The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  “What about an alternative?” I’m open to all suggestions, except this one.

  “Pierre, you don’t realize the extent of your injuries,” the doctor says. “We are not talking about being crippled—this is life threatening.”

  “Nothing to it, eh! You take my leg and stuff it up my behind,” I reply bitterly.

  “I understand,” he replies kindly. “If all goes well, in two months you’ll be back home, in a cast for four weeks, and then, I believe you’ll be on the mend and headed in the right direction.”

  ON DECEMBER 15, 1954, I kiss Anna and my three children good-bye and catch the bus for the hospital that is four miles away. I stop at Sears & Roebuck on the way to order Christmas toys and clothes on credit for my children. Regardless of the surgery’s outcome, I make sure they will have presents under the tree.

  I arrive at the hospital, and as I’m being prepped for the surgery, I feel so alone. If only I could truly connect with Anna and have her here. When I wake up again, every bone in my body aches, and all I want to do is sleep. I drift in and out of consciousness for days, from both the pain and the pain medication.

  When I finally am alert, my doctor gives me a progress report. “So far so good, although it is too early to be sure that it worked. I brought you some reading material to help pass the time.” He hands me a copy of Paris Match magazine, thinking I will enjoy reading something in French.

  He has no idea of my past or my family in France, but there on the front cover is Grandfather Matisse with scissors in hand, creating colorful paper foliage cutouts that fill the wall behind him. A paragraph in the corner contains the news: Henri Matisse died November 3, 1954. The magazine is over a month old. News comes late to this part of the world.

  Alone in my hospital bed, I read the magazine cover to cover. The entire issue has been dedicated to my grandfather, and I can’t help but feel proud to have known this man. No matter our family’s problems, he was always nice and welcoming to my mother and me. But now he is gone too. I leaf through the pages and study all the photos that accompany the articles. Papa, Uncle Pierre, and Marguerite are pictured together at the funeral. There is a blurry photo of Papa, looking like he is running away from the reporters. I stare at the photo for a long time. How I wish there were some way to reach out and let Papa know that I send my love and prayers. We are separated by events in the past and are now worlds apart. We are no longer a family in any sense of the word. Our family died with Maman.

  Months go by, and the surgery does not eliminate the pain. The vicious cycle of trying to work while in the throes of pain continues. Our youngest daughter, Nellie, is born two and a half years after my surgery, and now I am the proud papa of four good kids—actually, great kids.

  Whenever my back gives me a break, I rent a place in the Canadian wilderness for a family getaway. The children and I explore and play outside as much as we can, just as I did as a child. During the long winter months, they enjoy sledding and skiing. On the bitter-cold days, they play with toys and create art indoors. Patrick likes to shape figurines out of clay, Louise and Nellie enjoy watercolors, and Peter is interested in mechanics, specifically how the washing machine works. That is, until he catches his finger in the wrong place and has to be taken to the hospital for stitches.

  In the middle of my struggle to work and provide for my family, Gérard writes me and asks if he can stay with us in Canada, where he is hoping to find work. Except for the war years, Gérard has been pampered his entire life, so he is not prepared for the lack of amenities in the wilderness. Although I try to help him find work, he isn’t able to keep a steady job for long. With my back flaring up, my patience is running short. I love him, but we hardly know each other. We share some memories but little else.

  Every once in a while when we are alone, Gérard’s tongue slips, and he calls me Papa. Is he calling me Papa because he goofed or because I look like our father, or is it because I am trying to make him shape up like a man? All kinds of questions come to mind, related to the same one I’ve had for years. Who am I?

  After about eight months, Gérard leaves Canada. We part cordially, although a gulf remains between us.

  ONE DAY, WHILE RUMMAGING through an old drawing portfolio, I find a business card from my antique restoration business in Normandy with a note from Grandfather Matisse. It goes like this:

  Pierre,

  Congratulations on your business and card. Glad you are a man standing on his own two feet. Your success is already within you.

  Henri Matisse

  This note from my grandfather was in response to a letter I had written to him, thanking him for the kindness and friendship he had always shown my mother when she was alive. I had enclosed my business card.

  Somehow this letter brings an inner strength and peace to my ravaged body and soul. I carry these words of encouragement—the last from my family. He seemed to be proud of me then. Would he be proud of me today? In these hours of despair, I need his support.

  I can’t sleep that night with the torturous pain in my back, and I pray to God for courage to endure. As I look out the window and watch a beautiful aurora borealis dancing across the sky, I start a one-sided conversation with my grandfather.

  “I have done something very bad. I’ve sold your wonderful sketches,” I confess, feeling the guilt.

  There is no answer. He was always so busy in his studio when I was a child that I imagine he’s still busy now. Nevertheless, I continue, “The point is, Grand-père, that today I can’t stand on my own two feet for very long without falling apart.”

  Just then I hear a voice. “I can relate to that, Pierre. I was in a wheelchair for years.”

  Though the shame I feel for having to sell his art has consumed me, I have an idea of how to alleviate my remorse and keep his presence in my life. I will create beautiful drawings and fill the world with joy like he did.

  I explain the project to Grandfather. “What you share with me, artist-to-artist, will help me. It will be all I have left of my family.”

  “Your idea makes sense,” he says kindly. “Let’s get started.”

  Grandfather Henri was always a man of action.

  So I begin to draw slowly. He visits me in my dreams—day and night—and I ask him many questions, which he patiently answers.

  “Purity of line is everything, Pierre,” he repeats over and over again, pensively stroking his beard.

  “I got that.”

  “Restraint is gold. Less is more. Simplicity is the difficult part, but it is the key, Pierre.” I think back to my very first lesson with him when he took away my precious box of paint tubes and left me with only four colors, instructing me never to use more than those four.

  “I’ll try my best,” I say.

  “Trying is not good enough. Only excellence will do.”

  Perfection, always perfection, and nothing less than perfection. It is enough to drive anyone crazy.

  On another night, Grandfather demonstrates the point he is trying to make by moving his hands slowly apart. “Subtle economy of effect is of paramount importance. Do you understand what I’m saying, Pierre?”

  “Yes, I do. Less is more.”

  “Let the viewers use their imaginations to fill in your carefully placed, mysterious blanks. It’s a way for them to participate.”

  “Of course,” I say. “It’s all very clear to me now.”

  “Good! Repeat everything you’ve learned if you can.”

  “Purity of lines, less is more, simplicity is difficult, shoot for excellence, economy of effect. Finally, let the viewers participate. I especially like that last one.”

  A MONTH LATER, my preliminary drawings still don’t look anywhere close to Grandfather’s standards. It’s been two weeks since he has visited me in dreams. But then he comes rolling back in his wheelchair again. In his hand is a long wooden stick with a piece of charcoal attached to the end.

  “How are you making out with those drawings of ours?” he asks.

/>   I show him my clumsy sketches. “Not very well.”

  “You’re right. This looks like something Picasso would do.” Satisfied with a dig at his old competitor and friend, he continues, “However, I discern a certain promising element of form showing up here and there. Don’t give up; you’re on your way. Let me show you.”

  I wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night. Anna and the children are sound asleep. The music I had been listening to when I was working is still playing in my mind, the vibrant notes dancing in my head.

  In my sleeplike trance, I walk over to the white sheets on the table and pick up the charcoal. I draw a few little arabesques on a scrap of paper to loosen my fingers. The charcoal seems to come alive, and pure lines flow from it.

  One drawing falls to the floor. A charming nude, if I say so myself. Done.

  “Don’t stop!” Grandfather directs.

  My hand is bringing a floral design to life on the second sheet.

  “Beautiful. You’ve got it, Pierre.” Do I hear a smile from Grandfather? Does a smile make a sound?

  Second drawing done.

  “Who is doing this?” I ask myself. It can’t be me.

  “Not to worry,” Grandfather answers. “A true artist eventually discovers exactly from where it comes.”

  The third sheet’s statue in a garden tumbles to the floor.

  An elegant lady with a stylish chapeau is looking at me from sheet number four. Done.

  My back is hurting, but my hand is not tired. I have no time for my pain right now.

  A tall ship at sea sails to the floor. Number five done.

  Two more to go.

  Within a short time, a reclining nude on sheet six now rests at my feet.

  My hand tries to create the seventh drawing, but I can’t do it. My back is killing me.

  “I must rest,” I say to Grandfather, wincing in pain.

  “No, Pierre! You don’t quit when you are inspired. Ignore your back. We don’t have time for it.”

  “Hold on just another thirty minutes,” I implore my blasted back. The monster answers by sending excruciating pain throughout my body, from my head to my toes. It makes me shake all over, except for my hand, which continues drawing.

  Number seven, a detailed still life, flies onto the paper. It is one of my best! Finis.

  “Didn’t you forget something?” Grandfather says.

  I scratch my head.

  “The drawings have to be signed.”

  One by one, I carefully sign each drawing Tatiou.

  30

  ART, INTERPOL, AND UNCLE SAM

  Hope is the word which God has written on the brow of every man.

  VICTOR HUGO

  IN EARLY FEBRUARY OF 1960, I move our family to Montreal, where both the work situation has improved and the schools are much better than in Chicoutimi. My back has waged war on me for six years, but it is not winning yet! I soon land a job with a publicity firm, where I draw gigantic road signs, which means I am standing on my feet all day long.

  Two months into the job, I am taking my lunch break in my car and enjoying the warmth of the sun upon my tired and aching bones. Today, my wretched back is in charge, and I am so tired that I fall asleep.

  “Pierre, it’s ten minutes past one. Wake up!” My coworker is shaking me. “It’s time to go back to work.”

  “Tell the boss I’m resigning,” I reply. I cannot go on standing on my feet all day.

  “Are you crazy?” he says, surprised at my response.

  “Crazy as they come, my friend,” I tell him, putting the car in gear and waving good-bye.

  When I arrive home, I go straight to bed and sleep for three days. I visit the employment office, determined not to find a job. I plan to take two months to rest and then find employment.

  After this hiatus, I become a Fuller Brush representative and enjoy the freedom that being a door-to-door salesman gives me. I get out of bed at ten in the morning, work at my own leisurely pace, and go home around four in the afternoon—contented and a few dollars richer. I take time to fix my car, which is falling apart. When my back begins acting up again, I take it easy and research other job opportunities, just in case.

  When the leaves begin turning red and yellow, I am still pushing Fuller Brush products, but I do feel a little bit stronger. My back seems to be behaving, so I quit my sales job and find a full-time job as a graphic artist. Two weeks of demanding eight-hour workdays put me exactly where I was the previous winter—on my back. It does not want to hear anything about a steady job.

  The dreaded Canadian winter is just around the corner. What am I going to do? I have an old beat-up 35 mm camera that I could use to take photographs. But I don’t have any start-up money to build a business, so I quickly discard that idea.

  IT IS A SUNNY SATURDAY in mid-November when someone rings the apartment doorbell. Anna and the children are in the kitchen eating lunch, so I get up to answer it.

  When I open the door, a middle-aged woman is standing there. “Are you Mister Pierre Leroy?” she asks. “I’m Katherine, your children’s teacher.”

  “What kind of trouble are they in?” I ask quietly, anxious to know the latest problem, even though I have enough already.

  “No! Your children are wonderful. But I did want to talk to you about something else. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?” she says, looking a little ill at ease.

  “Well, our apartment is small. How about going outside?” The two of us go down the stairs and out the front door.

  We stand outside the building in the deserted street, and she seems to relax. “I’m here about Christmas. Your children are saying that they won’t have a Christmas this year.”

  “They always have a good Christmas. Why should this year be any different?” I am annoyed that she would mention such a ridiculous thing and inwardly ashamed at how poor we are.

  “Because the children know you haven’t had much work the past few months and think there is no money for Christmas,” she explains, looking embarrassed. After taking a deep breath, she says, “If that’s the case, we can help your family.”

  Did somebody punch me below the belt? I react quickly with my most convincing smile.

  “Katherine, our kids have had a special Christmas from the day they were born. This Christmas is going to be as good as any other. Yes, I have had some minor financial difficulties, but that is all over now. I just landed a very good job.”

  “Are you sure?” she insists. I guess my convincing smile didn’t convince her.

  “Absolutely. Thank you for your concern, Katherine.”

  “If you need anything for the children, please contact me,” she says as she turns and leaves.

  I have to hold back my tears, partially from the pain I’m feeling as I limp back upstairs, but mostly because I am just plain mad—at my circumstances and the problems my back has caused our family. After I have a little talk with God and send Him my pleas, I don’t feel so alone. Settled at heart, I have the courage and vision to move forward and do what needs to be done. My children will have a Christmas.

  IT IS A MISERABLE last day of November or first of December (I’ve since forgotten the exact date). It is a gray, drizzly day, and I can feel the icy dampness down to the marrow of my bones. And of course, the heater in our rusted jalopy has been broken for a while.

  I arrive at my destination and park my piece of junk between two freshly waxed Rolls-Royces. One of the chauffeurs, sitting inside his luxury car, gives me a dirty look. I am on the street in Montreal where all the top art galleries, antique shops, and jewelry boutiques are located.

  I get out of the car and glance at the window displays of the various galleries, evaluating my choices. Before my appearance attracts too much attention, I pick a promising one and am greeted by a chic saleswoman.

  “Good morning, madame! May I please see the owner?” I ask with as much confidence as I can muster.

  “May I inquire who wants to see him, sir?” She is lookin
g me up and down. Obviously, I don’t seem to fit the profile of the usual clientele. Maybe I should act like the poor genial artist.

  She seems to read my mind. “Our gallery isn’t taking on any new artists at this time, sir,” she says with a pinched-nose tone of disgust.

  “Listen,” I say with a smile. “I want to see the owner about an important personal matter. Tell him that it’s about some Matisses.”

  At last! I have her attention. Could it have been something I said? A magic word, perhaps? A faint smile appears on her lovely face as she disappears to find the gallery owner. I have brought all of the remaining drawings of my grandfather’s. The sum total of my inheritance.

  I have also included my recent drawings and paintings, hoping that Grandfather’s art will be my drawing card and I can show and sell my own twenty-five pieces for five hundred dollars, which is all I need. I will certainly show the owner Grandfather’s sketches, but my plan is to hold on to them if possible.

  “I am Monsieur Artsmart. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?” he says. (Yes, I have forgotten his name!)

  “My name is Pierre Leroy. I was wondering if you would be interested in acquiring some Matisse drawings.” My words are difficult to say, and I am now sweating bullets.

  “Perhaps we might be interested. Where can I see them?”

  “I have them in my car and can bring them in right now.” I have to make this deal for the kids and Anna. This may be my last chance to save my family.

  “That will be fine,” Monsieur Artsmart says.

  The cold rain feels good on my face, which is burning up. I have to be running a three-hundred-degree fever with my heart beating out of my chest. But I have to get back to business.

  I go inside the gallery and pull out twenty-five of my drawings, which are signed Tatiou. At first he shows interest in them, but when he sees the signature, he turns to walk away. I quickly place the Matisses on the counter next to my works, announcing, “And these are the Matisses.”

  He turns back around, clears his throat, and smiles. Monsieur Artsmart pushes my drawings aside and begins to carefully scrutinize Grandfather’s works.