Jeanne is creative, too, which means she understands me well. And like me, she is also a dreamer who works hard. We have a lot in common but enough differences to keep life interesting. That’s my girl. Jeanne thinks that I am Mister Wonderful four times over.
Retired and happy with Jeanne, I turn to my painting, photography, and inventions with a passion. Over the years, I have built my own computer and been at the helm of a remote-controlled sailboat that Jeanne bought me. Every time I look at it, I’m reminded of the toy boat I had when I lived with Tata. And I have realized my dream to soar in the sky. I have a pilot’s license and love to fly over Florida’s miles of white shoreline.
IN NOVEMBER 1995, Jeanne bursts into the house after visiting her oldest daughter, Wendy.
“Pierre, we have to talk whenever you can take a break.”
“What, my darling?” I ask distractedly from my art studio, lost in my new composition.
“Honey, you are not going to believe this!” she continues. “Never question what you know in your heart about your true identity. Sit down, and let me tell you what’s happened.”
The word identity catches my attention, and now I am all ears. Seeing Jeanne’s expression, I know that what she is about to tell me is important. To be honest, it makes me a bit nervous.
“I was helping Wendy with the plans for the family Thanksgiving dinner. Joe was on the computer, working on one of his college courses, and Spencer was reading a book next to him. Just then, Spencer looked up from his book and glanced at the computer screen to see what his dad was doing and got very excited.”
“Daddy, it’s Grandpa Pierre. It’s Grandpa Pierre with a beard. Look, Nanny, it’s Grandpa Pierre on the computer. I didn’t know he had a beard!”
On the screen was a quotation underneath a photo of a man—Henri Matisse. A person that seven-year-old Spencer believed was me.
“We tried to explain that it wasn’t you,” Jeanne says, “but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
Spencer doesn’t know that I am connected to the Matisse family. Actually, none of Jeanne’s family does. “I quickly told them that Henri Matisse was your grandfather. Joe pulled up some of your grandfather’s artwork to show us that he was an artist like you.”
“And Grandpa Henri had a French accent, too,” Wendy told Spencer, “just like Grandpa Pierre.”
“Interesting,” I say. Jeanne knows about the turmoil inside of me that I’ve carried all these years. She gives me a kiss and whispers, “It’s late. Let’s go to bed, and you can sleep on it.”
That night I have a vivid dream that takes place on rue Lecuirot in Paris on the first of February 1928.
“NOT AGAIN!” In the dimly lit bedroom, Jean Matisse stops pacing back and forth. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as possible, but the dark cannot shut out the cries coming from Louise, who is in labor.
“Louise’s mother died delivering her,” Aunt Henriette had told him at some point before.
Died at childbirth. Died at childbirth. This phrase keeps pounding in Jean’s head like a drumbeat, and he resumes his pacing.
He wonders how much longer he can stand hearing her cries of pain. If only he could do something.
“How much more can Louise endure?” he asks, distraught.
Mathilde, Louise’s mother-in-law, and Henriette are busily trying to work around Jean’s frantic pacing.
For a moment, Louise relaxes and lays her head back against the damp pillow. Poor Jean, she thinks with a tired smile.
“It won’t be long now, Louise,” Henriette says reassuringly. Louise and Jean hope her words are true. They long for this to be over, to finally hold their child in their arms.
Jean continues pacing. He hears another moan and circles the bed, bumping into Mathilde and swearing thunderously.
After much commotion, all quiets down. Then, out of the silence comes a soft cry. Then another, stronger this time, as the miracle moment arrives. Jean has tears in his eyes. He can only nod to himself when Mathilde announces, “It’s a boy.”
Louise is straining to see the baby being bathed. Both Mathilde and Henriette seem pleased. The baby looks so tiny, so red, and he keeps crying.
“Is he all right? Is something wrong?” Louise asks, her voice shaking.
“But of course—he’s perfect, everything is fine,” Mathilde says. She wraps the baby in a thick, soft blanket and brings him to Louise to hold for the first time. Louise smiles as she looks down at the tiny head, covered with fine, downy hair, its color similar to that of someone else she holds dear. She looks up suddenly.
“Jean? Is he . . . ?” Her question trails off.
“He’s right outside. Mathilde chased him out after he stepped on her foot,” Henriette laughingly explains.
“Jean, you can come back in now,” she calls out. “Louise wants to see you.”
“Ah, good! I want to see her, too,” his voice booms back from the corridor.
“Thank you,” Louise says to her aunt and Mathilde. “Go and get a cup of tea. I’ll be just fine with Jean.”
Jean’s head peeks in as the door opens. At his questioning look, Mathilde nods and motions him back in.
“Just for a little while—she’ll need to rest soon,” she whispers in passing.
He practically runs over Mathilde again but then pauses at the door. He seems suspended in motion. There, in the soft yellow light, is Louise, damp hair clinging to the sides of her face, looking down at the child in her arms. Their child. He feels a chill down his spine and an amazed sense of awe, as if he’d never considered before what it was to create a life. He walks slowly, almost solemnly to her side.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” she exclaims.
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Have you decided on his name yet?” he asks, thinking beautiful seems too small a word to describe something so incredible.
“I like the name René, after our friend who first introduced us. Yes, René it is,” she replies with a contented smile. “There, Jean, I have chosen the first name. Now, it’s your turn.”
Jean reaches out a hand cautiously and strokes the baby’s tiny head, running his fingers, feather-soft, over the silky hair to the tiny ear, then around the cherub-like chin.
“Very well, let’s see, hmmm . . . Well, his chin reminds me of both my brother and Papa. I suppose we could use either Pierre or Henri.”
“Why not both? Three for the price of two, we can include your brother and your father and you, Jean Henri Gérard Armand Matisse,” she suggests.
“Wait, how about Louis after your own name, my darling?”
“We’ll use them all,” she replied, giggling like a young schoolgirl.
Then she looks down at the little sleeping bundle and whispers, “René Pierre Louis Henri.”
“René Pierre Louis Henri. So be it,” concludes Jean.
He edges over a bit closer and moves his hand from the child to the woman, stroking her head and hair, then sits on the edge of the bed and puts an arm around her. His eyes wander back to this little miracle in her arms.
“Welcome to the world, my son,” he whispers.
Louise nestles in, her child in her arms, her lover’s arms around her. At this moment, she thinks that life is complete for her—she has never been so content.
A head peeks around the corner. It is Henriette. “Jean, I think it’s time . . .”
Louise interrupts her aunt before she has a chance to finish.
“No, let him stay just a little while longer,” Louise implores. She leans further into him, feeling his warmth surrounding her and their son. So perfect. Everything is so perfect.
As she drifts off to sleep, her sense of contentment is suddenly intruded upon as Mathilde enters, saying something important.
JEANNE IS SHAKING ME GENTLY. “Honey, wake up.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask groggily, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
“You were shouting in your sleep,” Jeanne says.
I slo
wly get my bearings, and my mind clears. How strange. I was dreaming about the day I was born.
Why would I be thinking about my birth now? Jeanne holds me, and I tell her exactly what I just experienced. I feel relieved to no longer be alone, to have someone to be able to share not only my dreams with but my nightmares as well. Someone who cares for and comforts me.
As much as I try to forget the dream, it revisits me in fleeting moments.
René Pierre Louis Henri. The names my mother and father gave me. When I was young, they would often tell me the story of my names at bedtime. They are beautiful names, carefully chosen after people they love.
How many times have I looked in the mirror and seen Jean Matisse’s reflection? Ever since I was twelve, I’ve struggled with the question—René Pierre Louis Henri who? I go out for a walk on the beach and stay out for quite a while, trying to put my head in order.
Apart from the sounds of the surf and the gulls, everything is serene. Above me, Jupiter is a sparkling diamond, and my old friend, the magnificent Orion, is there. I’ll have to introduce this extraordinary constellation to the grandkids, just like my father introduced the hunter with the starry belt to me when I was young. The deep, dark blue-green of the firmament is incredibly beautiful, just like the color of Jeanne’s eyes.
The sky tells me, Be true to yourself. What are you afraid of? Scandal? So what?
I decide then and there that I am going to reclaim the name of the only father I have ever known and loved—Jean Matisse.
Would I do it if my name wasn’t famous? Yes.
It is time to recover my identity. It is not too late for the truth. The time has come to be the man I am: René Pierre Louis Henri Matisse.
TWO NIGHTS LATER, when Jeanne and I walk on the beach, I have come to a decision. “Jeanne, I am going to take back my true family name. It’s not about money or prestige or ego. I want to die with my family name, belonging to the only family I ever knew. It is as simple as that.”
“Pierre, I will help you in whatever way I can. How do we start?” she asks.
The most time-consuming part is tracking down my early school records from France that will verify my given names. Packages come in over a period of months with different papers, and each time they arrive, I read them over several times. I have mixed emotions throughout this whole process because I am reconnecting with the family I had lost. There are moments of wonder and moments of grief. When I receive the copy of my school record from Lycée Michelet Vanves, I pull it out and stop. It’s Maman’s handwriting. I recognize it clearly. I recall when she and Tata had made the decision to send me to that school, and now they are helping me make the decision to take back my name. I imagine them smiling and nodding their approval.
When all of the necessary information arrives, I petition the US court for my name to be changed, and once the documentation is verified, I legally change my naturalization papers. Those records are then sent to Canada and France for my name to be changed to Matisse in all existing records, since I receive pensions from both of those countries. Slowly, the Leroy name, a weight I’ve carried all these years, disappears.
Jeanne knows that this is a great burden off my shoulders, but it isn’t the only pain I have been carrying in my heart for all this time. I have not seen my four children for thirty years, and I have no idea how to fix that or where to find them. Jeanne gets to work again, contacting each one of them on my behalf.
IN 1998 JEANNE AND I drive to New England for a family reunion with my oldest son, Patrick. It is early evening when we arrive at his home, and the man who answers the door is about the same age as Jean Matisse was when I bid him good-bye for the last time—fifty years ago. Of course, my eyes are full of tears when I look at the man standing in front of me in the doorway, but this doesn’t prevent me from seeing him clearly.
The school record with my name at the top in Maman's handwriting
Who is standing there in front of me, tall and strong, but Jean Matisse, my father! I quickly come to my senses. No, it’s my son Patrick, who has a striking resemblance to my father. I think I am seeing a ghost. My whole body begins to shake as I stand there, speechless. When I find my tongue, my first words to Pat are “You look so much like your grandfather.” I can hardly believe this is my son, my Pat. The last time I saw him he was eighteen. As we hug each other tightly, Pat says, “Hi, Dad. I’m glad that you’re here. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”
“You look so much like your grandfather,” I repeat over and over, without thinking. I can’t help myself. “You look so much like my father, your grandfather, it’s uncanny.”
The next day, I’m still saying it. I say it so many times during the week that Pat and his wife, Polly, and their kids—Pat, Danny, and Lindsay—crack up every time the words come out of my mouth. After this wonderful reunion with Patrick, Jeanne and I head to Maine to see Peter, my younger son, with his wife, Karen, and their two boys, Peter and Tyler. I also see my two daughters, Louise and Nellie, during the trip. On our way back to Florida, I can’t help thinking, God is so good. I thank Him that I have some of my family back again, and my heart is filled to overflowing.
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REVELATIONS
Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.
1 CORINTHIANS 13:13, NLT
Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.
WINSTON CHURCHILL
I’M THINKING ABOUT PAPA. I saw him again this morning when I looked in the mirror. What would he say or do right now if he were here? What would he tell me? I have a pretty good idea. He would look at me as if I were a boy again, smile encouragingly, and give me a big bear hug. Then he would pull back to look in my eyes and say, “My boy, do things all the way or don’t bother doing them. Period.”
I’m nearly ninety years old now—it seems impossible that this adventurous spirit I got from Papa continues to course through me. I am just an old dreamer with a young heart.
As a child I was surrounded by creative family members and friends, some whose masterpieces now hang in museums all over the world. When I took back my family’s name, I was freed to be myself—the son of Jean Matisse, the grandson of Henri Matisse, and an artist in my own right. I have been creating and exploring art through numerous mediums all my life and exhibiting my work for more than two decades across the United States and abroad. I take advantage of every opportunity to encourage children and adults to fall in love with art, especially through hands-on workshops. Sharing my passion for art is important. We must all support art education as a part of the curriculum at every level and in every form of education.
But as passionate as I am about art and as proud as I am of my family identity, I now realize that I spent a majority of my lifetime seeking someone else without actually knowing it. Someone who alone holds the missing piece that makes me whole.
I never went to church as a child. And yet, because I spent so much time outside when I was young, I did have a sense of God as the Creator. I can’t say where that idea came from, except I always wondered, How else could all of the beautiful, intricately designed and obviously engineered things on earth and in the universe have gotten here?
During the war, it was easier to believe in the devil than in God because the devil was all around, doing his work right before our eyes. Where was God during that time? To me, God was busy doing Big Things, like fighting the Nazis in different ways and taking care of people who were injured or sick.
I wasn’t a Big Thing, so I didn’t really consider He had the time or the inclination to watch over me. I did follow our chauffeur Monsieur Jacques’s advice about how to pray: “Always say thank you, no matter the answer.” But otherwise, I didn’t want to concern God with trivial things.
Still I did pray to God about the truly Big Things in my own life—such as when I needed courage to keep Monsieur Effel’s dinghy afloat during the torrential storm and w
hen I prayed for Madame Schmied as she rode off on her bicycle for Paris with those suitcases of food for her husband and child. These pleas for protection seemed right and just.
After my third marriage disintegrated, I didn’t feel like I could ask God for another wife because I had already failed in three marriages. I considered that a trivial request, like someone who is in a line of wounded people and has only a small cut while so many others are seriously bleeding.
And yet, God brought Jeanne and me together. When we got married, Jeanne made no secret that she was going to pray for me every day, that I would know God personally. She prayed for my health and well-being, and that I might honor God with my art through the talents He has given me. Jeanne talks to God like He is a real person sitting there with her, conversing with Him lovingly, just like she does with me. She says that even though God already knows every detail of our lives, He enjoys our company and He wants our prayers to be specific.
Having Jeanne’s love and seeing myself through her heart has allowed me to view myself and others differently. I have certainly developed more patience—actually, we both have.
IN DECEMBER 2009, I was on a walk, trying to think of what to give Jeanne for Christmas. And then an idea came to me—I would illustrate a Bible! I was eager to get under way, so when I got home, I told Jeanne my idea and then asked, “Where do you think I should start?”
“Start at the beginning. God is the first and ultimate artist—start with Genesis,” she replied.
First, I did my research. I pored over the first chapters of Genesis in the Bible that Jeanne gave me on our first wedding anniversary. I read and reread the description of the Creation story with my artist’s heart open.
As I read, I began to have a more intimate relationship with God. It went beyond what I had known of Him during the quiet times in nature when I gazed at awe-inspiring, colorful panoramas on earth and the spectacular images in the night skies, or even the complex living organisms one can only see through a microscope.
Soon I had my story line and set out to create it in a cutout medium. As I began to draw each pattern, I was amazed when additions to my original planned images came to my mind’s eye. I understood where the inspiration was coming from—God was leading and I was more than happy to follow. He’s a genius! God is truly the Divine Creator and I am blessed to be allowed to retell this story.
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