Dali House

Part 1 of this post is here.

Shown above is “The Seine with the Pont de la Grande Jatte”, painted in 1887 by Vincent Van Gogh. Perhaps he’d had a go himself after hearing the fuss that Seurat had caused. Van Gogh came to Georges’ studio at the end of 1887, and then joined Seurat and Signac in hanging a few canvases at a show at the new Théâtre Libre on rue Blanche. And Vincent made a final visit to Seurat’s atelier on February 19, 1888, on his was to the train station to leave Paris forever. The next day he was in Arles.

Seurat was bound for different vistas as well, summering that year on the Normandy coast — in Le Crotoy, Honfleur and Gravelines — and painting seascapes and harbour scenes. The following February there was another Les Vingt exhibition in Brussels, and then came Madeleine Knobloch.

Seurat kept his 20-year-old working-class mistress a secret from both family and friends, moving with her into a tiny studio flat at #39 on the elegantly named Passage de l’Elysée des Beaux Arts — it’s the angled building in the middle of the image below. This road is now called rue André Antoine, after a clerk at the Paris Gas Company whose interest in the stage led him to become what some call the “Father of Modern Drama”.

Antoine (1858-1943) established the highly innovative Théâtre-Libre in the street in March 1887, before moving shop in the autumn to rue Blanche in Montparnasse, where Seurat, Signac and Van Gogh helped him “decorate”. Interestingly, 39 rue du Passage de l’Elysée des Beaux-Arts was also Modigliani’s address in 1910 and 1911, but then he did move around a lot.

At this domicile on February 16, 1890, Madeleine gave birth to a son, called Pierre-Georges in a mirror image of his father’s name. Later that year Seurat exhibited just one painting, “Young Woman Powdering Herself”, but he didn’t let on that it was a portrait of his lover. See the rest.

If not in person, Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” has to be seen large. There’s a very good scan on this page at the Athenaeum.

There are moments on hot summer days when we are prepared for a miracle. The stillness and the gently vibrating haze give to our perceptions a kind of finality, and we wait listening for some cosmic hum to enchant, like Papageno’s bells, the uncouth shapes and colours which surround us, so that they all dance to the same tune and finally come to rest in a harmonious order. — Kenneth Clark, “Looking at Pictures”

It’s a pretty Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1885 and we’re having a petit bourgeois luncheon on the grass on on an island in the Seine. La Grande Jatte — the Big Bowl — near Neuilly has been cleaned up considerably after all those years as an industrial canker. There are restaurants and joints where you can dance further along the island, though still lots of factories on the far riverbank, which is why not everyone wants to come here. But now this end of the Jatte is a marvellous green get-away for city folks like us, nice breezes off the river, and we’re doing our best to muck it up with dog shit.

That woman with the monkey is here again too. She keeps it on a leash but it still defecates at the drop of a peanut and alarms the old ladies. Someone ought to complain to the gendarme, but he’s only here for the flirting.

After our quiche we’ll go pester that young Seurat at his easel again. He’s here almost every day, same as last summer, pecking away at his canvases like a pigeon. Millions of little dots. One picture after another. What the hell can he be thinking? He’s such a grouch too — good-looking fellow, nicely dressed, but he definitely deserves to have both of his legs pulled!

Georges-Pierre Seurat was 25 that summer, and if was anti-social, he had a brace of fair reasons. His father, who was in the law game, was a stick in the mud who only showed up at home on Tuesdays; the rest of the week he was at his country villa pecking away at his flower garden like a pigeon. Georges came by his stand-offishness honestly. And besides that, he really had something to prove with his painting. Now was not the time for distractions. See the rest.

Dali House has new linked acquaintances with a pair of art-minded websites. The proprietors of both recently checked in here for a look around, and their own premises are well worth a visit.

By far the newer of the two is a youthful website called the Pablo Picasso Club. Though it hasn’t been rolling for long, the club is getting up to 200 visitors a day, mostly Americans, and already has a lively interchange of ideas underway.

The forums are a little argumentative for my tastes, but there’s some decent commentary and quite valid questions being asked about the nature of art and what artists go through in the creative process. There are loads of images, not all of Picasso’s works, though also a dearth of titles. Most of the members seem attuned to admiring art, not analysing it.

Good fun for the old bull of the Spanish plains, where it gets very hot. Still, us foreigners can get a chuckle out of these undated newspaper photos. The double image comes from the archives of the Collect Dali Yahoo Group.

Meanwhile there’s a site with dada intentions but wide-ranging interests, Rosenbush Cafe, whose author, Henry Rosenbush of Alabama, bills himself as the Existential Nihilist and “a dadist since 1971″.

The cafe’s own roots run much deeper: Henry’s great-uncle Edwin opened the original Rosenbush Cafe in 1926, where Henry spent “every Sunday in the ’50s”.

He’s now keeping those memories alive and at the same time collecting dada and surreal items, especially movies, doing general video and film reviews and writing a surrealist novel called “The Cool Side of the Pillow”.

“Anti-art,” Henry laments. “How I wish I had lived in that era, but we do what we can in the modern era to keep it alive so it will never die!”

On the eve of Salvador Dalí’s 104th birthday on Sunday, a buyer in disguise handed Sotheby’s a cheque for $802,600 this week in return for the painting above, “Portrait of Madame Schlumberger”, begun in 1963 and signed in ‘65. The auction house was expecting about half a million dollars, so many happy returns all round.

Carstairs Gallery in New York bought the oil painting when the paint was barely dry, and Sotheby’s was flogging it in the same city for an “important” private collector but didn’t say who, so it’s not clear whether his model ever actually owned the thing.

“I don’t really like it,” São Schlumberger told Women’s Wear Daily in 1987. “I was expecting a fantasy … but he did a classic.”

Of Portuguese and German descent, Madame Schlumberger and her husband, the French-American oil tycoon Pierre Schlumberger, were keen on art.

She favoured Rothko, Rauschenberg and Lichtenstein, they hung out with Warhol, kept the Museum of Modern Art and Lincoln Center happy and fed Mondrian and Calder to Houston’s Museum of Fine Arts.

Dalí was pulled in to do her portrait two years after their wedding. São put on the same Givenchy gown for his several visits to their place on Sutton Place in Manhattan, and at the same time he made her a necklace, though perhaps not the one she’s holding in the painting. He was indeed in his neo-classicist era with the formal pose and fine details, so São, hankering for surrealism, had to make do with a dreamy background landscape. See the rest.

Vincent has rented four rooms along one side of the big yellow house on Place Lamartine at 15 francs a month. He’d had a falling-out with the landlord at the Carrel, who was charging five francs a week for just his one room. Vincent was so incensed that he took the matter to an arbitrator, and ended up paying one franc a week less!

Meanwhile he’s moved into Joseph Ginoux’s Café de la Gare just along the way and is waiting for the yellow house to be furnished, though he can begin using it as a studio. This is where he wants to open his “Studio of the South”, an artists’ co-operative that will explore new ways of doing things, what he calls, none too modestly, the “art of the future”.

He signed the lease on May 1 for two large rooms on the ground floor and two smaller ones above, facing Place Lamartine. The other half of the building houses a grocery, and just across from it is the restaurant that his landlady, the widow Venissac, operates, where Vincent takes his meals.

He’s started a series of paintings with which to decorate his future home, mostly sunflowers, and has made a large picture of the house itself, which he calls “La Maison et son entourage”, but he’s thinking of retitling it “La Rue” after Raffaëlli’s new paintings of the streets in Paris.

You can see Vincent’s main street along the right of the picture, Avenue Montmajour, which leads to the railway bridges, one going across the river to Lunel, the other linking Paris and Lyon to Marseille. On the left in the painting, shaded by a tree, is the restaurant, and just beyond that, not visible, is the night café, which Vincent is also painting. He’s sent a sketch of “La Maison” to his brother Théo and proudly pointed out how everything is transformed by the “sulphur sun under a pure cobalt sky”. See the rest.