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Authors: Roberta Latow
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misinterpreted, lose their jobs and be hauled up before Joe McCarthy and his despicable Mr. Schine, could now speak their minds. Julius and Ethel Rosenberg had been burned not in the electric chair, but at the stake. When they pulled that switch, the shock reverberated through the States. The reality was that Americans, discontented with their country and life, had been executed. “The Land of the Free” had been in grave danger.
All this had been dragged out, fought and was now behind America. It was another victory for democracy, or a victory of sorts at least.
The painters who, during the Depression, painted murals in post offices all over the United States in order to survive in their own medium, banded together in groups so that they could afford the price of a studio. Only some were Communists, but all were considered Bohemian or to lead a Bohemian life. They were no longer young except in heart, and their struggle to survive led them everywhere, even to the Manhattan art galleries. Then the dealers discovered them, dragging them up from the Village to the East Sixties in force. The dealers created a great American art market. A de Kooning painting thatcould be bought for $500 in the mid-fifties would be sold now for $50,000, if you could get a dealer to release one. Mr. America himself — he might be a shoe manufacturer from Boston, an insurance man from Connecticut, a toilet manufacturer from Wisconsin — now embraced the artist, the new first-class citizen.
And there I was, thought Isabel, right in the middle of all this with a handsome, blond, elegant man who was a painter, and a Bohemian. Who suffered for Art’s sake, but left America to live like a prince in the art world. He had returned because America was now ready to recognize his talent. This beautiful man who walked like a prince through the galleries, and charmed the dealers with his looks, his elegance, and his house and studio near Picasso in the south of France, hawked his paintings and himself not to the highest bidder, but to the most influential buyer, his eyes ever on the future.
How I used to close my eyes to his whoring is easy to understand. I was in love, and so very young. He chose to live with me, he made love to me, but he never exploited me. He did not have to because I gave him everything …. Was he not a prince?
While I dined with friends at the Café Nicholson, Romeo Salta or Le Pavillon, he stayed in his studio to paint. I would go alone to stay out of his way, then would come home to make him dinner. I had nothing but admiration for him. When he went out and socialized without me, all in the name of Art, I stayed at home and waited. When we entertained the pundits of the art world, I had nothing but admiration for him.
He thought about his exhibitions, and his paintings, and how many were sold, and how many were reserved, and who had bought them, and what the reviews said, and who had to be charmed for the next step up the rung of success. He thought about the paint, canvas and new brushes he needed, about how his house in the south of France needed a new roof and how the garden needed so much more done to it. He thought only about what he needed, would paint all in the name of Art. I believed in him and loved him, and so we lived together in secret (again for Art’s sake; it was better for his career).
He once told me, “All the flowers in the world are for me.” I remember asking, “What about me, don’t I get any flowers?” He answered, “No, you have my paintings.”Then I was touched and in love. Now I have fresh flowers and no paintings. Strange that now when I think of it, the only time we really were together was when we had sex. All the rest was not love, or happiness. It was the excitement of those years in New York.
Here he sits, this American from the Midwest who has lived in Europe for most of his adult life. This man who thinks of himself as a prince of France, and of the art world. I never knew how he
All this had been dragged out, fought and was now behind America. It was another victory for democracy, or a victory of sorts at least.
The painters who, during the Depression, painted murals in post offices all over the United States in order to survive in their own medium, banded together in groups so that they could afford the price of a studio. Only some were Communists, but all were considered Bohemian or to lead a Bohemian life. They were no longer young except in heart, and their struggle to survive led them everywhere, even to the Manhattan art galleries. Then the dealers discovered them, dragging them up from the Village to the East Sixties in force. The dealers created a great American art market. A de Kooning painting thatcould be bought for $500 in the mid-fifties would be sold now for $50,000, if you could get a dealer to release one. Mr. America himself — he might be a shoe manufacturer from Boston, an insurance man from Connecticut, a toilet manufacturer from Wisconsin — now embraced the artist, the new first-class citizen.
And there I was, thought Isabel, right in the middle of all this with a handsome, blond, elegant man who was a painter, and a Bohemian. Who suffered for Art’s sake, but left America to live like a prince in the art world. He had returned because America was now ready to recognize his talent. This beautiful man who walked like a prince through the galleries, and charmed the dealers with his looks, his elegance, and his house and studio near Picasso in the south of France, hawked his paintings and himself not to the highest bidder, but to the most influential buyer, his eyes ever on the future.
How I used to close my eyes to his whoring is easy to understand. I was in love, and so very young. He chose to live with me, he made love to me, but he never exploited me. He did not have to because I gave him everything …. Was he not a prince?
While I dined with friends at the Café Nicholson, Romeo Salta or Le Pavillon, he stayed in his studio to paint. I would go alone to stay out of his way, then would come home to make him dinner. I had nothing but admiration for him. When he went out and socialized without me, all in the name of Art, I stayed at home and waited. When we entertained the pundits of the art world, I had nothing but admiration for him.
He thought about his exhibitions, and his paintings, and how many were sold, and how many were reserved, and who had bought them, and what the reviews said, and who had to be charmed for the next step up the rung of success. He thought about the paint, canvas and new brushes he needed, about how his house in the south of France needed a new roof and how the garden needed so much more done to it. He thought only about what he needed, would paint all in the name of Art. I believed in him and loved him, and so we lived together in secret (again for Art’s sake; it was better for his career).
He once told me, “All the flowers in the world are for me.” I remember asking, “What about me, don’t I get any flowers?” He answered, “No, you have my paintings.”Then I was touched and in love. Now I have fresh flowers and no paintings. Strange that now when I think of it, the only time we really were together was when we had sex. All the rest was not love, or happiness. It was the excitement of those years in New York.
Here he sits, this American from the Midwest who has lived in Europe for most of his adult life. This man who thinks of himself as a prince of France, and of the art world. I never knew how he
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