by Alain Elkann
“When you were my age, what did you think about love?”
“I always wanted to be bought by a woman. To give her the illusion that she could buy me only to prove to her that it wasn’t true, that she had got it wrong. I wanted to pretend I could be bought, but in reality I was free and no one could possess me.”
“That seems complicated to me, but I understand you. I too get just so far and then withdraw, I can’t help it. It’s as if I were protecting myself, as if I had the premonition that in any case I would end up disappointed. You know, I tend to run away from people who might make me suffer.”
“I don’t think Sax is going to show. Will you come with me to buy some notebooks?”
“Yes, of course, I know a stationer near here where they sell notebooks that are just right for you. Black, slim, with squares, you’ll see! Look, do you want to meet him because you want to buy one of his pictures?”
“No, I’d like to interview him, maybe become his friend.”
“Are you sure that this obsession of yours doesn’t hide a desire to write a book about him?”
“No, as long as he’s alive that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I would have to tell the whole truth.”
“But people write novels because they are imaginary stories, you can tell the truth in them.”
“Do you think you’ll marry?”
“And do you still want to be possessed? Did my mother possess you?”
“She loved me, then she tired of me and I allowed other women to possess me. Would you like an Italian husband?”
“I’m not sure I want a husband.”
“As time passed I gradually wanted different things. Women have taught me all there is to know about life, above all to become myself.”
“Where do I stand in your life?”
“You are my daughter, and a unique woman. As my mother was.”
“Have I disappointed you?”
“No, but sometimes I get scared because you’re so much like me. I’d like you to have a happy life and I wish you were less troubled.”
“Are you happy?”
“If I were truly happy I wouldn’t be obsessed by Julian Sax. But I’ve had my moments of happiness.”
“I wouldn’t like to have a father like Sax, you know I never liked him. I understand that he’s fascinating because he’s Ludwig Sax’s grandson, maybe he’s even a real artist, but I’m not too sure about him. He has a certain something that irritates me—I get the feeling he’s two-faced.”
“But he’s a great artist and he’s sure of that. Unfortunately, I don’t have that certainty. I really envy him. He is a wolf; I don’t have the courage to be like that. Why do you think young men don’t find you attractive?”
“Because they don’t want girls with too many problems, too many questions, too many moods. They want to have fun and feel important.”
“Maybe you should look for more mature men, older than you.”
“I told you before, I don’t like them. I am attracted to handsome, young, weak men.”
Going with my daughter to buy notepads was a happy moment for me and I was touched as I watched her making her choice with an expert eye. I felt we had similar tastes.
When we parted I thought I wasn’t used to speaking to her that way. I wasn’t worried about her being attracted to handsome young men, but because she was too intelligent and was bound to get hurt. Although I had messed up many matters of the heart in my life, I still felt that our relationship was secure.
Rossa, Sole and I went to have breakfast at Tony’s on Saturday. Julian Sax was there, sitting at a round table with one of his daughters, a grandson, and his son-in-law. He was a grandfather and an affectionate father, and he seemed very much at ease in those circumstances. We observed the scene, but didn’t know how to behave. Sole should have stood up, gone over to him and said:
“Do you remember me?”
Perhaps we should have broken the ice, but all of us were looking awkwardly towards Sax’s table.
At a certain point Julian rose to his feet, irritated. He felt he was being watched and he left, giving his daughter a hasty kiss; the others left shortly after. Our silence and our inquisitive stares had disturbed their family get-together.
2
TONY’S
WHY HAD WE SAT THERE HYPNOTISED, without making a move? Why, on finding myself so close to Sax for the second time, had I not gone up to him and asked him if he would grant me an interview? Had I been afraid that he might humiliate me with a refusal? But wasn’t it more humiliating, in front of Rossa and Sole, to have lacked the courage to go and speak to him? That man intimidated me, made me feel insecure, paralysed me. I know that this didn’t matter to Sole, but I had realised that Rossa was under Sax’s spell and, if he had been younger, she might have fallen in love with him. But what did age matter? Sax had erotic episodes, love affairs, with very young women. He would take them to his studio where he seduced them, painted them, and left them. Why did he do this? Why did he need to seduce women so much? The truth was that I didn’t make contact with him because I was afraid that even Rossa might have fallen into the net cast by that werewolf. What if he had suggested that he paint her portrait? Perhaps even Sole, who always spoke of him in disparaging terms, might have accepted. I couldn’t bear the idea of my wife or daughter sitting for him. Better to get rid of this obsession and put it out of mind. Forget Sax.
PART THREE
WOMEN
1
NEW YORK
I CHANGED MY MIND on reading the New York Times, where I found a review of an exhibition of Sax’s work at the Sidney Wallace Gallery. Not many paintings: the portrait of the black woman, an officer of the Queen’s Grenadier Guards sprawling in a chair, the artist’s white dog, a naked male friend lying on a bed, his pregnant daughter, a little grandchild … I was curious to find out if the daughter and the grandson were the ones we had seen in London at Tony’s or if it was Lidia with my friend Paul’s son.
We went to visit Sidney Wallace. He received us in his office: a big room with three desks and two sofas. We talked about Sax right away. I told him how I had followed Sax various times to suggest that he hold an exhibition in Venice or give me an interview. I didn’t say that we had seen him twice at Tony’s and I hadn’t dared speak to him. Wallace wouldn’t have understood my insecurity. Nor was there any need to speak up in Rossa’s presence, because she may have confused my hesitance with my tendency to voyeurism. Without hesitation, Wallace said:
“Not to worry, if Julian is stand-offish and doesn’t want to talk there’s nothing personal about it. He has no time for interviews. He lives like a monk, and thinks only of painting. He works early in the morning, then takes a break for lunch, has a nap and goes back to work until the small hours. He doesn’t want to see anyone, he never gives interviews, and he doesn’t even attend the openings of his exhibitions. You have to take him as he comes. He is obsessive and unpredictable. For example, he hates money yet he earns piles of it.”
“How much is one of his paintings worth today?”
“It depends, but I’d say several million dollars. But I repeat, he wastes money. For years he played the casinos and the horses just for the fun of losing. You know, not so long ago, in Paris, he took a fancy to a man whose face intrigued him. He started to paint his portrait but then, out of the blue, he changed his mind. He called me in the middle of the night and said: ‘I don’t like that man anymore, he means nothing to me, I never want to see him again.’ ‘But he has already paid.’ ‘Give him his money back.’
“I remember a Swiss banker who wanted Julian to paint his portrait at all costs. Every week he would travel from Zurich to London and sometimes he would pose for hours. Julian made him wait and then maybe he would tell him to come back another time because he didn’t feel like working that day. But the banker was so determined to have that portrait that he put up with everything … In the end Julian finished it.”
> “That seems very arrogant to me,” said Rossa in irritation.
Yet I knew that she too would have agreed to sit for him, out of defiance, vanity. She would have made Julian fall in love with her and she would have had the courage to say:
“Please keep the money I have given you, but I don’t like the portrait, it doesn’t interest me, and I don’t want it.”
Sidney Wallace talked about Sax as if he were a genius.
“I had wanted to work with him for years. The relationship was forged bit by bit and now I can say that he trusts me.”
In saying ‘he trusts me’ he revealed the pride of a man who had won the great privilege of deciding what should be done with the work of this extraordinary artist. His was the responsibility.
I added:
“I wanted to suggest to him that he hold an exhibition in Venice.”
“That’s a good idea, but I think someone has already thought of that.”
“Who?”
“I don’t recall. I would have to ask one of my sons who dealt with that proposal.”
“So, if I have understood correctly, someone is already working on an exhibition in Venice and you think it won’t be possible to interview Sax?”
“I don’t think so, but with him you never know.” I took Rossa to Vladimir’s place. He was an American friend of Russian origin whom I hadn’t seen for years and whose parents I had met. His mother, Tatiana, was an eccentric who had been playing canasta for a lifetime with another Russian woman, Sonia. They couldn’t do without each other, but they also loathed each other because they both claimed to have been Mayakovsky’s mistress. That evening in Vladimir’s house there were some art critics I hadn’t seen for a long time. One of them was an Englishman who lives in New York and has been working on a monumental book on Picasso for years. When I went up to greet him he was talking about Sax to a young man. Not without vanity, he was saying:
“Julian calls me every evening, he wants to know the jet-set gossip here in New York. Either he calls me or he calls Charles Bloom.”
I said hello and broke into the conversation, saying straight off:
“I saw Sidney Wallace today, he says that all Sax thinks of is work.”
“Yes, he’s been like that since he stopped gambling.”
2
LONDON
I TOLD SOLE I HAD SEEN Sax’s latest pictures in New York and that they had struck me as interesting. She said:
“I got an invitation to spend the weekend at Damian Oxfordshire’s place in the country, and I knew Sax was going to be there too.”
“But he never leaves London.”
“You know he has a soft spot for Damian. But I didn’t go because I didn’t feel like seeing him.”
“Why do you look down on him so much? He’s a great artist!”
“That’s what you think.”
“It’s not just me, the market thinks so too.”
“I prefer other artists. I prefer Hopper.”
“But Hopper is dead.”
“So what, Leonardo, Poussin, and Caravaggio are dead too!”
“Okay, let’s not argue about it.”
Sole is like that. She is not an easy person to understand and she is moody. It’s very hard to be accepted by her. Since childhood she has always tried to suppress suffering and worries. She loves her family, but lives far from us because we have too strong an effect on her emotions. She is a woman who needs to be helped to live, but with respect. You have to leave her breathing room, encouraging her and listening to her when she wants it. Besides, with grown up children you must learn to keep a certain distance, and not suffer when they don’t see things the way you do. It’s not easy, but if I am obsessed by Sax and Sole can’t stand him, it’s better not to press the point, simply change the subject.
3
PROVENCE
ONE EVENING, Sole and a cousin of hers took us to the home of some English friends, an architect and an antiques dealer. The garden is very well tended, the swimming pool is a small oval affair, and the furnishings spartan. When we were at dinner and the atmosphere was relaxed, a young man who gave off a strong scent of rather spicy cologne started talking about sex, gambling, and homosexual friendships. At a certain point, a distinguished American lady alluded to Julian Sax and the conversation immediately switched to him. His turbulent past, moments of great debauchery, his vast brood of illegitimate children, his rebellious side, and his arrogance, were all subjects that triggered endless anecdotes. The English are puritanical, but they are mad about scandals and gossip. Sax’s model was Lord Byron. A great lover of horses, gambling, food, and women.
Sole’s cousin, at table with us, said:
“Every time she can, my mother lunches at Tony’s because she knows that Julian is there.”
“Does she know him?” asked the American lady.
“No, I don’t think she has ever spoken to him. My father is afraid of Sax. As a young man he frequented violent company, street thugs.”
José, a fellow who had said nothing until then, said:
“Julian is obsessed by museums, especially the museums of Madrid. Bacon had a passion for Madrid too. Besides, the pair of them were close companions for years, until Bacon broke with Sax and began running him down.”
Rossa said: “My husband is obsessed by Sax.”
José replied:
“He’s right, he’s a very special man. My friend lived for years near to Sax’s place. He knew his model.”
“Who? The black lawyer whose portrait he painted?” I asked curiously, aware that Sole would give me one of her ironic looks.
“No, another woman. Sax’s latest pictures are on show at the Wallace Collection and the curator of the exhibition had lunch with him. A few hours later, he wrote her a letter asking if he could paint her portrait. At first, she thought it was a joke. When she understood that it was true, she had no time to sit for him. She takes her work really seriously and he expects his models to give him unlimited time.”
Rossa said: “She certainly missed a unique opportunity.”
“Would you like Sax to do your portrait?” asked José.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“What kind of man is Sax?” asked one of our hosts.
“An inverted snob” said José.
“In what sense?” asked Sole, suddenly attentive.
“For example, a few months ago, a friend of mine was sitting next to Sax in church during a service and, running a finger lightly over the material of his jacket, which seemed threadbare, he asked him: ‘Is this cashmere?’ and Sax replied: ‘Yes’, as if annoyed by an obvious question. Do you see what I mean? Inverted snobbery is wearing a cashmere jacket as if it were any old rag.”
From Provence I called a Scots friend, a literary agent who smokes a lot of cigarettes—Player’s Plain—and drinks a lot of whisky. He is a friend of Sax. I told him of my useless attempts to meet and interview him, and the fact that—for one reason or another—I couldn’t get the man out of my head. He suggested not to interview him, but to write a novel about him instead.
I could begin the story with his death: Great artist found murdered in his studio. The novel becomes an investigation. Readers always love crime stories. Years after, people are still wondering about Pasolini’s death. “Who killed Sax?” I could look into the world of gambling or visit his many lovers, his illegitimate children, looking for some perverse, secret story … But was it possible that a controversial artist, censured, rich, famous, and even hateful in a certain sense, could be killed by someone who envied him? If the novel were a detective story, I would have to create the police inspector, describe the inquiry, his friends, enemies, family, the scandal, the inheritance … I will begin the story with Sax’s murder in Holland Park. I have all I need: the victim, the crime scene and a line of investigation sufficient to make the plot a complex one. But what bothers me is the inspector. I don’t want to invent an inspector because, however you describe him, he and the killer become the
main characters, whereas all I’m interested in is Sax. I am interested in the artist, not his death. I am interested only in Sax because I realise I envy him, I envy the security of a talent confirmed by critics, collectors and market prices all over the world. The great, recognised artist is perhaps the only man who does what he wants, lives as he wants, while his life becomes a legend. Perhaps I haven’t really admitted this even to myself, but I’d like my life to be a legend too. Besides, I have always felt indifferent towards people who are not extraordinary. My attention is not captured by success, but by someone’s originality. I feel irresistibly attracted to those who are unique, solitary and always able to be themselves in any circumstances. It’s not a question of heroes, but of people who choose to live their lives outside the canons of convention, without feeling that they are a part of the herd or protected by a social class or a political group. Certainly, if a person manages to make his mark and attain success while remaining entirely true to himself, then he has my admiration. And my envy too, unfortunately.
4
ROSSA
ROSSA IS A VERY BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. With her deep, green eyes, freckled skin and dark reddish hair, she looks Irish. Almost always cheerful and affectionate, she expresses herself with a sweet simplicity. She is intelligent and conceals an underlying vein of melancholy caused by the many sorrows of her life. This is why, even though she appears calm and smiling, she’s a bit like a volcano, with unpredictable reactions. A setback or a misunderstanding can be enough to trigger an explosive outburst of rage that transforms her sweetness into an almost pitiless cruelty that she is unable to repress. I must admit that I really fear these sudden mood swings, because they spoil the harmony of our relationship and convey to me a sense of desperation, of profound disquiet, which then fades and is forgotten until the next explosion.