Midnight in Paris: Le Moulin de la Galette by Picasso (1900)
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Painting the town rouge: Picasso and Matisse in Paris

Michael Prodger reviews Sue Roe’s new book, which examines the decade between 1900 and 1910 that Montmartre rose to its rickety peak – home to every avant-garde artist of significance.

In Montmartre: Picasso, Matisse and Modernism in Paris (1900-1910) 
Sue Roe
Fig Tree, 365pp, £20

In the early 15th century the world of art was concentrated in the streets and squares of Florence. In the first decade of the 20th century it was focused on an even smaller spot – the 130-metre-high hill of Montmartre in the north of Paris.

The “butte” was topped and tailed by nightclubs. The Moulin de la Galette, a real windmill turned cabaret, stood near the summit and the Moulin Rouge, a gimcrack fake, at the bottom. Thanks to its reputation as a place of cheap wine and cheap entertainment, Montmartre had been a favoured spot for artists since the late 19th century. Van Gogh lived there in the 1880s when he arrived from Holland; Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, Degas and Pissarro were all sometime residents.

But it was in the decade between 1900 and 1910 that Montmartre rose to its rickety peak. Almost every avant-garde artist of significance could at some point be found between the two moulins, Picasso, Matisse, Braque, Vlaminck, Derain, Modi­gliani, Brancusi, Gris and Marinetti among them. To the painters and sculptors could be added Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas, Apollinaire, the great art dealer Ambroise Vollard and Serge Diaghilev.

This extraordinary concatenation is at the heart of Sue Roe’s book. Although she tries to provide academic armature by suggesting that modernism was born in this place in this decade rather than in the 1920s it is a bit like starting an argument in an empty room. Modernism’s roots are as long as a piece of string: Nietzsche and Freud, Schönberg and Joyce, cubism and futurism were all in place before the First World War. Roe’s book, however, is neither polemic nor art history, but a colourful narrative describing the travails and triumphs of an equally colourful cast.

Her starting point, 1900, was the year of Picasso’s first visit to Paris, at the age of 19. Matisse, then 30, had been in the city on and off since 1887 but was yet to have any great success. These two artists, in Matisse’s own words, were “as different as the North Pole is from the South Pole” and their lifelong almost-feud runs throughout the book. The other figures stuck to one or the other of them like burrs on clothing.

Matisse first met Vlaminck and Derain, for instance, when he passed them painting by the Seine: he returned the next day exclaiming: “I haven’t been able to sleep all night.” These three men became the core of the Fauves (“wild beasts”), whose colour-drenched pictures looked, in Vollard’s memorable phrase, as if they had been “squeezed out of tubes of paint in a fit of rage”. When Matisse moved on stylistically, Vlaminck and Derain joined Braque in Picasso’s gang instead.

The other critical member of the claque was Fernande Olivier, the painter and model who lived with Picasso in the dilapidated artists’ commune known as the Bateau-Lavoir. If the Picasso-Matisse narrative has Picasso graduate from his Blue and Rose periods to the age-defining Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907) and cubism, it was his relationship with Olivier that defined his emotional growth (though it is arguable whether he ever attained full maturity). They did not manage to have children of their own but they did adopt a 13-year-old orphan, Raymonde. However, like a puppy that grows into a disruptive dog, Raymonde was soon returned to the nuns at the orphanage – possibly because the new ménage distracted Picasso from his work and possibly because Fernande found some suggestive drawings he had made of the girl (Roe is rather coy about this).

While the art-historical story of the decade is well known, Roe describes the detail of daily life in Montmartre with particular skill. She has a keen eye for the appearance of the artists, conjuring up Picasso in his workman’s fustian, looking, as Gertrude Stein said, like a bootblack, and Vlaminck wearing a wooden tie that he painted different colours on a whim, or Braque sporting tweed suits, black silk cravats, a bowler hat and a Javanese cane.

She describes the decade year by year, each marked not by the seasons but by the annual Salon des Indépendants where the outsider artists exhibited. And as new figures appear she adds them deftly to her character list – Utrillo in 1906, straight from a mental asylum, and, that same year, Modigliani, mysterious and handsome and soon to liberate railway sleepers from the Métro for his carvings.

The end of Montmartre’s artistic supremacy was signalled by comedy. The success of the 1910 Salon des Indépendants was a picture by Joachim-Raphaël Boronali who, it emerged, was in fact a butte donkey called Lolo which had been tethered in front of a canvas with a loaded paintbrush tied to its tail. Even before this ignominious upstaging, many of the artists had already started to decamp to Montparnasse and the Left Bank, leaving Montmartre to tourists in search of a whiff of bohemian air and to the triumphant Lolo. 

Michael Prodger is Reviews Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.

This article first appeared in the 23 July 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double 2014

Emma Moore as Ruth Ellis
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Rasping old cassettes bring new depth to a familiar true crime tale in BBC Four’s The Ruth Ellis Files

Plus, a BBC Two documentary about Brixton reggae producer Steve “Blacker Dread” Burnett-Martin.

I thought I knew the Ruth Ellis story inside out: when I was writing my book about women’s lives in the 1950s, her name came up so often – almost daily, it fell like a shadow over my desk – I finally had to give in and take a detour, reading everything about her that I could find, for all that she wasn’t part of my plan (if you’re interested too, and want a primer, I recommend A Fine Day for a Hanging by Carol Ann Lee). But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I didn’t really know anything at all, for I never once felt even half so haunted in the British Library as I did the other night in the moments after I finished watching Gillian Pachter’s three-part documentary series, The Ruth Ellis Files: A Very British Crime Story (13-15 March, 9pm).

It wasn’t that Pachter, an American filmmaker who specialises in true crime, had vast quantities of new information; the thrust of her investigation had to do with the part played by Ellis’s other lover, Desmond Cussen, in the murder of David Blakely, the crime for which she alone was hanged on the morning of 13 July, 1955, at Holloway Prison, north London. Pachter suggested, like others before her, that Cussen provided Ellis with the gun with which she shot her violent boyfriend, and that he should therefore have been tried as an accessory.

Nor were her long-winded films, so deeply in love with their own processes, without their irritations, from the tonally jarring film clips she insisted on using to illustrate situations for which she had no images, to her bizarre and utterly pointless desire to recreate the pathetic last bedsit of Ellis’s son, Andre Hornby, who committed suicide in 1982, aged 37. Faced with certain expert “witnesses”, among them a couple of retired coppers who couldn’t have been loving their moment in the sun more if they’d been slicked with Ambre Solaire, Pachter was never anything less than wide-eyed and credulous.

What she did have, though, were some rasping old cassettes, the complicated provenance of which would take far too long to describe here. And so it was that we heard the voices of Cussen and Ellis discussing Blakely; of Hornby gently interrogating Christmas Humphreys, the counsel for the prosecution at his mother’s trial, whom he tracked down in the months before his suicide; and even of Blakely, loudly toasting the company at a party. She made maximum use of these tapes, playing them repeatedly, and it wasn’t hard to see why; if the words sometimes meant relatively little (“he’s just a little drip… a cheapskate… a skunk…” Ellis said of Blakely, perhaps only telling Cussen what he wanted to hear), the voices nevertheless spoke volumes, whole worlds conjured up in their strangulated vowels, their urgent hesitations.

Here was Ellis, a working-class woman, speaking in a painful, put-on RP. Here was Hornby, his life utterly destroyed by his mother killing the man who was then the closest thing he had to a father, trying desperately hard not to sound mad (“she lived on the borderlines of insanity,” he said of Ellis, possibly unaware that it takes one to know one). And here was Blakely, so obliviously chipper, his voice all dry gin and privilege. Ellis’s story has always reeked of Raymond Chandler: the racing driver lover, his floppy-haired beauty destroyed by bullets; that blonde hair, which she determinedly bleached again in prison ahead of her trial. Hearing them, though, all that fell away. What messes and muddles people get into. What calamities hit them, head on, like meteorites.

After a ten-year absence, Molly Dineen has returned with a documentary about Steve “Blacker Dread” Burnett-Martin (12 March, 9pm), a Brixton reggae producer. Three years in the making, it included some remarkable events in the life of this local celebrity, among them his conviction for money laundering; Dread’s dreads, uncut since he was 14, now reach to his feet and deserve a film of their own. But though I admired its intimacy, the warm and effective way Dineen mined his universe, in the end there was something self-indulgent about it, too. Like Blacker’s barber, her editor was, alas, seemingly surplus to requirements. 

The Ruth Ellis Files (BBC Four)
Being Blacker (BBC Two)

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 13 March 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Putin’s spy game