Chapter 10

As usual, Kissling's studio was open to anyone who wished to attend. His artist friends, the many models he had employed, and their friends, drank to his health, laughed, and smoked. The place resembled the inside of a cloud.

These models had all posed for Kissling in the nude. On the walls and easels were large canvasses in various stages of completion.

"I work on several canvasses at once," he stated. He was enjoying the attention. "I have three models who come one after the other during the day."

"Do you paint the same models over and over?" someone asked.
"Certainly," he smiled. "I even take one or two with me when I go on vacation."

A Dashing Figure Encircled by People

People circled around him as he spoke. He looked dashing with his white shirt sleeves rolled up and a small bandage on his nose. Models adorned his side. They too smoked and drank.

"I want life to be beautiful and for women to satisfy all their desires and have colorful lives." It was as though he had forgotten about the duel or the dead cat. Moise Kissling was making the most of the moment. He was a truly colorful character with an irresistible gaiety. His exotic face, smoothe olive skin, black eyes with long lashes made him look Asian.

(House surrounded by flowers)

People talked about Kissling as though he wasn't there. They recounted the duel and private things as Kissling smiled silently, proudly. There were no secrets that night.

"He's a great painter," said Pascin. It was the only thing I heard him say all night.

Someone called him a man 'who loved beautiful colors, blonds, brunettes and red heads.' That was certainly true.
When someone asked Kiki, the most famous model in Paris, what she thought of him, she blew a long puff of smoke and replied," I'll have to whisper it in your ear." The crowd loved it.

Our Host Proposed a Toast on a Crate

By midnight I was in no condition to remember or recognize anyone. But I was shocked back to sobriety when around 2AM when the party had reached its peak; our host stood on a wooden crate in the middle of the room and proposed a toast.

"Friends," he began, "I have a toast to propose and an announcement to make."

The noise subsided. People drew near.

"Renee," he called. "Come join me."

A young girl, in her early twenties, stepped forward. I recognized her as a classmate from the Academie Ranson where I was then studying. We had spent hours talking about art though I knew little about her. Her name was Renee Gros, a general's daughter and one of Kissling's favorite students. She climbed onto the wooden box with him, and he lovingly put his arm around her waist.

"My friends," he started again. "Next Sunday..." he paused, almost falling from his perch, "Merde", he whispered." In two weeks from Sunday, this lovely lady and I will be married. You are all invited." He raised his glass. "To Renee, my only love," he almost shouted.

There was a moment of silence followed by a thunder of clapping, whistling and cheering. Kissling and Renee were almost smothered by the adoring mob. This was Kissling's day, to be sure. He was the artist king from Krakow and Renee was his queen. We all drank and sang until dawn. Neighbors joined the party but for some the boisterous merrymaking was too much.

Even the Irate Police Joined the Excitement

The irate police came, but they, too, were caught up in the excitement. At one point I saw Kiki, wearing a policeman's hat, dancing cheek to cheek with another model. And all the while, a brooding Pascin sat in the corner, wearing a bowler hat and drawing satirical caricatures.

The Kissling wedding which took place at the ornate Cathedral St. Clotilde, was attended by hundreds of people. The party lasted three days. After lunch at Leduc on the boul Raspail, the guests moved on to La Rotonde. Then they made a round of the local brothels before they returned to Kissling's studio.

Max Jacob took centre stage with his hilarious parodies of famous poets. Modigliani was as drunk as a sailor. He appeared as Caesar's ghost, draped in the marriage sheets. He was found four days later, stark naked, wandering down the boul. Miche. Others were found in various state of dress all over the studio, in the tub, under tables, in the streets, even in garbage cans. Kissling was called all sorts of names but he was a generous, witty and talented man who liked beautiful colors, women and now Renee, who was at the top of the list.

Kissling taught me to delight in life, to be true to my friends, and to be counted on.

"I want to paint beautiful people and travel to far off beautiful places," he told me.

"But travel takes money," I protested.

He laughed loudly. "Paint, my friend. The money will come later."

"Perhaps, for you," I said." But I have to learn first."

"You will, Robert. But first you must develop a style."

I thought about Gertrude. "Someone else told me that recently."

"That's the best advice. And when the style comes, add a dash of joy. And be open minded."

Meeting Chaim Soutine

I knew it was good advice, but I wasn't sure how to go about it.
Through Kissling, I met many unusually talented people. A Russian friend of his impressed me. His name was Chaim Soutine. He lived a lonely, almost desperate life of poverty in a rat-infested place near the slaughter house. Carcasses and hanging sides of beef became his subject.

Yet, he was one of the most contented men I ever met. He was extremely timid and most anxious, and, as I watched him sip his tea from a saucer in a corner, his placid demeanor showed that he was a man at ease with his miserable lot. His privacy made him the subject of mockery.

At the Russian Academie where he studied, he would sit off in a corner by himself, concealing the paper he worked on. I understood his trepidation. Art is a personal, private thing unless you want it to be otherwise. He was poor but he always smiled.

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