The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  Part TWO

  15

  Vivienne, 1923

  Less than a year after her run-in with Antoinette Lavigne at Gertrude Stein’s, Vivienne returns to Paris with Edwin. It’s far too soon, and as they travel around the city hunting artwork, she searches everywhere for hostile faces. She also shuns anyone in a uniform, although she doubts the police are still looking for her—if they ever were—and hopes the same is true for her father.

  Edwin is confused by her behavior. “What’s wrong?” he asks one day as she stands outside the plate-glass window of Petit Robert scrutinizing the diners seated within. He pulls the door open. “It’s late. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I feel a headache coming on,” she says, her eyes still on the dining room.

  “What does a headache have to do with lunch?”

  She has no answer for this, so she goes inside with him. Fortunately no one glances their way.

  She agreed to come to France, against her better judgment, because of Henri. Edwin had published a book called The Art in Painting a few years earlier and asked her to coauthor his next, which he wants to focus on Matisse. The first task is to secure Henri’s consent, but now that they’re in Paris, Edwin thinks it best to wait for just the right moment. Any moment will be the right moment, as far as Vivienne is concerned, as she and Henri have fallen into an easy camaraderie on this trip. For reasons she’s not quite sure of, she doesn’t mention this to Edwin.

  Whenever she and Henri find themselves together, he pulls a chair alongside hers, gazes deep into her eyes, and asks her opinion on the news of the day. Or they discuss Chaim Soutine, who, after Edwin paid him for sixty paintings, hailed a cab to the French Riviera, over five hundred miles away. They discuss Gertrude’s idea of writing her autobiography told from Alice’s point of view. And they discuss the rumor that the artist Maurice Utrillo is the illegitimate son of the model and painter Suzanne Valadon.

  Just the other day, they had a conversation about whether Signac’s expansion of Seurat’s Pointillist dots into thicker lozenge-shaped brushstrokes is a breakthrough or just the pilfering of Seurat’s idea. Vivienne is starstruck, far more so than if Henri were Lon Chaney or Buster Keaton. She can’t believe she’s in the presence of the great master or that he appears to have an interest in talking to her.

  As she does often, she thinks about how excited her father would be if he knew she was having exchanges like this with Henri Matisse, potentially writing a book about him. She imagines the finished volume on the blotter of Papa’s massive desk, the pride and pleasure beaming from his eyes as he reads her name on the cover, runs his finger over the embossed gold lettering. But if Papa did see the book, he would have no idea who Vivienne Gregsby is. And she’s certain he doesn’t have his massive desk anymore.

  Henri’s apartment is enveloped in fabrics. Silk curtains are gracefully swagged at the edge of the windows; Persian carpets lie side by side on the floor. The upholstery is of the finest brocade, and pillows in riotous colors are scattered everywhere. Embroidered screens, African wall hangings, decorative cushions. Swatches of magnificent textiles flung on chairs, couches, even tables.

  Henri watches her. “I am a descendant of generations of weavers,” he explains. “The devotion to color comes from my mother, who was also a painter, although she chose to paint on porcelain, while I prefer canvas.”

  It’s a splendid spectacle in and of itself, but it’s also a Matisse painting: the vibrancy, the rich hues, the textures and patterns. It’s all there. “I feel like I’m standing inside one of your pictures,” Vivienne says in a hushed voice.

  “I have been collecting fabrics since I was an art student. Here, there, wherever I travel.” He points to a wall hanging. “Algeria.” To a narrow swatch that lies along the middle of a long table. “Tahiti.” To a drapery on the far window. “A bargain I found at the end of the season at a haute couture sale here in Paris.”

  She wants to tell him that she, too, comes from a textile family, but she says nothing. He shows her his bookshelves, laden with an odd assortment of items: vases and urns and an egg cup, African masks and Chinese porcelain, glass vitrines with mirrored backs. Some banal, others exotic. “The tapestries are my backdrops,” he says. “The objects are my characters. A good actor can have a part in ten different plays. An object can play a role in ten different pictures.”

  She’s seen the anthropomorphic green vase in his Still Life with African Statuette and Vase of Flowers, recognizes the stylized chocolate pot from Dishes on a Table, Still Life with Blue Tablecloth, and Bouquet of Flowers in a Chocolate Pot. How had she missed this commonality in his paintings?

  “This is the working library from which I choose my actors,” he says. “How I arrange them in relation to one another—a casual meeting or a romantic liaison—imbues them with my emotional reaction to them, which I hope to inspire in the viewer.”

  “Astonishing.” She wishes she could be more articulate, but the experience is so overpowering she’s almost speechless.

  “Everything is inspiration.” He motions for her to follow him. “Especially a beautiful woman.”

  They enter his studio, a large room filled with sculptures and drawings, watercolors and oil paintings. If there’s a heaven, this is it. Even on this dreary Paris morning, sunshine and warmth radiate from every wall, every corner, every easel.

  The paintings are almost a light source, so clear and strong are the colors, so fierce their luminous glow. Women, clothed, half-dressed, or naked, standing, sitting, or reclining. Vivienne recognizes the jewel tones of the silk swag in the front room, the decorative patterns of the embroideries, the harmony of color and line in the haute couture drapery. She moves slowly around the room, taking her time to drink in each one.

  “You look at a painting the way an artist does,” Henri observes.

  “I like to try to understand the experiments, the risks the artist is taking. The discoveries he or she’s making. What’s left out, what’s included, and why these choices were made . . .” Self-conscious, she lets her words drift off. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to get so—”

  “Do not apologize.” Henri’s eyes are filled with respect. “What you have just said is exactly what I hope for, but rarely find, when I watch someone looking at one of my pictures.”

  Vivienne doesn’t know how to respond, so she focuses on a horizontal canvas depicting a partially naked woman wearing a pair of exotically detailed harem pants, lounging, her arms raised. Bold greens, blues, yellows, and reds, even bolder textures and patterns, the planes flattened, the verticals true.

  “Odalisque with Red Pants,” he says. “Do you remember? I was telling you about this painting the night we first met at Gertrude’s. It is to be the beginning of a series. Do you like it?”

  She reluctantly tears herself away from the picture. “One can’t like a Matisse painting.”

  “So you do not like it?” He pulls a long face, but she can see he’s joking.

  “Are you trying to get a compliment out of me, sir?” she teases. He’s so down to earth and forthright that, although being in his company awes her, she begins to calm.

  “You must have spent enough time around artists to know that we never weary of compliments.”

  “I have, but I’d have guessed that by now you would have tired of them.”

  “Beyond a small circle of fellow artists and collectors, I am a virtual unknown.” He bows slightly. “You overestimate me, ma chérie.”

  She grins. “So you say.”

  Henri takes her hand and leads her back to the front room. “I have had the housekeeper bring us some café au lait, unless you would prefer wine?”

  “Café au lait is fine.” She settles on a couch upholstered with a nubby linen of green and yellow. “This is a business meeting, after all.”

  “I would much prefer to consider it a social one.” He offers her a plate of croissants and a seductive smile.

  Vivienne takes a croissant. The man
is indeed an incorrigible flirt.

  “If you insist on business,” Henri says, “can we at least deem it a social visit as well?”

  She considers him carefully. He’s a brilliant artist, a fascinating conversationalist—it appears he knows everything about everything—and he’s an extremely sexy man. But he could be playing with her, just as George had, and she can’t trust herself to accurately gauge. Still, she finds herself saying, “Let’s see how it goes.”

  “In that case,” Henri says as he takes a seat on the couch next to her, “let us get the business part over as quickly as possible.”

  Vivienne opens her notebook. “Have you read Edwin’s The Art in Painting?” she asks, hoping she sounds professional.

  Henri sits up straight and places his feet firmly on the floor, his hands in his lap, an imitation of a proper French schoolboy. “Yes, Mademoiselle Gregsby, I have.”

  “And what did you think of it?” she asks, joining in his game.

  “It was extraordinary, mademoiselle. Extremely eloquent.”

  She narrows her eyes. “What in particular did you find so extraordinary?”

  “The way in which he discussed the art in painting.”

  She puts her notebook down, frowns at him, and asks in her best schoolmarm voice, “Did you or did you not read Dr. Bradley’s work?”

  “I own a copy of the book. Dr. Bradley gave it to me himself. Autographed it. But it has so many pages . . .”

  Vivienne can’t help herself and starts to laugh. Henri does the same, and soon they’re both howling. “You get a zero on the assignment,” she finally manages to say.

  “Please do not tell Edwin.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  They beam at each other, and then Vivienne quickly sobers. This was how George pulled her in, with laughter and repartee. “Seriously, Henri, would you consider working with us on a book about you and your art?”

  “I feel privileged that you would consider such a thing, but as you can see, I am immersed. This past winter in Nice had such a powerful effect on my paintings—and now Paris is following suit. I am sorry, but I cannot see how I will be able to give up the time.”

  “Please, just hear me out. We’d call it something like The Art of Henri Matisse, a comprehensive analysis of your work to date: your creative use of traditions, treatment of color and light, thematic variations, shifting perspectives, and—”

  “I would be happy to do this with you and Edwin.” He winks. “With you especially. But I am afraid it would interfere too much with my painting.”

  “We can be flexible,” she presses. “Do the interviews around your schedule. Travel to wherever you are. I’m sure we’d be able to find a way that wouldn’t be too intrusive.”

  “How many hours do you think you will need?”

  “As many as you can give us. As few as you can give us. I’ll take whatever I can get, but you’d be in charge.”

  “In charge? Before, when you said ‘working with us,’ did you mean working with you or with Edwin?”

  “Both of us. We’re coauthoring the book, so we’ll each be involved in all aspects of the project.”

  “Edwin can be such a bore at times.” Henri’s sigh is theatrical. “What if I told you I would consider your proposition on the condition that all the personal interviews be conducted by you?”

  “He’d never agree,” she says, although she’s already running through ways to convince Edwin that this was his idea. “You know how he is.”

  “I am confident you can make this happen without his ever being aware of it.” Henri’s expression is full of mischief, and their eyes meet, hold. He leans over, cups her chin, and kisses her.

  Vivienne supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, but she is. She keeps thinking: I’m kissing Henri Matisse, I’m kissing Henri Matisse, I’m kissing the great artist Henri Matisse. She catches a whiff of paint and turpentine and that wonderful, intangible smell of a man. It’s been a long time, and it feels so right. She opens her mouth to his.

  When he kisses a line down her neck to the hollow at its base, the pull of desire is so strong it actually hurts. It’s been over a year since she’s been touched, really touched.

  Vivienne jerks away, moves to a chair across from the couch, takes a shuddering breath. Henri makes her feel the same way George did: excited, alive, and full of wanting, but also impulsive, careless, and, she now realizes, vulnerable. Plus he’s a married man, even if he’s faithful in the fashion of Montmartre.

  “I hope this doesn’t mean that you won’t agree to my condition?” Henri appears more amused than annoyed. “Just you, no Edwin.”

  “I, ah, yes. Yes. I don’t think that will be a problem. The interviews, I mean. But I, ah, I don’t think this . . . that this is a good idea.”

  He gazes at her tenderly. “And why do you think that? Do you have a lover?”

  “No, no,” she says quickly, then wishes she hadn’t. Another man might be the one explanation he’d accept.

  “Well, if that is the case, my dear Vivienne, I shall not be discouraged,” he declares, and kisses her hand as if they’d just met. “There is no need to rush. We have time. And after I return from Barcelona next month, we shall spend much more of it together.”

  Vienne and Edwin begin to outline the book. She’s impressed by the agility of his thinking, his talent for simultaneously seeing the big picture as well as the small, the way his creativity sparks her own. He seems to feel similarly, and their friendship and mutual respect deepen. She doesn’t argue when they have a difference of opinion, she just gently nudges him over to her way of thinking. And sometimes he nudges her to his.

  When he wants to arrange the book chronologically—which she believes will be boring—she suggests they apply Edwin’s own brilliant concepts of light, line, color, and space to unlock the meaning of Henri’s paintings. When he wants to focus solely on the work rather than on the man—which she believes will be limiting—she suggests that they use his own friendship with and insight into Henri to bring both the artist and his work to life. She’s becoming deft at the art of managing Dr. Edwin Bradley.

  Once the general outline is complete and they begin to assign tasks, Vivienne proposes that he be the one to interview Henri. “You’ve been friends for years and you’re so familiar with his work that you’ll be much more efficient.” She hands him the piece of paper on which she’s written the number of hours that will be necessary. Perhaps exaggerated the number.

  He studies it.

  “I’m thinking about at least forty hours of interviews—maybe more—and then there’s the organizing, editing, rewriting, revising. . . . It’s a one-person job, too many redundancies otherwise, and you’ll be able to complete it much faster than I will.”

  He carefully studies her figures, makes a few notations in the margin. “I have too many things to do to take on this large a task. And given all the time I’ve spent with Matisse and how well I know his work, you’ll be less biased.”

  16

  Vivienne, 1923

  A few days after Henri leaves for Spain, Gertrude’s brother Leo comes to Paris. Although Leo and Edwin had a falling-out a couple of years before, Edwin agrees to meet Leo for lunch and asks Vivienne to come with him. Edwin explains that their disagreement involved The Art in Painting, which was published to almost universal acclaim. The “almost” is because Leo wrote a review in the New Republic that was less than glowing. Edwin was livid at the affront, and a flurry of heated letters left them, as Leo put it, “on unspeaking terms.” But now Edwin has decided to forgive him.

  She and Edwin are already seated when a well-dressed, lanky man approaches their table. It doesn’t seem possible that this could be Leo or that he and Gertrude could have sprung from the same loins. Where Gertrude is short and stocky, Leo is tall and thin. Where her features are large and prominent, his are fine. And where her movements are straightforward and almost masculine, his are graceful. It’s almost as if Gertrude were m
eant to be the man and Leo the woman.

  Leo shakes Edwin’s hand, then Vivienne’s. “Ah, Gertrude won’t stop talking about you,” he tells her. “She said you’re great pals.”

  “Your sister is an amazing woman,” Vivienne says. “She’s been wonderful to me, taken me under her wing.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Leo says. “Gertrude told me that ‘strength attracts strength’ and that you have plenty. Also that you don’t try to hide your intelligence from men. Her highest praise.”

  “Please,” Edwin says. “Join us.”

  There are two empty chairs at the table and Leo pauses, looks from one to the next, then at each of them. Finally he sits in the one next to Vivienne. He lifts the napkin from his plate, fusses with it, hesitates before extricating it from its ring, and carefully places it on his lap. She assumes he’s nervous, which he probably is, but she later learns he has difficulty making decisions, even ones as inconsequential as what to do with his napkin.

  For all his indecisiveness, Leo is knowledgeable on all manner of subjects, including art, education, psychology, and aesthetics. The three of them finish off a bottle of wine, and Edwin orders another. Perhaps because he’s grown up with a sister like Gertrude, Leo treats Vivienne as an equal, speaking directly to her, listening attentively when she speaks. This isn’t her usual experience while dining with Edwin’s male colleagues.

  After dessert is served, Leo clears his throat. “I, ah, I need your advice, Edwin. I’ve got some paintings I need to sell. Mostly Renoirs. Sixteen to be exact. I know the prices have gone up, but I don’t know how to balance what I might ask with the fall in the franc . . .”

  Renoirs. Vivienne lights a cigarette and glances at Edwin. One of Edwin’s dreams is to buy enough strategic pieces of Renoir’s oeuvre that not only will he possess the largest collection of Renoirs anywhere, but visitors to the Bradley will be able to view the entire arc of the master’s career in a single setting. He already owns more than one hundred Renoirs, but there are holes to be filled.