The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  Grandfather Henri and Maman start to discuss art, which is much too advanced for me to understand. Then he takes a sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal to make a point to my mother. The silence in the room is broken only by the soft sound of the charcoal, moving firmly on a great piece of white paper. Before my eyes, his simple movements reveal a beautiful drawing.

  “If one wants to be good at anything, Pierre, one has to go back to the subject again and again. Practice, practice, practice.”

  “How do you learn to draw and paint so well?” I ask in awe.

  “Would you like to learn?”

  “Yes, sir.” Grandfather has my full attention now. I watch his face soften and his eyes light up. He seems pleased as he continues, “It’s surprisingly simple, Pierre. To learn to draw, one takes a piece of charcoal or pencil and draws.”

  He pauses to reflect for a second or two. “That is all there is to it. Let your heart guide you. Your hand will do the rest.”

  He squints at his drawing, his eyes behind his thick glasses scrutinizing it intensely.

  “There are no secrets, Pierre. Of course, one has to pay his dues with work and sweat.”

  Grandfather pauses again. I feel something is about to happen and almost forget to breathe.

  “And still there is a great secret. You have to do it every day. Doing the same thing a million times until you understand what only you inside yourself have to understand.”

  Like a cat stalking his prey, he stands up and slowly walks around the drawing, a half step at a time, looking at it from all angles while talking to himself. “Boring? Never. The light. The light is everything,” he finally says. “Get me my stool, Pierre. I think I’ve got it.”

  He has captured a picture. In his eyes, his brain, his soul—most importantly, in his heart.

  I know something out of the ordinary is happening. Creation. I get the stool and then stand still, silent. Maman does not move either. Except for the birds in their cages and Grandfather’s right hand, nothing moves in the studio.

  Grandfather Matisse works fast. Then he says, “Hum! Maybe. Hum! Not bad. Hum! Something is missing, perhaps?”

  Then he turns to me. “What do you think, Tatiou?”

  I back away, taking on the guise of a connoisseur. Slowly, without a smile, I reply, pausing at every word. “Maybe . . . something . . . missing. But I like it. What do you think?” I say, with a grin. Grandfather chuckles and gives me a good tap on my back.

  “You could very well be right, Pierrot. Nothing is ever certain in art. The possibilities are limitless.”

  The day passes much too fast. This world of color and art encompasses me, and it feels as if my feet weigh a thousand pounds as Maman walks with me back to Don Bosco.

  The hand strokes and images created on that paper by my grandfather stay with me. Whenever I want to escape my prison walls, I think of the day with Grandfather Matisse and Maman. I envision his hand with a piece of charcoal gliding across the paper, creating beauty. The light in his eyes is what I saw during Django’s concert and our time together at the Carnaval de Nice. No words are necessary for a sense of wonder to be shared.

  AT LAST, JULY COMES.

  I have buried myself in books and in learning to survive, and as a result, I receive a record of good conduct with A-pluses in every subject. I must admit that the Roman Catholic education is first class.

  I don’t even look behind me as I leave the gray walls of Don Bosco for my parents’ home. They have moved to a charming villa in the Cap d’Antibes on Boulevard James Willy. Beside the house, I see the azure waves and a little beach. The surrounding shoreline is rocky with sand-colored stones and cliffs, with coves that have white sand beaches. I have a whole bedroom to myself, the only one in the house with a balcony facing the Mediterranean. After Don Bosco, this is sheer paradise.

  From my bed I can view and smell the blue sea as far as my dreams will take me.

  Adventure and freedom are on my doorstep once more.

  12

  DREAMS AND CREATIONS

  Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.

  ANDRÉ GIDE

  I AM RESTING comfortably in bed, looking directly at the blue sea through the open French window leading to the balcony outside my room. The sounds and salty air of the Mediterranean flow over me. A southern wind blowing straight from North Africa is gently caressing my face. At night, the same window lets in the pale light from the majestic sky to guide my dreams and delight my senses.

  For the first week or two in Cap d’Antibes, I spend most of the time in my room, quietly studying topographic maps of the surrounding area or reading. I am tired. Don Bosco’s oppressive walls have drained my energy. By contrast, the blue line of the infinite horizon is too much for my eyes to take in.

  After ten months of seclusion, one has to readapt to freedom. Tomorrow morning, before breakfast, I’ll go for a swim in the Mediterranean to drown the last of Don Bosco’s lice. Then I’ll go swimming every day for pleasure.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Papa, who has come into the room. “I have a gift for you, Pierre.”

  Papa hands me a box wrapped in blue paper decorated with boats, anchors, rope knots, and a compass rose.

  “What is it, Papa?” I ask.

  “Open it and see.”

  One look at the wrapping paper, and the effect is magical. Instantly, my blood begins racing. I have been brought back to life. Inside the wrapping is a book in English: Moby-Dick.

  “Thank you so much, Papa.”

  I read it voraciously, finishing it in a few days. “It’s a whale of a story!” I declare to Papa.

  “That’s what I thought too,” he answers, with a smile. “Quite a story indeed!” he adds, laughing.

  Now, I need a boat to live my own adventures, I say to myself.

  THERE ARE ALWAYS interesting visitors at the Antibes home, artists from a variety of disciplines who live nearby. Sculptors, painters, cartoonists, musicians, composers, movie and theater stars—all of them colorful personalities. To them, everything is exciting; everything takes on extraordinary proportions. The conversations are always as fascinating as they are theatrically animated.

  Picasso visits a time or two. He smokes like a chimney and is famous for having shot his pistol in the streets of Paris. I am impressed with him, but Maman is not sure he is the best influence on me. Picasso seems only to care about “la corrida” (bullfighting). He claims he does not care much for boats, which is inconceivable to me. But he adds that he did know of a painter who painted from a boat.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Monet,” he says, taking another puff on his cigar.

  “I want to meet Monet!” I say excitedly.

  “It’s not possible,” Picasso says sadly. “He swallowed the anchor before you were born.”

  “For once I want to meet somebody really interesting, but he died on me!” I reply, quite disappointed.

  “That’s life,” Picasso says, adding a curt, “thank you.”

  Picasso and my father start laughing. The next day when Picasso shows Papa and me some of his newest works, I understand the humorous meaning of his “thank you.” He is a great painter, and he’s sitting right in front of me, very much alive!

  Picasso likes to make fun of another occasional visitor’s moustache—that of artist Salvador Dali. “Salvador is always trying to convince us that his crazy moustache is actually an antenna to contact the upper-up for inspiration.”

  After taking a sip of wine, he says loudly, “His moustache has nothing mystical about it. He waxes it way up so it doesn’t get entangled with the sardines when he eats them!”

  One painter whose stories I enjoy is Maurice de Vlaminck, a wild man among wild men. He raced motorcycles in his younger days, and I had even heard that one of them had an airplane engine for more power. I imagine him racing around a track and then suddenly flying into the sky with that extra boost. With his unruly red hair and b
ig red beard, he reminds me of a large bear. His passion about anything and everything is outrageous, and he expresses his views just as fervently, whether he is discussing art methods, social edicts, or politics. When Maman tells me that de Vlaminck paints with knives, I immediately picture him slashing color onto a canvas with swords in both hands.

  But my favorite family friend is Jean Effel, a renowned and successful artist. Before the war, his popular political cartoons depicting God appeared regularly in the magazine Paris Match. He owns a charming villa nested between some huge rocks on the extreme point of Cap d’Antibes.

  ONE DAY EFFEL drops by our home for an apéritif. As usual, he is discussing politics, the war, art, and entertainment with my parents. When he sees me, he hands me a small leather pouch and says, “For you, Pierre.”

  Inside the pouch is a small brass compass. This is the real thing—a salty one, not a toy. I can’t believe my luck. It’s just what I need.

  “It’s too much. I can’t accept it, Monsieur Effel.”

  But I sure would love to, I think.

  “Yes! Yes! You can. It’s for you because I hear that you are quite a sailor.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Effel. I can sail, steer, and row. Papa tells me that you have a boat.”

  “It’s only a little dinghy, nothing fancy.”

  He knows what is coming.

  “A dinghy? How wonderful!” I say excitedly. “Is it in need of paint? If it is, I’ll clean it and paint it for you.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, it is in bad shape and needs some attention. If your parents agree, you can come and work on it. The waters around the Cap are treacherous, so no boating without supervision.”

  I am thrilled with the offer. I can tell already that this is going to be an extremely good summer if I can get permission.

  “May I go to Monsieur Effel’s home, Papa?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But only after your chores are done each day. Tomorrow I will need your help the whole day.”

  I AM ASSISTING MY FATHER, a talented sculptor and true master at his art. Under his chisel, a massive stone takes the form of an exquisite nude. I never wonder how Papa can see something that beautiful in a block of wood or stone. That’s what he does, and he does it extremely well.

  Papa has his own style, characterized by a great purity of form. It is clear that he is searching for the very essence of real beauty without compromising for cheap effect. Whatever the medium—marble or wood—his eyes are sure, his hands firmly holding the chisel. With each hit of the small maul, a tiny chip of stone or wood falls away. On a piece of marble the sound is rhythmic and melodious—tac . . . tic . . . tic . . . tac . . . A masterpiece is coming into the world through the sound of music. It is the same method on wood with different notes and a different tune.

  Papa is as gifted as his friend Aristide Maillol. Once the clay statue is finished, I help Papa make a plaster cast for a few reproductions. During these working sessions, we talk only about the work at hand. He has to have absolute mental concentration. I have understood this from the very first day I helped him. Mostly we communicate with hand signals and head nods, and Papa barks short and concise orders at me.

  “Here! Hold this.”

  Papa is adjusting a measuring caliper and continues to give me orders.

  “Yes! No! Not like that, Pierre. Like this.”

  It has to be done with the utmost precision.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Get me more clay, and cover the rest with a damp rag,” Papa instructs me.

  I can see that he is thinking hard. The sculpture is not going his way.

  “Your clay is there,” I say, gesturing to a small mound, “and I have already covered the other batch.”

  “Good! Now you can start mixing some plaster.” The tension is on. I have only a short amount of time before the plaster hardens.

  “Right!”

  “Clean those tools, will you?”

  There is quite a mess to clean up because my parents are always working on something. In fact, I cannot remember a time when that wasn’t the case.

  Sometimes under the heat of creation, when working in marble, a chisel breaks and Papa’s frustration is released. But there is too much to do, so the moment quickly passes.

  “Oh well,” Papa says, “I’m not making chisels—I’m making a statue. I could care less about a broken chisel here and there; it’s part of the game! Pierre, pass me the big chisel!” His eyes have not left the marble. Like a surgeon, he holds out his hand, and I place the appropriate tool in it.

  The matter of returning to Don Bosco has been dangling above my head like the sword of Damocles. I’ve been keeping a low profile and managing to keep out of serious trouble, anxiously waiting for the opportunity to bring up the subject.

  Finally, one day in the studio with Papa, I speak my mind. “Papa, I don’t want to go back to Don Bosco.”

  “We’ll see to that with your mother,” he answers distractedly.

  “No, we won’t!” I raise my voice. “We’ll settle this right now between you and me.”

  “What!” I am startled as Papa drops his tool on the bench. “What did you say?” He looks outraged.

  “I can’t explain it to you. But on my honor, I have my reasons, Papa. I don’t want to go back there ever again. Please trust me. I’m not going back to Don Bosco.”

  Papa stops working, sits down on a stool, and looks at me curiously.

  “What happened there?” he asks quietly.

  “I can’t tell you the details.”

  “Are you okay?” He is looking me straight in the eye.

  “I can’t explain it, Papa. But it is okay as long as I don’t have to go back.”

  He smiles, giving me a hug and a tap on the back.

  “It’s all right. You won’t be going back to Don Bosco.” He pauses, then says, “I understand that sometimes a man just has his own personal reasons.”

  That same evening I hear Papa quarreling with my mother. But by the end of the evening, they agree to send me to Antibes College, which is close enough for me to walk to. It is clean and has no walls enclosing it.

  WHENEVER PAPA NEEDS ME, I help him, even though I am tired at the end of the day. Art is an intellectual pursuit, but the work is physically demanding because I am always picking up tools and moving things for him. Still, I know the contentment of contributing to something meaningful. Sometimes Papa says, with discouragement on his face, “I think that this statue is going badly. It’s all screwed up.”

  “No! No! Not at all,” I reassure him. “From that angle it’s beautiful.”

  How can he doubt that this masterpiece is right? I am certain it is good.

  Incredulous, he slowly turns around his creation, frowning, peering, critical to the extreme. When we are lucky, a faint smile lights up his face and he says, “Blast you! You could be right. I’ll have to ask your mother’s opinion.”

  Maman always agrees with me.

  I help Maman, too—putting wood in the kilns, sometimes modeling, and, of course, cleaning up.

  My mother, cloistered in her studio, is making a collection of small figurines, representing scenes from the turn of the century: elegant ladies in crinolines, carriages with drivers in top hats that are pulled by high-stepping horses.

  I remember she also did a special edition of little statues inspired by Jean Effel’s caricatures. Later, she creates a set of figurines depicting characters from Greek mythology. When these pieces are exhibited in an art gallery in Nice, Grandfather Matisse goes to the show. Right there on the spot, my grandfather makes ink sketches of Maman’s figurines.

  After a long day’s work, Maman and Papa walk hand in hand to a small fisherman’s bistro for an apéritif. It is not very far, just across the small harbor. One can see a mile away that they are very much in love.

  While they are gone, I begin preparing dinner, according to my mother’s instructions. I peel potatoes and carrots to boil them and make a salad, learning
to put together a simple meal in no time at all. However, using an oven is beyond my abilities, and when it is needed, one of my parents takes over.

  I begin raising rabbits again. It would have been nice to keep a few chickens, too, but there is no way to get grain to feed them. I also fish, and on lucky days I proudly return with a catch for the dinner table.

  After all of my duties are done, I’m free to do my own things. I draw or paint landscapes or seascapes, while at the same time making innumerable plans to write the next what have you and earn the world’s prestigious literary prize. Of course, after reading Ernest Hemingway, I realize that a writer has to have a lot of life experiences to have something interesting to write about. So I polish my English and make more plans to travel to America after the war.

  When possible, I head straight to Monsieur Effel’s villa and continue refurbishing his dinghy. As I work, I daydream about exploring the big oceans of the world after I install a set of sails on the small boat. Eventually, the dinghy is fixed enough to row it, and with Monsieur Effel’s permission, I take Gérard for a little session on a calm sea. After a while this becomes too ordinary and I need more of a challenge.

  ONE BLUSTERY DAY, Monsieur Effel finds me perched on the slippery cliff.

  “What are you doing here, Pierre?” Monsieur Effel asks. “The weather is terrible.”

  “I am studying the waves, Monsieur Effel.”

  I am motionless, soaked to the bones by the spray of the waves crashing into the five-foot-high cliff, mentally calculating how I can handle the dinghy in such a turbulent sea.

  I have it, I think confidently. Put the bow at a ten-degree angle to the wind, taking the waves at quarter beam. Then turn only between two big waves, where the wind should be low. Nothing to it, that should work. I’ll have to try this when nobody is watching me.

  “Pierre, come back. You are going to catch pneumonia.” I can barely hear Monsieur Effel’s voice—almost lost in the screaming wind.