ary's studio and Ary found him a very interesting conversationalist.
He didn't admire Leo's writing however; he felt that Leo needed
the spontaneity of a verbal exchange of ideas to present himself
at his best. One thing Leo wasn't a bit reticent about was his
dislike of his sister Gertrude; he declared often and vehemently
that she was a fake.
Bastille Day, the 14th of July, was of course a big holiday
in Paris, with dancing all night in the streets. On other occasions
also there were all night artists' balls in which Ary joined;
on some of these occasions they would parade through the streets
in their pajamas. One particular story concerns a cafe
it seems that the Dome was principally the gathering place of
writers, but the Rotonde, across Boulevard Montparnasse, was
the chief rendezvous for artists. It became so well known as
the artists' cafe that tourists began to flock there to watch
the artists. The tourists spent more money than the artists,
of course, and the management began to be impatient at the artists
who lingered for hours over a cup of coffee. Gradually the management
made this impatience evident. The climax came one night when
the crowd had been at an all night ball and came in afterwards
asking for breakfast. The cafe manager refused and told them
in no uncertain terms how he felt about them. Finally one of
the artists cried: "Fellows, let's leave here let's
leave and never come back," and they trouped out and across
the boulevard to the Coupole, next door to the Dome. From that
day on the Coupole became the artists' cafe, and without them
as main attraction, the Rotonde's trade fell off. When we were
last in Paris, in 1955 and '56, the Rotonde was boarded up and
billboards were pasted across the facade. By that time the Coupole
had lost some of its popularity with the artists except
at breakfast, when everyone came in to read the American and
foreign newspapers. The Dome was popular and even more so the
Select, next door to the Rotonde.
|
Snow Scene,
Massif Central
1931
oil on canvas
25 1/2 x 19 1/2
Private Collection, TX |
Much as Ary adored Paris,
there were times when spells of deep depression overcame him
and he locked the door of his studio and ran away. He told me
of the Christmas holidays which he spent in a little town in
Massif Central, the only guest at a little country hotel. Christmas
Eve he walked into the nearby forest and sat down under the
trees, lost in dreams and vague thought, until he fell asleep,
to be wakened by midnight chimes of Christmas bells. (The Foundation
has a Snow Scene and also a summer scene of Massif Central).
Ary told me another time of the summer when the money he had
sent for from his reserves in the States failed to arrive and
he was without funds. He had just money enough for a round trip
to a nearby country spot, a room at a small hotel, and a few
loaves of bread, and he spent several days sitting on the banks
of a little stream, thinking, drowsing and breaking off chunks
of bread to eat. Then there was the holiday when he fled in
disgust from Paris, where a group of American women friends
had ignored his advice and fallen prey to some gigolos seeking
American dollars only to find the friend plus the gigolos
turning up at the very pension where he had taken refuge.
But there were gay holidays too and wonderful excursions to
other countries. Many months in Italy, where he was entranced
particularly by the subtle beauty of the old Sienese masters;
where he attended a week-long religious celebration at the Cathedral
of St. Francis in Assisi, transported to another world by the
heavenly music and the beauty of the paintings by Giotto, Simone
di Martini, Lorenzetti, etc, which looked down at him from the
cathedral walls.
In Spain, he passed a month in Madrid, visiting daily the Prado,
with its superb Goyas, Velasquez, El Grecos, and other masterpieces.
Then he bought a railroad ticket for hundreds of miles of travel
wherever he chose in that country, Toledo, Cordoba, Barcelona,
etc.
|
Arab Boy
1925
watercolor
Green Room
University of Houston,
Moores School of Music, TX |
In 1925 Ary went by ship to
Palestine, where he remained for six months. In Jerusalem
he made dozens of watercolor sketches of the city and its types,
a crowd of youngsters usually surrounding him, and always a
self-appointed leader to drive the unruly ones away. He roamed
the hills and slept in primitive Arab towns; in one of them
he contracted malaria and was desperately ill, and there were
recurrences of the illness for years afterward. He photographed
Chaim Weizman and Lord Balfour at the opening of the Hebrew
University, for the Rotogravure Section of the New York Times.
He was asked by a prominent Arab to photograph his wife and
daughters, the first time they had unveiled their faces to a
stranger.
One of Ary's favorite stories was of the primitive hotel where
he slept overnight, in the Arab town of Acre. Knowing that the
rooms were mostly set up with 6 to 12 beds he asked specifically
for a room with one bed only one bed! He finally made
himself understood and in the evening when he came in, tired
from tramping around, there was his room with only one bed,
as he had asked. He threw himself down on the bed, exhausted,
and slept like drugged through the night, although now and then
in the midst of his sleep he seemed to hear rustling or movement
around him. When he finally woke up in the morning, there on
the floor around his bed were half a dozen Arabs sleeping. He
had specified one bed, but he hadn't said no roommates!
“Traveling was always
an adventure for Ary, and here in northern Africa he sought
out the most colorful and exotic corners he could find.”
It must have been in 1926 or '27 that Ary traveled
through Spain and then down to Morocco and Fez. The Foundation
has a sketchbook
of pen and ink drawings recording the landscape, the architecture,
and the Arab types, single or in groups. Quick sketches, they
have captured the mood and character of the landscape and the
people. Traveling was always an adventure for Ary, and here
in northern Africa he sought out the most colorful and exotic
corners he could find. In Fez he wandered through Arab sections
where the French had warned Europeans not to venture. In Morocco
he was drawn to the Jewish ghetto section; there he found synagogues
and Hebrew schools so poor that they could not afford books
for the students; the boys sat in a circle around the leader,
who held a copy of the Talmud in his hands and the youngsters
learned to read from whatever angle they could see the book.
It was in Fez, I believe, that he attached himself to a procession
that was traveling by bus to a distant cemetery where the anniversary
of the birth or death of a saintly Rabbi was to be celebrated.
It evidently was a spot which was supposed to have miraculous
healing powers, for many sick and lame and blind were among
the pilgrims. The crowd was far too big for the buses, and unfortunately
the strong over-powered the sick in the rush for seats, so most
of the sick and blind had to be hoisted up onto the top of the
bus. Ary, as a stranger, was given a place near the driver.
After a fantastic night's drive, including a change of buses
in which the sick again had to be piled on the top of the bus,
they reached the cemetery. There Ary met resistance and suspicion
this celebration was for Jews, and he was too pale and
too foreign looking to be a Jew. Finally he persuaded them to
let him enter, and he spent several days there, in the midst
of a scene that harkened back to early Biblical days. People
had come from miles around. The wealthy had brought their entire
families with them, a retinue of servants, and food to last
throughout the entire celebration period of three or four days.
The servants pitched tents and prepared the food. The men ate
first, then the women and children, and then the servants, and
finally what was left over was turned over to the poor who had
no food. At night fires were built and the men danced around
the fires, singing and chanting, until they worked themselves
up into a frenzy, and began to throw sacrifices into the fire
silks and other precious fabrics and gold ornaments and
jewelry.
|
Corsica
1926
oil on canvas
12 x 18
Foundation Collection, TX |
On the way back to Paris Ary
stopped at the island of Corsica. In Corsica, while he was
painting on a rocky beach he fell and broke his left arm. It
was badly set by a local doctor, and by the time Ary managed
to get back to Paris. He was in such pain that he had to go
to the American Hospital. There it was reset, but a nerve had
been caught in the first setting, and the arm was paralyzed.
The doctors held out little hope, but Ary was determined to
regain use of the arm, and once the cast was removed he began
laboriously and painfully to exercise. After three months in
the hospital, one day he thought he felt a faint tremor of life
in the arm. The doctors and nurses encouraged him, but secretly
they felt pessimistic. Christmas was approaching and Ary was
eager to spend the holidays in his own environment, so the afternoon
of Christmas Eve the doctors discharged him. He found he had
made a mistake, however. His studio was icy cold and he couldn't
make a fire in the stove. He went out to the usual cafes, but
all of his friends had gone away for the holidays. So he returned
to the freezing studio, wrapped himself up in a blanket, and
spent the most lonesome of Christmases there. I don't know how
long it took for the arm to begin to function again, but finally,
after patient exercising and many visits to the hospital Ary
could move it almost as well as before, although it always remained
weak.
As time went on, Ary made a number of good friends among the
French. Othon Friesz, at the height of his popularity, invited
Ary to exhibit under his aegis at the Salon (des Tuileries,
I believe, or the Salon d'Automne). The Salon d'Echanges,
showing late in 1931 at the Porte de Versailles, chose Ary
as the only American to exhibit with them, and the following
year he was one of their Committee. That second year several
Americans, Kerkham and Minna Harkavy among them, were among
the exhibitors. The Paris edition of the Chicago Daily Tribune,
in reviewing the show, commented: "Renouncing the attempt
to disguise the melancholy fact that very few people, however
interested in art, have any money today to purchase pictures,
they (the artists) have established a system of exchange by
which merchandise that might appeal to an artist's fancy can
be obtained in lieu of cash wine, rare books, groceries,
free meals for a year, curtains, watches ..." Further
on, writing of Ary,
"Last year Stillman received a 5000 fr. camera for one
of his compositions, but refused another offer from a Montmartre
cabaret for free champagne for himself and friends at any
time he cared to visit the cafe."
|
The Kitchen
1932
oil on canvas
24 x 20
Green Room
University of Houston,
Moores School of Music, TX |
Early in the 1930s Ary met
the Droz family he was a Swiss and she was a French woman,
who lived in the charming and historical town of Senlis, not
far from Paris. Ary was in the forest of Senlis, with paints
and easel, when the Drozes and their three children, the maid
and the dog, came along with picnic hampers, bound for a day's
outing. They stopped to talk to Ary and invited him to join
them. This was the beginning of a very happy friendship. The
Drozes insisted that Ary visit them every possible weekend;
the guest bedroom was set aside for him, and from one visit
to another his favorite books and magazines were on the table
by the bed, and everything in readiness for him. On one occasion
when he had been ill they came to Paris and took him back to
Senlis to recuperate. The cook fussed over him and prepared
special dishes for him, especially a savory soup which Ary was
very fond of. Ary's painting "The Kitchen" which he
retained during the years in spite of many requests to buy it,
is happily in the possession of the Foundation, and keeps alive
the memory of the Droz home. They were a very cultured couple,
and the fine French which Ary spoke was due greatly to their
influence. (In
1952 we had a memorable reunion with the Drozes, which I have
recorded in my European diary.) Ary kept a number of letters
he had received from Mrs. Droz and her family. They seem to
me to be so beautifully expressed, almost poetic, and they radiate
such warmth and affection that one can realize what this friendship
must have meant to Ary. I think the glow of this friendship
must have had something to do with the luminosity of "The
Kitchen."
“But Ary too was only
half Stella's size, and after he and Stella slashed at each
other for a short time with their canes, Ary went down, cut
and bleeding.”
In 1932 the Paris newspapers carried highly humorous
reports of the "War of the Artists" a battle
that took place between Ary and Joseph Stella, in front of the
Dome. Stella, enraged at having been left out of an exhibition
and related book prepared by Chil Aronson, encountered Aronson
at the cafe, and after spitting in his face grabbed him by the
coat and shook him. Aronson was only half of Stella's size,
and he seemed to Ary to need a defender, so Ary sprang up and
rushed at Stella. But Ary too was only half Stella's size, and
after he and Stella slashed at each other for a short time with
their canes, Ary went down, cut and bleeding. The police came
in and calmed things down. They wanted Ary to prefer charges
against Stella, but of course Ary wouldn't.
The year 1933 was a troubled one. On one of Ary's infrequent
visits to Germany he felt the tension in the air, and when he
went to call on some old friends, the father of the family opened
the door cautiously, looked at Ary with fear in his eyes, put
a finger to his lips, and closed the door again. In Paris money
was short. Ary sent several requests to the States for some
of the reserves he had left there, but received no reply. The
rent on his studio was due (it was paid every three months.)
The landlord demanded his money. Ary was advised to go to the
courts to appeal to an influential official, a Monsieur Martin,
who was said to be very sympathetic to artists. M. Martin proved
to be friendly indeed; he declared that if an artist couldn't
pay he just couldn't pay, and the landlord must be advised of
that. He had his office assistants take care of it, and no more
was heard from the landlord. Ary's colleague who had advised
him about M. Martin said: "You should have put on a real
'hardluck' face; he would surely have bought a painting!"
All in all, Ary felt it was time to return to the States. So
he dismantled his studio, sold the furnishings, stored some
paintings and packed others to take with him. As he recounted
it to me, he sat at the cafe late that final evening, then returned
to the almost empty studio to pace up and down all night, and
at dawn he started out to walk slowly through the deserted streets,
mile after mile to the railroad station.