Picasso's War, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Hugh Eakin
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Crown and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Hardback ISBN 9780451498489
Ebook ISBN 9780451498502
crownpublishing.com
Book design by Debbie Glasserman, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Anna Kochman
Cover photograph: Arnold Newman / Getty Images
Frontispiece: Dora Maar, Picasso painting Guernica in his studio, 7 rue des Grands-Augustins, Paris, May to June 1937. (Gelatin silver print, 20.7 x 20 cm. Musée national Picasso, Paris) (© RMN-Grand Palais/Copy photo: Adrien Didierjean / Art Resource, NY.)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Preface
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1: Not in America
Chapter 2: The Half-Life of a Painting
Chapter 3: Paris, East
Chapter 4: French Lessons
Chapter 5: A Glimpse of the Lady
Chapter 6: Cubism in Congress
Chapter 7: The Chess Player and the Showman
Chapter 8: End of an Idyll
Chapter 9: The Grand Illusion
Chapter 10: Cubists at War
Chapter 11: A New Beginning
Chapter 12: Do I Know This Man?
Chapter 13: In Picasso’s Garden
Chapter 14: Ku Klux Criticism
Chapter 15: Dangerous Liaisons
Chapter 16: Dinner at Quinn’s
Chapter 17: The Last Battle
Part II
Chapter 18: The Man Vanishes
Chapter 19: The Very Modern Mr. Barr
Chapter 20: “Had He Lived Another Decade…”
Chapter 21: A Museum of His Own
Chapter 22: The Paris Project
Chapter 23: “When a Picasso Wins All the Races…”
Chapter 24: The Balance of Power
Chapter 25: Defeat
Chapter 26: “Make Art…German Again”
Chapter 27: Connecticut Chic
Chapter 28: “Risking My Life for My Work”
Chapter 29: The Year Without Painting
Chapter 30: Spanish Fury
Chapter 31: “Such a Painting Could Never Again Be Had”
Chapter 32: The Last of Paris
Chapter 33: “More Important Than War”
Chapter 34: Escape
Epilogue
Dedication
Photo Insert
Acknowledgments
Selected Bibliography
Notes
Text Permissions
Photo Credits
Index
About the Author
Preface
In recent years, there has been a block of Midtown Manhattan that, even in New York, stands out as a hegemonic empire of art and money. Walled in by lustrous expanses of glass and blackened steel, the Museum of Modern Art is a city-state unto itself. In a place where the only room to grow is up, it luxuriates in an ever-growing horizontal sprawl of some of the country’s most coveted real estate. On its board sit more billionaires than are found in all but nine U.S. states; its paintings alone, more than two hundred thousand artworks from all over the world, are worth more than the GDP of a number of small countries.
At its pulsing center is the work of a single artist, a figure whose ghostly presence seems to course through all sixty of the museum’s white-walled exhibition spaces, even in rooms filled with work created long after his death. In the museum’s inner sanctum, through the luminous foyer and up the escalators, across the floating glass-walled bridge to the fifth-floor galleries where the core of the collection still holds sway, is a very large room that—even amid today’s frequently shifting arrangements—continues to be defined by his art. Here, some of the greatest works of Picasso seem to become synecdoches for the museum itself. Flanking the entrance are two huge 1906 paintings that speak of a revolt about to take place. Then, on the far side of the room, dominating an entire wall, is the jarring act, in mid-progress: a huge tableau of naked giantesses who seem to be tearing down the foundations of Western art. Surrounding them is the glorious, disturbing aftermath: In 2021, this included not only Picasso’s seen-from-all-sides-at-once Catalan townscape and his defiantly unbounded bronze Head of a Woman, but also Louise Bourgeois’s haunting painted-wood figurines from the late 1940s and the twisted, terrified bodies of Faith Ringgold’s civil-rights-era masterpiece, American People Series #20: Die—reminding us that the revolt never quite ended.
But the vast Picasso Valhalla was not always thus. Once upon a time, the art that is now synonymous with twentieth-century American culture was ridiculed and shunned. For years, even the idea of creating such a museum, centered around this art and this artist, went nowhere. And when the museum did finally get its start, it was brought into being by little more than a society lady’s whim. Occupying cramped, rented rooms, it had no endowment and hardly any budget—and not a single Picasso to its name. Once upon a time, the cultural hegemon had struggled to survive.
For nearly thirty years, the effort to bring modern art to the United States was continually impeded by war, economic crisis, and a deeply skeptical public. It was a project that might well have foundered, and almost did, but for the fanatical determination of a tiny group of people. This book tells their story.
Prologue
The painting was in the corridor with its face to the wall. Measuring more than four feet high and nearly seven feet across, its huge rectangular frame beckoned, and all four guests were eager to see it. But they would have to wait. There were Bacardi cocktails to drink, followed by dinner and coffee. As they gathered in the front rooms of the cavernous ninth-floor apartment, they somehow needed to find other things to talk about. John Quinn would not be rushed in his own home. A tall, fair-complexioned man with a sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, and a pronounced forehead in front of a balding crown, their host was an almost physical embodiment of the strength of will. Even his assertive posture appeared to be at war with his hollowed-out frame.
At last, after the coffee was served, Quinn rose from the table, stepped out to the hallway, took the painting to the drawing room, and set it up on a large easel under good lighting. Then he returned and poured each of his guests a glass of prewar champagne. It was time. Carrying their glasses, they followed him in.[1]
From the outset, the dinner had stirred up expectation. It was the early spring of 1924, and for months, the hard-charging Wall Street lawyer had not entertained. At the start of the year, he had sold off much of his incomparable collection of modernist manuscripts—including the first drafts of nearly all of Joseph Conrad’s novels and the twelve-hundred-page original text of James Joyce’s Ulysses. And in recent weeks, Quinn had mostly suspended the vast personal correspondence he kept with artists and writers across Europe. Among his large New York circle, many had not seen him at all. Now he had abruptly summoned the four of them.
As they glanced at one another around the table, they knew they had not been chosen casually. Arthur B. Davies, painter, aesthete, and society man, was one of the city’s most well-connected champions of modern art. Frederick James Gregg, mordant critic for Vanity Fair and the New York Sun, had long been one of Quinn’s closest intellectual allies. Joseph Brummer, the Hungarian art dealer who had once swept floors for Matisse in Paris, was one of the very few people in the United States who knew personally many of the artists whom Quinn collected.[2] Rounding out the company was the poet Jeanne Robert Foster, a younger woman with large, inquisitive eyes, a Greek nose, and an unruly mass of reddish-blond hair. She was the literary editor of The Transatlantic Review and was better informed about the art and writing of twentieth-century Europe than almost anyone in Manhattan. Though she was married to another, much older man, she had for several years been Quinn’s lover.
In New York at the time, only a handful of collectors were interested in living artists. Contemporary modern art was deemed to have negligible value, and many found the new colors and techniques abhorrent, or even subversive. Yet over the previous decade, Quinn had filled his eleven-room suite on Central Park West with hundreds of the most startling new artworks in existence. Hallways were cluttered with beguiling marble and polished bronze sculptures, animal and human subjects reduced to their underlying essences; bedrooms were filled with riotous canvases—not hung up, but lining the walls in thick rows, stacked under chairs, and stuffed under beds. When Quinn was in the right mood, he would bring out any number of remarkable paintings, works that challenged the imagination of his visitors: Cézannes and Van Goghs, Gauguins and Seurats, Fauvist landscapes, Futurist dancers, Vorticist women. There was an exceptional clutch of Matisses, including one that had provoked a violent backlash a few years earlier. And of course the Picassos, several dozen of them, spanning from his early Old Guitarist to exquisit
Even by Quinn’s standards, however, the painting that awaited them that night was out of the ordinary. In Paris, where it had turned up in a basement six weeks earlier, it had shocked and overwhelmed several of the leading connoisseurs of the new art; though its history remained obscure, there was talk of it going straight to the Louvre. In the United States, no one had known of its existence.
No one except Quinn. Picasso had been one of the first to see the mysterious painting, and he had immediately thought of his American friend. Two weeks later, Quinn had bought it, for a modest sum, without leaving New York, without ever seeing it. Picasso’s judgment, and the fervent appeals of Quinn’s other Paris friends, had been enough. They knew he had been hunting for such a singular painting for years; they felt certain this was the one. Having crossed the ocean on the S.S. Paris in a large crate, the very large work had been delivered to Quinn’s apartment shortly before his guests arrived. Before the dinner, he had unwrapped it. But he hadn’t inspected it, until now.
As they entered the room, Quinn’s dinner companions were seized by the giant rectangle. Confronting them was a nocturnal encounter as alluring as it was strange: A serene, dark-complexioned woman slumbers on a barren desert ridge; as she sleeps, a huge lion approaches her and sniffs her hair, its upturned tail silhouetted against the cool night air. The two seem to be in remarkable communion, even as the beast menaces.
Overpowering in its tension and equipoise, the painting was unlike any they had seen. For sheer mastery of its human and animal forms, spareness of detail, and uncanny rhythm and balance, the giant canvas was astonishing. But it was also filled with unsettling mystery. It was hard to tell, Quinn observed, whether the lion was going to devour the woman or not. For some time, they stood looking at it. Eventually, Davies called it “wondrous.” Then they raised their glasses. “To beauty,” someone said.
Quinn was a man not easily pleased. He’d turned down Seurats and Van Goghs that European rivals had coveted. He had passed up countless Braques and Matisses, preferring to wait for better ones. At times, he’d rejected Picassos that the artist himself had offered him. Sometimes he’d sent paintings back that he found wanting. Up until the moment he saw it, his friends in Paris were worried about this one, too. They needn’t have been. “The painting sings, every part of it, and the whole of it is perfect,” he wrote the next morning.[3]
Called The Sleeping Gypsy, the painting was by Henri Rousseau, the French customs official and self-taught artist who had died in 1910. Though he remained little known to the general public, he was a lodestar to Picasso and other avant-garde painters, who befriended him at the end of his life. Quinn had long been fascinated by Rousseau’s unworldly genius. He also knew that his paintings were widely scattered. Years earlier, he had set out to acquire a work of Rousseau’s that stood out above all the others. He was convinced that such a picture existed, but none of the Rousseaus he saw measured up. Until Picasso found him the woman and the lion.
For Quinn, the painting’s arrival in his apartment was the climax of a career as a cultural renegade, a life lived through the most daring art and literature of his time. Though he seldom traveled to Europe, Quinn had made friends with, and personally supported, an improbable number of the artists and writers who would go on to define modernism, picking them out, on his own judgment, because they excited him: Joseph Conrad and Henri Matisse, Ezra Pound and Pablo Picasso. He had followed them through the war, sent them letters and money, visited their studios and flats, worried about their health. Even as he struggled to keep up with his law practice, as his own health declined and he ran out of funds, he always found time for what he adamantly referred to as living art. The paintings and sculptures that moved him most were not just objects of uncommon beauty; they had to give off “radium,” he told his friends, the energizing rays of life itself.
Nor had he been content to keep his enthusiasms private. At a time when modern art remained deeply suspect to most Americans, Quinn aggressively promoted avant-garde painting and modernist prose. He introduced Americans to the poetry of W. B. Yeats and T. S. Eliot, to Romanian sculptor Constantin Brancusi’s Mlle Pogany and to French artist Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase. He defended taboo-breaking novels in court and lobbied Congress to end a punitive import tax on contemporary art. The best new work, he argued, was inseparable from social progress, and introducing it to a broad public would bring American civilization to the forefront of the modern world.
Six years earlier, at the end of the war, he had embarked on an even more ambitious project: to gather together the very best works by the small group of artists who, in his estimation, were changing history. With these unheralded masterpieces, he was going to build the first great modern art collection in the United States. And he was going to transform the way Americans thought about art. With his Picassos, and now the big Rousseau painting, he seemed, at last, to be bringing that project to fruition.
As they stood admiring Quinn’s greatest prize, however, Jeanne Foster knew how distant his ambition still was. Her work as a journalist and critic had given her few illusions about American culture. Modest and self-effacing despite her exceptional strength of mind, she made a striking counterpoint to Quinn’s cocksure brilliance. She shared many of the lawyer’s remarkable qualities, including humble origins, an elite education, and an insatiable curiosity that bridled against prevailing taste and social convention.
Were Americans ready for Quinn’s Picassos and Brancusis? She doubted it. She knew many of the country’s cultural institutions fiercely resisted the kind of art that Quinn supported, and few other patrons seemed ready to follow his lead. After all, only four of his close friends were present to welcome The Sleeping Gypsy, and they were already converted. By contrast, just a few months earlier, the socialite Louisine Havemeyer, though she was viewed as one of the city’s most progressive art collectors, had taken direct aim at Quinn and his radical circle. She was tired, she’d said, of the “modern art which certain people are trying to force down the public’s throat.”[4]
Foster knew that many of Quinn’s projects—like creating a permanent space for modern art, or getting the Metropolitan Museum of Art to start acquiring twentieth-century paintings—had foundered. She also worried that he was running out of time. Though he was just fifty-four, Quinn was seriously ill. He had never mentioned cancer to anyone, but following a difficult operation in 1918, Foster had learned the real story. Privately, his doctors had told her that he might have another six years to live. Now his time was up. For the moment, he maintained a defiant vigor, dragging himself to his office every day and asserting his usual sharp wit whenever he could. As recently as the previous autumn, she had accompanied him on a headlong five-week trip to Paris, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, and Berlin. Yet he had to wear a canvas corset to support his abdomen and it took him enormous effort just to get out of bed in the morning. And while Quinn kept filling his apartment with more stupendous examples of living art, he had no direct heirs, and he had never resolved his plans for the collection after his death.[5]
* * *
—
The morning after the party, Quinn moved The Sleeping Gypsy to his own bedroom, where he set it on a table between two east-facing windows. As the sun rose higher, the light from the windows began to fill the canvas. Quinn thought it looked even better than it had during the party. Later, at his office, he dictated a letter to one of his closest friends in Paris. “I think it is not only the greatest painting Rousseau ever did…but one of the greatest paintings done in modern times,” he wrote.[6] To those who knew Quinn only as a man of radical tastes and towering ego, these words might have simply appeared self-serving. The painting was virtually unknown, and who was to say what others might make of it, let alone its larger place in some imagined canon of the new art?
