Paint the Wind, page 31
“As I told you, so many women artists of her time simply disappeared from public view.”
“I want to know more about her—particularly whether she was able to return to Paris with any of her work.”
“I’ve often thought of her over the years. It would be a gift to Sophie’s memory if you could find out more about Maya and her art.”
Valerie was limited in how much she could research while at Twilight, but she wrote to a classmate from NYU who now worked at the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, Massachusetts. The Clark had an extraordinary art library that Valerie had used frequently when conducting research for Malcolm. Her friend, Catherine, was fascinated by Valerie’s description of a lost artist, and was willing to delve into the Clark’s resources.
A week after Valerie had contacted Catherine, she received a manila envelope stuffed with photocopies of newspaper reviews about exhibitions that featured Maya Sircos as an artist, along with images of her as a model in several paintings by Andreas Brenner. Valerie recognized one of the Andreas Brenner paintings, that of the warrior Penthesilea.
“That’s Maya’s face!” Valerie exclaimed. “I knew there was something haunting about her self-portrait. But the difference in how she is portrayed in each painting is striking. I wonder how she transformed herself from model to artist at a time when she would have been dismissed as out of her element.”
The more Valerie discovered about Maya, the more she wanted to know.
“Did you ever see any of the other paintings Maya and Sophie had rescued from Paris?”
“I did, in the early years before the Germans occupied Lyon and the canvases were hidden. What I remember of them was their vibrancy. The colors were so bold, and the faces told a story. They were like Maya herself—full of energy and generosity.”
A few days after Valerie received the manila envelope in the mail, the phone rang. It was Catherine.
“Valerie, she’s alive! Maya Sircos lives in Paris.”
“How did you find her?”
“I have a colleague at the Louvre. I asked her to search the archives for the artists who lived at Le Bateau-Lavoir, since your aunt said Maya had shared studio space in the same building as Picasso. On a hunch, my colleague also checked the phone book. It turns out Maya lives on the Left Bank. Here’s her address.”
Valerie was stunned. She wanted to learn as much as she could about Maya’s art but never imagined the artist might still be alive. When she shared the news with her aunt, Wanona burst into tears.
“Aunt Nonie, what would you like to do with this information?”
“I’d like to get on a plane for Paris. But showing up at Maya’s door unannounced may not be the best idea. I don’t even know if she will want to see me.”
“Because you’ll remind her of the daughter she lost? Do you think she’s resented you all these years because you survived?”
“I don’t know. It was so chaotic at the end. After Sophie was killed, what was left of our team scattered, as she had trained us to do. After the Allied Forces arrived in Lyon, I went to retrieve the painting Sophie had told me about, the one she had hidden in a cave in the hills. The cave overlooked the road to Paris, pockmarked with craters from artillery but swarming with people heading north. Maya must have been among them, because when I went to the farm where she had been hiding, she was gone. I didn’t have a chance to offer her my help or even say goodbye.”
“You could have that chance now if you reach out to her.”
Wanona agreed to Valerie’s suggestion that she write to Maya. “My French is a little weak from disuse. See if you can find my Editions Larousse dictionary over there on the bookcase.”
Wanona labored over the letter, tossing several versions in the wastebasket before she was satisfied.
“I told her about you and how you are researching her work. I also told her I wanted to come to Paris to see her.”
Valerie took the letter to the post office when she went into town to do the grocery shopping. She also stopped at the library to pick up a few books for Wanona.
Harriet, the librarian at the Haines Falls Free Library, remembered Valerie from her visits there as a child.
“What brings you to Twilight Park in winter?”
“I’m helping my Aunt Wanona. She recently fell and broke her leg. This is a list of books she’d like to borrow.”
“Oh, no! Wanona has been a regular here. I was wondering why she hadn’t been by. If you give me the list, I’ll find the books for you.”
While Harriet gathered the titles Wanona had requested, Valerie went to the card catalog and searched for resources related to Maya’s story. When Harriet saw her jotting down some call numbers, she offered assistance.
“Are you looking for a specific title or topic?”
“Yes, artists in early twentieth-century Paris.”
“We may not have much here, but I can order books for you through our consortium. Several of the college libraries may be able to help.”
Weighed down by Wanona’s requests, plus a few titles for herself that Harriet had been able to round up, Valerie made her way back to Twilight Park.
“Malcolm called while you were out doing errands. He asked about the status of his manuscript. Are you writing another book for him?”
As Valerie unpacked the groceries, she assured Wanona she was editing Malcolm’s book, not writing it.
“Your editing is essentially a rewrite of that man’s murky prose. I’ve seen the magic you’ve worked in turning his ideas into a readable text. You have a knack for fixing things, whether it’s a painting or your husband’s books. Have you ever thought about creating something that is yours alone? Being a fixer is a fine thing—look, you’re even fixing me up—but I’ve always felt that you’ve held yourself back. Forgive me for sticking my nose where I shouldn’t, but over the last few days, I’ve observed you throw yourself wholeheartedly into the mystery of Maya Sircos’s art. In fact, those books you brought back for yourself from the library don’t appear to have anything to do with Malcolm’s work.”
Valerie stopped stacking cans in the cupboard. Stunned by Wanona’s comments, her mouth dropped open, but she was speechless.
“Have I overstepped?”
“You know I’ve always respected your opinion, Aunt Nonie, even when it’s hard to hear. You’re right. I’ve become immersed in Maya’s story, and I’ve been ignoring Malcolm’s work since discovering the painting. His work has always taken precedence over my own interests. Coming here has helped me to see that more clearly.” Valerie hugged Wanona. “You’ve always been the one out ahead, hacking through the underbrush to get to the heart of what I truly need.”
“So no hard feelings?”
“None. I still have to edit Malcolm’s manuscript, but I won’t let it get in the way of my curiosity about Maya. I can whip through it while we wait to hear from her.”
Two weeks later, two items arrived for Wanona: a postcard of Montmartre and a letter typed on onion skin and signed with the same scrawling flourish as the name on the painting. The postcard was an exuberant acknowledgment of Wanona.
“You’re alive! You found me! More to come.”
The letter contained a brief description of Maya’s odyssey back to Paris. She had found lodging in Montparnasse and was slowly able to reconnect with others who had survived the war and then rebuild her life.
She closed with the words, “I have a lovely apartment now on the Left Bank. You must come visit me.”
“She wants to see me.” Wanona reveled in the invitation.
“Then let’s make sure you’re fit to travel soon.”
Valerie stayed another month with Wanona, until she was able to navigate the house with crutches. Rosemary was able to help with cleaning and shopping and ferrying Wanona to physical therapy after Valerie left.
“Keep me up to date on your progress. With perseverance, you could be in Paris by June. Meanwhile, get a passport!”
“It’s a powerful motivation. Thank you for making this possible—both my recovery and my potential reunion with Maya.”
Valerie hugged Wanona goodbye with a promise to call every week.
Chapter Forty-Seven
In the middle of June, four months after her fall, Wanona announced to Valerie she’d been cleared by her doctor to travel.
“Let’s book the tickets.”
Valerie was circumspect with Malcolm about her reasons for the trip to Paris. She said Wanona wanted to attend a small reunion of people she’d known during the war and needed a traveling companion. Malcolm was set to give a series of lectures at the Chautauqua Institution during the weeks Valerie and Wanona were planning to go to Paris, and he reluctantly agreed it was a good time for Valerie to help her aunt.
Valerie said nothing to Malcolm about Maya. She had finished editing his book, and there was a lull while his agent negotiated with Houghton Mifflin, the publisher of his two earlier books. She hadn’t picked up another restoration commission yet, although she’d been contacted by the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum to give her opinion on a Michelangelo drawing of La Pietà created for the poet Vittoria Colonna it had recently acquired.
Once Valerie had returned to Boston, she explored every resource on early twentieth-century women artists available at the Museum of Fine Arts, the Fogg Museum at Harvard, and the Gardner. A poster from the 1909 Salon Pisko show had proved to be a treasure trove, revealing the names of the seven other women artists who had been part of the exhibition with Maya. With some assistance from Catherine at the Clark and the twentieth-century European art curator at the MFA, Valerie had been able to track down some of the paintings by the Pisko exhibitors in museum collections, but, as Wanona had warned her, most of their artwork had disappeared.
The two women flew from Logan to Orly on July 8. As they approached the city to land, Valerie saw Wanona turn toward the window and take in the landscape with a sigh.
“You haven’t been back since the war, have you?”
Wanona shook her head and reached in her pocket for her handkerchief. She dabbed at the tears spilling from her eyes.
“I didn’t expect to be so affected, and it’s only the Eiffel Tower. I can’t imagine how much I’ll blubber when I finally see Maya. I need to get a grip on my emotions.”
“I don’t think Maya will be any less emotional, if her letters are any indication.”
Wanona and Maya had corresponded throughout Wanona’s convalescence, the letters increasing in length and revelations as the weeks went by. Wanona had let Maya know Valerie would be accompanying her on the trip, and Maya said she was looking forward to seeing both of them.
They took a cab to the Hotel Pont Royal. Valerie had chosen it not only because of its proximity to Maya’s apartment, but also because Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to frequent the hotel’s bar in the 1940s. Valerie thought Wanona might have had an occasion to drink there as well.
When the cab deposited them at the hotel, Wanona had another sharp intake of breath.
“Have I made a mistake in booking us here?”
“Not at all. I need to expect that everywhere we turn, I’m going to be confronted with memories.”
They had decided to give themselves a day to settle in before visiting Maya, mainly to give Wanona an opportunity to rest.
“You don’t need to be my nursemaid on this trip,” Wanona said sternly, as Valerie fussed over her. “I don’t need a nap. I need a croissant and a cup of very strong coffee.”
Together, they struck out to find a patisserie. Wanona had a cane and sensible shoes, and strode with her usual determination through the streets of the Saint Germain-des-Prés neighborhood.
After the two women were revived by coffee and sweets, Wanona asked Valerie what she wanted to do.
“It’s your first time in Paris. Shall we spend the day seeing the sights, taking a boat ride on the Seine, or going shopping? I know you’ve set up appointments at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay for later in the week, so let’s be tourists today.”
“I don’t want to wear you out. Let’s do the boat ride. And then if you’re up to it, we can shop at Le Printemps and Le Bon Marché. From what I’ve heard, they’d fit the budget of an intermittently employed conservator.”
“That sounds like fun, and I’m a big girl. If I’m fading, I’ll be good and rest. I want to be at my best tomorrow with Maya.”
They spent the rest of the day floating down the Seine, followed by a bistro meal at La Coupole and a stroll through the book stalls before venturing to the iconic department stores. They returned to the hotel laden with shopping bags filled with scarves for themselves, linens for Birch Cottage, and a stylish pair of pale denim bell bottoms with gorgeous floral embroidery on the hem and on the matching vest. Valerie even found some bowties and matching pocket handkerchiefs for Malcolm.
“Very professorial,” commented Wanona, “without being stodgy. I think you should wear the bell bottoms when we visit Maya tomorrow,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye.
They collapsed onto their beds with some ham baguettes they’d picked up during the day. Both were asleep by eight o’clock and didn’t wake until nearly ten the next morning.
They had invited Maya for lunch and planned to pick her up at her apartment at one. On the way, they stopped for flowers, fruit, and chocolates. Maya’s building had an inner courtyard that could be reached through large green wooden doors. A chestnut tree grew in the middle, its branches reaching up to the balconies of the floors above.
Valerie was relieved, for Wanona’s sake, that there was an elevator. It was an ancient cage that creaked and groaned, but it got them successfully to the third floor, where Maya was waiting at the door of her apartment. Valerie knew Maya was ninety, but what she saw standing before her was a woman she recognized immediately as the twenty-two-year-old who had painted the self-portrait she’d discovered at Birch Cottage. Her hair was jet black, pulled away from her face in a very French chignon. From her ears hung long, beaded earrings. She was dressed in yellow slacks with a white blazer over a paler yellow camisole. On her feet were Birkenstock sandals. Her startling blue eyes crinkled with pleasure, her face a striking example of her Greek heritage. She was slender and not stooped.
She reached out her arms to Wanona, who walked directly into her embrace. Maya kissed her on both cheeks and then stepped back to take all of her in.
“My Nonie, here you are at last. I would have known you anywhere.”
“Likewise, Maya!” Then she turned to Valerie, whose arms were filled with the gifts. “My niece, Valerie. If not for her, we wouldn’t have found you.”
Maya extended the same kisses to Valerie and then welcomed the visitors into her apartment. The sitting room had a small kitchenette on one wall and a door to a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Beyond the sitting room, an open door revealed a bedroom. Maya busied herself placing the flowers in a vase while Valerie and Wanona turned slowly around the room in amazement.
A deep burgundy Persian carpet covered the floor. A divan upholstered in moss green velvet was piled with pillows of every fabric in shades and patterns of green and burgundy. Two upholstered armchairs flanked a low, hammered copper table. But what most drew their attention were the walls, which were covered in very recognizable art—a Chagall drawing, a Picasso portrait of Maya, an Egon Schiele painting of a young girl. The center wall opposite the divan was dominated by a portrait of Maya; it was Woman in a Red Dress, which Valerie had seen a photo of in the materials sent by Catherine from the Clark archives. It was extraordinary to see it in person—the fluidity of movement, the presence and passion of Maya that Andreas Brenner had captured.
Maya carried the flowers across the room and set them on the copper table. “That painting stops everyone when they see it for the first time. It was the second one he did of me, when we met years after he had painted me at fifteen, a portrait commissioned by my father.”
“I thought I read it was in a private collection, purchased at Andreas Brenner’s first Secession show. I didn’t realize it was in your possession.”
“Only recently. Someone very dear to me saw when it came up for auction at Sotheby’s and purchased it for me. It defined who I was at one time in my life. Andreas’s early death caused the value of his work to skyrocket, and fortunately, most of it survived the Nazis despite his Jewish heritage.”
“And what about your own work? Aunt Nonie has told me how you were able to hide the canvases during the German occupation.”
Maya waved the question away. “We can talk of that over dinner. Nonie has promised me a meal at a three-star Michelin restaurant, so I suggest we not be late.”
Valerie detected some reluctance on Maya’s part to speak of her art but also understood it would not do to arrive late for the reservation at La Tour d’Argent, so she dropped the subject. The meal was beyond anything Valerie had imagined, but it was the conversation that remained with her. Maya was sparkling, deeply expressive of her joy at being reunited with Wanona. Although they had shared in their letters much of their separate histories since they had last seen each other, they still had much they could only speak of in person. They held hands as they recounted the chaos of the last days in Lyon. Maya spoke of the losses endured when she returned to Paris: Jewish friends who had managed to escape to America and stayed there; others who had been rounded up in the first days of the German occupation and never returned from the death camps; soldiers who had perished in the fighting.
“We were mostly women who had survived the war. Some of us lived together in Montparnasse. We fed ourselves and the children by selling paintings to the American soldiers. The galleries sniffed at us, considering us only a short step above street artists. Most of my contemporary women artists slipped into obscurity.”
“Have you continued to paint?”
Maya held up her arthritic hands. “I can play with small ideas, which I do almost every day, until the pain is too much. The art sustains me in the midst of so much loss. So many who filled my life are now gone. This is why, my dearest Nonie, your presence is such a gift.”
