Walking
Among Giants
A
Painter in Paradise
A
story of a Painter in the Paris in the 1920's
Michael
S. Meusch
Copyright 2016 All
Rights Reserved by Author
Acknowledgments
To my good friend's, Chad & Carla Hutchinson. Our childhood
explorations that inspired me and gave my writing its wings.
Dedicated to those who struggle to find themselves, their art, and
style, the mirror of your soul will always give you the truth.
To my son, Caleb, may you never take the path that leads to
convenience and complacency.
To Robert Henri, an Inspiration who helped shape my views on art.
To Leonardo da Vinci, whose imagination, and skill fueled my youth
and beyond.
Preface
This book came into a conception and then reality by the mere will
couple with my search for style and a sense of self. Both the artist
and non-artist will benefit from the lessons throughout the pages.
Aldus Huxley termed "seeing" in 1942 in his book, "The Art of
Seeing." The Non-artist will learn the processes of how a work of
Art comes into being. The character Robert Tauney talks about
academia and warns of such traps and snares for the artist. Standing
by this and simply point out that academia and schematics are not a
means to an end and should not completely be relied upon through the
whole artistic process. Keeping the word, "Seeing, "although the
character would have no idea of Huxley's phrase or concept in that
substitute. The places, names of establishments, historical sights,
and description of architecture and buildings are described in detail
based on Internet images, researched and vivid imagery by me. The
idea of this creation was to have the reader look at life through a
struggling painter in the 1920's. A painter in his mid-twenties
seeks his own identity and tries to find his place in the complex
social strata of the world.
The characters in this story are based on both fiction and
non-fictional people that have assisted in shaping the world of art
in the 1920's. Taking some artistic liberty giving characters'
dialog with my fictional character Robert Tauney. Attempting to
visualize what everyone might have said and in the proper tone of
voice. Taking Liberty not to offend or degrade a character in any
fashion. Playing upon their documented quarrels or trials and
tribulations. The actress Camille is portrayed as a supporting role
from the film Dandy-Pache. Camille and her Opium addiction are purely
fictional. The drug use in the novel is purely fictional by nature
and do not condone or support the use of any kind. The drugs in the
story provide a stark contrast between the natural "Seeing Process"
and artificially aided processes by one in an altered state of
awareness.
Introduction
Grandfather hid his private life from his family and spoke little
of it in front of us. My father would try to pry into his past with
without success. Each endeavor would come to a change of subject. He
passed away in 1985. His life was shrouded in mystery until a few
years ago, I had inherited grandfather's estate and had to clear
out the family attic and house to prepare for a major renovation
later that year. Much to our surprise, while entering the attic, we
found a rather large green military chest labeled in large black bold
letters bearing our family name. My better half opened the chest; it
was a moment of discovery, a portal of another time to grandfather's
scattered past suddenly came to light. Sketches and paintings, neatly
rolled up canvases and supplies, old dried paint tubes and
photographs of friends now long gone were layered in the chest. Then
hidden under this paraphernalia of history was a manuscript with a
green emerald bow. Finding the haunting memories of a tortured man. I
blew off the remaining dust off from the top of the front page and
watched it settle on the ground below. Opening the now yellowed pages
and feeling the slightly frayed edges. The cover held a dedication
and to my surprise, it wasn't to my Grandmother, Angela, who had
passed away ten years prior. I brushed off the remaining dust and
read the name, Alice Prin, "The unrequited love of my life." Who
was this woman who he dedicated his work? It was as if grandfather
knew that somehow a time capsule of his life would be open for all to
see. I did some research on Mademoiselles Prin, scouring the internet
and found tons of information on this icon of the Fallen Follies. I
search every part of the house and the attic trying to find a shred
of evidence linking my grandfather and Mademoiselles Prin. After
several failed attempts, I gave up searching for more clues to my
grandfather's flavorful past. Finally, a year later, while knocking
out the wall to make way for a baby's room in the attic, My Wife came
across an old shoe box he had taped and hid sometime before his
death. The glue from the tape had made a permanent bond with the
textured paper of the box and took some work to open. Finally
breaking the seal of the box, feeling like an archeologist opening an
ancient artifact. There was a white silken hanky covering a large
stack of letters dated from 1925 to 1951. It was shocking that this
man who was married to my grandmother had an illicit affair on paper,
until Mademoiselle Prin's death in 1952. Here is an exert from his
private letters to Alice Prin in written 1948.
"My love for you is universal and has no bounds, even after
this life, it is eternal and unchanging." Later reading further
about my grandfather, I discovered his life as a painter in Paris in
the 1920's. The epic journey my grandfather had undertaken would
change his life forever. Much later in his life, he was hired at a
local university, where he taught the basic foundations of art. He
quit his teaching job in 1945 at the university and opened a small
bookstore in Summer-Brooke, Iowa. Thanks to my grandfather's
writing, a veil to another time and place has been revealed. In his
writing, he provided a glimpse into a different age.
This book has a wealth of information on the painting/ "Seeing",
or what my Grandfather termed, "Omnipresent Viewing" processes
used in the creation of Art. The reader may pick up subtle clues to
the Artist creation techniques and materials and colors used in the
artist's work. It is my sincere wish that the reader will not judge
his actions while reading the memoir of his life. It was a different
time and he was a young man exploring and escaping from the memories
of the War.
Chapter 1
The Beginning
I
LEFT PARIS IN APRIL, 1925. Beaten, broken down, and my life much
like my brush was dipped into hidden catacombs of Paris's despair,
heartache, and, loss. Leaving Paris as a painter who found his voice,
surprisingly not with paint, but with the pen.
One of the many privileged voices that walked, lived, and drank at
the brassieres, caf, and studios once inhabited by great minds and
giants among men. The dust has now settled over my life and I'm now
nearing the end of my journey. Having finally come to some peace with
my past, I write these lines down as my own, 'Piece de Resistance'.
My rich fluid words like oil and turpentine flow effortlessly
through my pen, setting upon paper my life as a Painter in
Montparnasse, Paris. These pages are my canvas and my pen the brush,
exercising the will. The sum of my work recorded in these pages where
paintings once lost, return to former beauty. In some cases, being
conceived before the reader's eyes. I welcome the reader to my own
personal gallery; an artist exhibition of images, feelings, and
experiences. As with works of art, the artist lays down his memorable
impression. There are lines, which move effortlessly and appear to be
floating above the canvas; timeless and un-reproducible. Others lines
are hard and incongruent, yet purposeful in the work's creation.
Everything comes together as a whole, complete statement. Memories
sometimes conjure the image for me of the taste of soured wine, being
brought about to drink willingly once again for the reader, with
purpose and intent. Some parts of the story contain painful and
unbearable memories and over time the bitter wine has turned to
rancid vinegar. "Trials and tribulations are the ink which fuels
the pen." With this, I hope to make an indelible mark on this
parchment and preserve special moments and bring back to life what
was once full of color, vibrant with life and teeming with energy.
Only clips and figures moving about on film and tarnished photos
yellowed with time. The camera missed the small movements that made
the figures, graceful and elegant. There were subtle movements of the
neck and a flow in proper proportion; perfectly timed and delicately
seamless. Accentuated long legs and limbs and proper lighting, which
helps enhance the aroma of our lives were missing, illuminating the
true creations God intended. The cars, buildings, and clothing were
exploding with reds, yellows, and blues. Oh, how the Camera and film
oft-skewed our perspective, making not men, but machines. Untimed and
out of sync with our given reality, it's my desire for the reader to
walk through this Exhibition of each page and view my work hanging
upon the walls of words and gaze at the metaphors and analogies that
made a life. Each man has a unique story like a fingerprint, a one of
a kind, unique stamp upon the earth, our birth right to immortality.
Art doesn't apologize or hide its naked body from the public eye.
Nor can the Author make any apologies and changes in a single word or
phrase to make it more palatable for public viewing. A dear friend
told me once, "Tauney, without conviction to the canvas, there can
be no such thing as a true painting." Let me digress and start from
the beginning, before the paint settled and dried onto my canvases
many decades ago.
Becoming a student of the arts, enrolled at Academy of the Arts
in New York. Classes brought about the long days of sketching and
recording the figure. Each passing of the hand and stroke of the
brush edged me on. Seeing the figures start to have form and
substance were exciting and thrilling. Immovable for hours in the
studio working with a plaster cast and occupied by elements of light,
shade, cast shadows, and rim lighting. Each year that passed, my hand
became more certain in skill. After nearly photographic reproduction
with my own art. Concentrating mainly on portraiture, while
practicing as a student at the Academy. Finding freshman girls
teaming with innocence coming to me wanting their portrait for
themselves, parent, or a dear loved one. The portrait business was a
bothersome one and the client never seemed satisfied. Having a career
as a portrait artist was happily a short one and when complaints were
made I simply stated:
"Madame, there is a photography studio just down the road from
here. They will be happy to assist in catching your likeness.'
The canvas and brush when honestly committed without pretense or
judgment do not lie. If seeing an inner sadness in the sitter and
emphasized their faults, which gave the picture character, the
clients did not appreciate my work and honesty. Bringing about the
features and faults brought balance and a sense of beauty. As a
student trying to make painting my staple income, I began looking at
the master's works. I must admit in hindsight, I wish I had
established my own personal style before embarking on such a daunting
task. Using one's own set style and comparing contrast to let's
say, Leonardo or Raphael would have been a better way to go; taking
bits and pieces from them, small extracted kernels of knowledge and
comparing it to my style and thus improving upon it.
Finally, after years of hard work and effort, finishing the
required studies. The Academia proudly stamped its stamp of approval
on my forehead.
My classmates and I would always meet for
drinks at, Speak Easy's, to discuss our variety of different
subjects including, Nature, Art, Impressionism, Romanticism,
Post-Impressionism, and any other 'ism' that has occurred since
the conception of Art. Our minds did not even fathom or comprehend
three words that would snare me and bring me to my eventual writing
of these pages. These words were conviction, convenience, and
complacency. I was lost and looking for that hue infused sanctuary
called, style. Schooling is not the means to end. It teaches one how
to build the human figure on paper through logic, analysis, charts,
diagrams, and measurements; a Golden Mean, a playground for the
followers and faint-hearted. Contradictory to anyone who chooses his
or her own path. Not to bash my trade, but many artists I read about
eventually had to fight and struggle to just find the very tool they
started with. A traverse map leading to that very question that
started artist brushes in motion. Creation.
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