Picasso's War, page 20
“Why can’t you bring him?”
“I don’t bring Davies anyplace,” Quinn snapped. “He either takes himself or he doesn’t go.”
Rosenberg was disconcerted; surely Quinn’s friends would want to see Picasso’s new work. A little while later, as Quinn showed them more of his paintings, the dealer started in again. He asked Quinn if he would bring Miss Bliss to see his show. By now, Quinn was seething.
“I don’t bring Miss Bliss.”
The mood of the evening soured as the other guests watched the painful confrontation play out. After their exchange, Rosenberg finally let the matter drop. For both men, though, it was an explosive turning point. Having failed with Quinn, Rosenberg left the dinner feeling that he could not crack the city’s obscure social codes and that he would be unable to turn his show around. In the elevator down from Quinn’s apartment, he confided to Kennerley that he had sold almost nothing and that he was “disgusted with America.”
But it was Quinn who went radioactive. Rosenberg had ignored his advice about the show and then, having limited himself to a sterile group of living-room-ready Harlequins, priced the work far too high. Nevertheless, Quinn had incorporated his gallery, paid him handsomely in dollars, and, despite his vow not to entertain, invited him to dine with his friends and see his collection. Now, as Quinn’s guest, Rosenberg was pressuring Quinn to rescue his show? If the Picasso venture was causing Rosenberg grief, it was his affair. Quinn was through.
The next morning, in a hateful letter to Roché, Quinn gave an eviscerating account of the evening in which he suddenly devolved into the ugly, tribal mindset of his Irish American working-class youth. He began benignly enough, telling Roché how anxious he was to hear from Foster in Paris. “I have not had a single word from her by cable or letter,” he wrote. He knew she was returning soon, but this time their separation had pierced him with uncharacteristic force. But then he went on to describe the dinner and how he had reluctantly arranged it for Rosenberg, identifying each of the guests, who he knew would be of interest to Roché. “Rosenbach is a very fine man and a very amusing man,” he wrote. “So is Kennerley…. Wildenstein is a perfect gentleman. But Rosenberg showed himself to be a cheap little Jew.”[9]
A cheap little Jew. Here was Quinn letting rip all the latent prejudice of his time. Quinn, the progress-minded, cosmopolitan friend of writers and artists, the champion of innovation, the internationalist who railed against American provincialism and the benighted worldview of his fellow Irish Americans, the fearless modernist who fought against obscenity laws, blasted the intolerance of the Catholic Church, and ridiculed the eugenicist thinking of the country’s conservative art critics—at a dinner of highly cultivated Jews and gentiles in his own home, he had succumbed to the same rank cultural attitudes that he had spent so much of his career seemingly defying.
The current ran deep. Amid the cultural and racial angst of early 1920s America, Jews had become a primary target of crude stereotypes, with anti-Jewish policies extending from the country’s elite schools, which began to severely limit the number of Jewish students, to exclusionary real-estate covenants, to the resurgent Ku Klux Klan, many of whose chapters fomented anti-Semitism alongside their campaign of terror against African Americans. The New York bar itself, in which Quinn’s professional career played out, was notoriously segregated, with corporate law largely dominated by large Protestant firms, and Jewish firms operating on a second tier. Meanwhile, the country had had an influx of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe who were culturally apart from their highly assimilated Western European counterparts of earlier decades. Since Quinn’s arrival in New York at the turn of the century, more than a million and a half Jewish immigrants had settled in the city’s five boroughs, fundamentally changing local demographics and helping fuel a new anti-immigrant alarmism among the elite.
To a man as worldly as Quinn, such attitudes should have been deplorable. Irish Americans were as prone to prejudice as any other group, and had a long tradition of denigrating “Hebrews” and others, even as they found themselves on the receiving end of WASP disdain. But Quinn had come very far from his provincial roots and could barely hide his antipathy for Catholic narrow-mindedness; he had also sought a life among artists, publishers, impresarios, and critics, who were often Jewish. He was one of Alfred Stieglitz’s most important clients; an early patron of the sculptor Jacob Epstein; a literary sparring partner with Alfred Knopf. He had socialized for years with Otto Kahn, the chairman of the Metropolitan Opera, with whom he had plotted various cultural projects; and he was friendly with Joseph Stransky, the director of the Philharmonic, who lent paintings to the Met’s 1921 post-Impressionist show. In Paris, Rosenberg was only one of several art dealers he had longstanding ties with, including the Bernheims and Kahnweiler; he had also cultivated Alphonse Kann, from the great banking family, whom he regarded as one of the most discerning art collectors in the world. A year before the dinner with Rosenberg, he had enthusiastically supported the work of Swiss critic Albert Dreyfus, who was writing a major book in German about Picasso. It would have been hard to find many gentiles in New York at the time who had as many Jewish friends as Quinn did.
And yet he never quite did escape, and he was capable in moments of indulging in some of the era’s most ferocious racial tropes. To Roché he complained about the Jews—“which is another word for international finance”—derailing the economic reconstruction of Europe; to Irish friends and salty correspondents like Ezra Pound, he could be more blatant, decrying the “million Jews, who are mere walking appetites, seven or eight hundred thousand dagos, a couple of hundred thousand Slovaks, fifty or sixty thousand Croats, and seven or eight thousand Germans” who were allegedly overrunning New York.[10] It was a confounding flaw, and one that was shockingly pervasive among the first generation of modernists. For all their promise to transform language and reinvent painting, the new artists and writers were often as susceptible to intolerance as others. Eliot wrote anti-Semitic poems; in later years, Pound would be drawn down the road of Italian Fascism. Among French artists, there was a current of anti-Semitism going back to Degas and Renoir in the late nineteenth century; it would continue on with the Fauvist painter Vlaminck, who later supported the Vichy regime. One day in late 1919, Clive Bell, the Bloomsbury critic and modernist aesthete, happened to be in Rosenberg’s Paris gallery when news arrived of Renoir’s death. When Rosenberg reacted with considerable emotion, it sent Bell into a bigoted rant. “This black jew, with the smutty tears on his cheeks,” Bell reported to his mistress, Mary Hutchinson.[11] Bell may have been unaware of Rosenberg’s close friendship with Renoir during the artist’s final years, but his words were particularly ironic in view of Renoir’s own complicated history of Jewish patrons on the one hand and anti-Jewish prejudice on the other.
Following the dinner at Quinn’s, Rosenberg carried on valiantly with his Picasso plans, setting out for Chicago by train a week later. By now, however, he had few hopes for his show, and even before he got there, he began tempering Picasso’s expectations. In a letter to Picasso, he described this second stop primarily as an opportunity to “meet people” and introduce his art; sales would likely be out of the question. “I doubt very much it will have the same success as in New York,” he wrote, straining to put a good face on what had already become an unmitigated failure.[12]
Rosenberg’s assumptions were not wrong this time. There were no sales at all, and by the time he left Chicago, he could barely hide his exasperation with American culture. “I’m impatient to see you again, to speak with you and exchange ideas,” Rosenberg wrote Picasso shortly before his departure. “The people here are so stupid!” When the dealer finally embarked for Europe again, around the turn of the new year, he had almost nothing to show for his hugely expensive transatlantic venture. A full twelve years after Stieglitz had tried it, a group of Picassos that had been brought to New York for exhibition were once again returning to Paris unsold. Only this time, they were major paintings rather than drawings, and the stakes were considerably higher. Perhaps the United States was not suited for modern art after all. “For selling your art, 21 Boétie is the only place,” he told Picasso, ominously. “The atmosphere of a new continent is not hospitable to new painting. It is better suited to the art of the past.”[13]
17
THE LAST BATTLE
On the first day of February 1924, Roché joined Hermann von Wedderkop, the editor of Germany’s leading avant-garde magazine, for a lunch of langoustes at Jean Cocteau’s apartment. Then, finding himself near rue La Boétie, Roché decided to go see Picasso. Among other things, he wanted to ask him about the illustrations he had long promised for the German edition of Roché’s Don Juan. When Roché arrived, however, Picasso was distracted by something altogether more urgent. He had just seen a very large, unknown painting by Henri Rousseau that had been discovered in someone’s basement. Picasso said it was the best picture Rousseau ever made. He also said it made him think of John Quinn.[1]
For Roché, this was tantalizing news. For nearly four years—almost since he and Quinn had begun their collaboration—Quinn had been hunting for an exceptional Rousseau. He was fascinated by the painter’s naïf portraits and pure, enigmatic jungle pictures, an attraction that was heightened by Rousseau’s enormous influence on Picasso and his circle, who had revered him at the end of his life. By now, Quinn had managed to acquire several important Rousseau paintings, but the great, definitive painting he sought continued to elude them. Roché had consulted dealers, followed private leads, and obtained access to paintings that were not officially for sale, but nothing he found had quite satisfied Quinn. He needed to see Picasso’s painting right away.
The location of the mysterious work carried its own fascination. It was not being marketed by Rosenberg or one of the city’s several Rousseau specialists. Instead, the painting had come into the hands of Kahnweiler, who continued to make up in connoisseurship what he could not in capital. And he had chosen to show it to Picasso before anyone else. Ever since his return to Paris after the war, Kahnweiler had persistently pursued his friendship with Picasso. His gallery was nearby, and Picasso liked to drop in and talk to him. Already the previous summer, Picasso had agreed to make him a series of new lithographs, several of which Quinn had acquired from Kahnweiler during his second trip to Paris.[2] Kahnweiler also knew Picasso’s love for Rousseau, and giving him a peek at such an extraordinary painting was another way to signal his continued loyalty. For Picasso, the overture had come at an opportune moment. Just weeks earlier, Rosenberg had returned from his disastrous trip to New York and Chicago, and Picasso was furious that none of his paintings—none of the big neoclassical Harlequins that Rosenberg had demanded—had sold. Once again he had come up empty in the United States. He laid much of the blame on the dealer, telling friends that Rosenberg’s high prices had “hurt him very much.”[3] If he was not quite ready to give up on Rosenberg, he nevertheless took a mischievous glee in sending Quinn—Rosenberg’s most important American client—to Kahnweiler. As Roché later told Quinn, Picasso was “flirting” with Kahnweiler again.[4]
Roché didn’t need persuading. Kahnweiler’s gallery, on rue d’Astorg, was less than five minutes from Picasso’s apartment, and as soon as they were done talking, he raced over. The painting was still in the gallery’s cellar storeroom and Kahnweiler took him downstairs to see it. At first it didn’t look promising; the canvas was rolled up, and there were still cobwebs on it from years in storage.[5] As the dealer carefully unrolled it, however, Roché slowly began to absorb what he was seeing. A sheer, empty desert; a distant range of mountains; the night sky. A woman asleep; an enormous lion. The scene was inexplicably overpowering; it almost seemed to give off heat. Looking at it, Roché was seized with what he later described as “a bolt of love.”[6]
As he came to his senses, Roché felt certain that Picasso was right: The painting had to go to Quinn. He also thought that the painting was dynamite. As soon as Kahnweiler cleaned it and displayed it upstairs in the gallery, all of Paris would be talking about it. And the price Kahnweiler was asking seemed moderate: 175,000 francs, or about $9,000. Roché guessed that it could easily sell for 200,000 francs or more. What could he do? Nine thousand dollars was still a lot by Quinn’s standards, but it was not beyond his range. Roché also knew that Kahnweiler liked and respected Quinn from his visits to Paris. Using all of his persuasive arts, Roché pleaded—insisted—that Kahnweiler send Quinn a photograph before showing the painting to anyone else. He impressed on Kahnweiler that as soon as Quinn saw the photograph, he would surely take out an option—a nonrefundable payment to reserve a work for a fixed period of time. At length, Kahnweiler seemed to agree to the arrangement, though until Quinn purchased the option Roché had only the dealer’s word.
That night, Roché couldn’t stop thinking about the painting. When he got up, he immediately wrote to Quinn. “I have seen yesterday a Rousseau which has quite upset me,” he began. “Kahnweiler has just received it. Picasso saw it there and told me to go at once, thinking of you.” He said he couldn’t describe it, but then tried anyway, writing and crossing out words. “The woman, lying at the foreground, she is dreaming of love, her face is ‘inouï,’ the lion is probably going to eat her, but perhaps he will walk away.” The colors, he wrote, were equal to the composition: “They are a poem strange simple.” He told Quinn he was sending a photograph as soon as he could get it and warned him, “If it is exhibited, it is sold.” He also tried to convey the strength of his feelings. “I risk all my worth and all your confidence to back this picture,” he wrote.[7]
Kahnweiler was glad to entertain interest from Quinn, particularly on Picasso’s recommendation. But they would have to act quickly. For the time being, the painting was not yet ready to be displayed, but Kahnweiler recognized that it was a work of unusual interest and did not want to wait. For his part, Roché knew that the letter and photograph would take a week or more to reach New York, and his initial cables to Quinn had met with silence. A day went by, then another. Ratcheting up the pressure, Kahnweiler told Roché that Quinn would need to buy a 10,000-franc option—about $500—to reserve the painting. Roché cabled New York again, this time referring to himself in the third person for emphasis: “PICASSO SAYS MOST WONDERFUL ROUSSEAU…ROCHE NEVER SAW MORE CONVINCING PICTURE.”[8]
Still, no reply came from Quinn. Roché began to worry. Just as he feared, Kahnweiler decided to hang the painting, now cleaned and framed, in his gallery and already it was attracting attention. Reporting the news to Quinn, Roché cabled that the painting was “CREATING UNANIMOUS SENSATION.” He urged him to risk an option even before seeing the photograph. Once again, though, he heard nothing. “Cabling John every day,” he wrote in his diary, “anxious hasn’t answered.”[9]
By now, a week had gone by since Roché first saw the painting, and Kahnweiler gave him an ultimatum: Quinn would need to buy the option by noon the next day or he would open the work to other parties. Somehow, Roché would have to get Quinn’s attention. That afternoon, he decided to take Brancusi to see the painting; his opinion would matter. But the sculptor would not be hurried. Roché arrived at his studio at lunchtime and Brancusi wanted to grill some steaks. Then, when lunch was finished, Brancusi said he needed to go to the bank, where they dealt with some complications involving a check he had received in dollars—from Quinn. The afternoon was getting on, and Roché kept thinking of the painting. But Brancusi needed a new coat. They made their way to the Boulevard des Capucines and, with the money from Quinn’s check, bought him a magnificent pardessus at Old England, known for its British tailoring. They were now near the Opéra, a thirty-minute walk from Kahnweiler’s gallery. They would have to get there in time to see the painting and cable Quinn. Crossing the center of Paris again, they finally reached rue d’Astorg. They went inside, and Roché led Brancusi to the big painting. For several minutes, Brancusi looked at it. Then he told Roché: He was touché au coeur. He also agreed with Picasso about where it should end up. As soon as they left the gallery, Roché cabled Quinn: “BRANCUSI’S OWN WORDS: FASCINATED ORIGINALIST ROUSSEAU. SOMETHING FOR FRIEND QUINN.”[10]
The next morning, hours before Kahnweiler’s deadline, Quinn at last broke his silence. For weeks, he had been nervous and withdrawn. When Jeanne Foster arrived from Paris in late December, he had met her at the dock, and she was startled by how much thinner he seemed. Since then she had been with him constantly, and he had determinedly kept up his work. But he had ceased almost all of his other activity and the wasting continued. He had a habit of taking her on a weekly Sunday walk on the Palisades, or in the hills around White Plains, sometimes with their friend Gregg. But Foster noticed that the walks were getting shorter.[11]
In his narrowing view, Quinn was less inclined to get excited by a painting. He also hadn’t received Kahnweiler’s photograph or Roché’s letter describing the work; he had no idea, even, of the painting’s subject. His answer was cantankerous and noncommittal: “CANNOT DECIDE UNTIL SEE PHOTOGRAPHS. UNWILLING PAY TEN THOUSAND OPTION. TOO HIGH.”
Still, he had never seen Roché so exercised about a work of art. Quinn asked him to make a counteroffer on the option, if only to prevent the dealer from selling the painting to someone else: “WOULD BE WILLING TO PAY FOUR THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED FIFTY FRANCS OPTION.” Then, in a second, “confidential” cable to Roché, he wrote that he had “NO INTENTION” of making such a large purchase and that it would “STRAIN RESOURCES” to do so, though he “MIGHT POSSIBLY MAKE EXCEPTION THIS CASE.” This was not at all reassuring, but at least not a definitive no. Roché relayed the counteroffer to Kahnweiler and awaited his answer.[12]
