Jules Paskin (1885-1930)

[LCR]

Nobody knows.

[antip]

Сообщение от LCR

Nobody knows.

Heart and soul was vulnerable, as seen in his work.

[раскатов]

The following is known about suicide.
In 1920, Paskin became an American citizen. He returned to Paris in October the same year and met his future mistress, Lucy Krohg, the wife of the Norwegian painter.
  While his exhibitions were generally very well received, but the number of unfavorable reviews in 1930 for his exhibition at Kniedler galleries in New York, Pascin led to severe depression and alcoholism. After visiting his own exhibition in the prestigious gallery of Georges Petit, June 2, 1930, Paskin had committed suicide, cutting wrists and hanging himself in his studio in Montmartre. On the wall, he left a message written in his own blood, "Goodbye, my lost love, Lucy"
On the day of the funeral Pascin, all the galleries in Paris were closed.

[LCR]

It is, in my opinion, a beautiful pattern Pascin in the upcoming auction Arkyurial.

[Кирилл Сызранский]

Ilya Ehrenburg
"People, Years, Life".
Book Three

Chapter 25

With Paskin introduced me Mac-Orlan, was it, I think, in 1928. We dined in a small restaurant in Montmartre. I knew and loved figures Pascin and looked at him with frank curiosity. His face was a southerner, could be Italian, he was dressed correctly for the artist too: a dark blue suit and black patent-leather shoes, although by that time bowlers have almost disappeared, Paskin often went in an old pot. At dinner he was silent. He said Mac-Orlan, talked about the war, about the huge growth of cities, how to light at night the Place Pigalle, like wandering shadows under the dark bridges, and called all this "new romance". Paskin first listened, then began to draw on the menu Mac-Orlan, me, naked women. Were served coffee and brandy, he drank a cup as we drink vodka in one gulp, and suddenly perked up: "Romance? Nonsense! Misfortune. Why build a crap art schools? At Place Pigalle hundred brothels. Period. Sleep under bridges, ordinary people, give them a bed, they will vote and go to church on Sunday. There is no need to dress men in suits, fashion changes. It is better to undress. Naked Navel tells me more than all the dresses. "Romance"? And in my opinion, is simply disgusting ... "He drank another glass, and then I saw another Pascin, noisy, restless, which is famous for debauchery. Somehow, I remembered a friend of my early youth Modigliani.

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After meeting with Paskin, sometimes serious, sad, even timid, sometimes violent, I realized that was not wrong when they first met: something he reminded Modigliani. Perhaps the sudden transition from isolation, silence, from the concentrated work to binge? Maybe the passion invariably draw on scraps of paper? Perhaps the fact that both were always surrounded by people, and both learned the full measure of loneliness?
    Paskin got to Montparnasse, where the drama was finish. Far from the "Rotunda" were other dramas. He appeared suddenly and too late, as the errant star. He would sit with Modi, they would understand each other. A Paskin was then far away - in Vienna, Munich, New York.
    He lived a life as a vagabond. He had been in Paris, various acquaintances, he met with writers and artists, with Derain, Vlamnikom with Salmon. Mak-eagle, with the Surrealists, then dived into another world, drunk with wandering circus performers, prostitutes, with crooks. Everyone knew that he was a famous painter, his works hang in museums, but he tore his drawings, drawing and tearing, and few people knew where it came from, where he spent forty years of his life if he had a homeland, home, family .
    Pascin named Julius Pinkas, and he was born in Vidiie - a small Bulgarian town on the Danube. He was the son of a merchant, Sephardic Jews (as Modigliani) - Pascin ancestors once lived in Granada, and were expelled by Ferdinand the Catholic in 1492. It is, therefore, a very long history. But when in 1945 I arrived in Sofia and at dinner I was seated next to the former guerrilla fighter who did not know Russian language, he suddenly found that we can explain in Spanish: the guerrillas were Sephardic. In childhood home Paskin said in Spanish, and in the yard with the kids - in Bulgarian. I recently received a letter from the Bulgarian schoolmate Pascin, he sent me a photo at home, where he studied small Pinkas.
    Paskin moved to Vienna to study painting, drawing in Munich for "Simnlitsissimusa"; got to America, learned in need. Then it rained money and he spent them immediately, distributed randomly drinking buddies, arranged absurd sprees, gifts to a model. It is as if he did not believe his glory, and did not trust himself - often angrily spoke about their work.
    Once he called me: "There will be friends ..." Even before reaching his house, I heard the roar of escaping through the windows. "Friends" was too much, even on the stairs, stood men with glasses. Guests sitting or lying on the drawings. Rattled rumba: it was truly a ball on the square.
    I remember the same shop on the Boulevard de Clichy in a typical day; sofas and ottomans, dusty, dingy; them Paskin planting of models; mess, empty bottles, dried flowers, books, ladies' gloves, dry color palette and the canvas on the easel started: two naked women . Colors in Pascin were always subdued and it seemed that the unfinished canvas already pozhuh.
    What was the basis of the common sensibility, of the erotic Pascin? Perhaps impressed that he was always drawing or writing a woman's body, can be confusing life Pascin - he suddenly appeared, surrounded by a dozen women. And it was a romantic, falling in love with the old, unarmed, defenseless in front of the object of love, and if you think about his drawings, they are talking not about lust, but rather, the despair, all these short-legged, plump girl with resentful eyes like broken dolls, the strange puppet hospital, which I saw in Naples.
    Amazing - all the time he was in the midst of artistic disputes, schools, directions, and seemed not to notice: either "Blue rider" or Cubism, or boisterous Surrealists. After reading a magazine article, where he was named leader of the Paris School "and which states that" School of Paris "was founded not Parisians, not French, Paskin laughed and suggested that critics of a new direction" pentoortoksenofagizm "- five times the direct devouring aliens.
    I pored over books about the economy, and the evening went to the bar "Dome" and frequently went there Paskin. It is more and more gloomy talk of troubles in his personal life, he drank a lot, but then shut himself in the studio and desperately worked.
    He knew that I like his stuff, and one night he said: "I need to talk to you. We must work together to make a book. You'll write me letters, and I will respond drawings - "do not know how to answer, like you, sarcastic phrases I'm not a writer. It will be a wonderful book! We will tell the whole truth - honestly, without embellishment. Why do I need to do illustrations for other people's books? This is stupid! I did illustrations for the stories of Paul Morand, they do not interest me. I illustrated the Bible. Why? I am unfamiliar with the Queen of Sheba ... You'll write me about what you want, and I shall answer. Do you know why we need you to do a book? It will be a book about people, now talk about anything, but people forget. But do not delay. Then it will be too late ... "
    I agreed, but kept putting it off, put off - like to finish a novel about Kreuger. (This was in early 1930.)
    In the bright spring morning, I opened a newspaper - a short telegram: "The poet Mayakovsky committed suicide. We had not been accustomed to losses, and I froze. I asked myself, why not wondered just saw in front of a huge, living, Vladimir Vladimirovich and could not imagine that it no longer.
    It seems that two weeks later, I do not remember, I saw in the "Dome" Pascin. He was shouting something, and then noticed me immediately quieted down, and silently shook hands, nothing said. I was told that he had a lot of work - preparing for the big show.
    A few more weeks, and in the evening in the "Dome" ran Fotinsky barely utter: "Paskin ... Nobody knew ... On the fourth day, broke down the door ... "
    Paskin, as Yesenin, tried to cut a vein with a razor. He also wrote in blood, not on paper - on the wall: "Good-bye, Lucy!" And then, as Yesenin, hanged himself. On the table lay neatly written testament. Paskin had committed suicide the same day, when was the opening of his exhibition.
    They buried him far - in the cemetery of Saint-Ouen, walked behind the coffin of the famous artists, writers, a model, strolling musicians, prostitutes, beggars. Then we walked single file past the grave, and each threw for a coffin dazzling summer flower. And again, I could not imagine that there will be no sad person running the shop, or gray-pink wronged women in the unfinished canvas, no cries of "Dome", or pot, or this book - only the cold halls of museums ...
    In autumn 1945, I was in Bucharest. Portier said that I wanted to see Mr. Pinkas. I remembered that Pascin was a rich brother, settled in Romania, the brothers were not met, it seems, and not transcribed.
    Mr. Pinkas came to me in a carriage drawn by two horses, and drove to the restaurant "CAPSA". It was a time of transition, still sitting in the palace of King Michael, the restaurant "CAPSA" is kept for visitors to the dusty old bottles Cotnari, Mr. Pinkas was still able to travel in his carriage.
    He told me the story of his life: "I thought that my brother - crazy, he took up art and then hanged himself. I was rich. It's a pity that I can show you what the trees which the birds were in my park. I married a Romanian aristocrat. And then came fascism ... I wanted to save my good and rewrote all of them my wife - she was not only pure Aryan, but a loud boyar family. Once she get all the papers, she immediately threw me. I have no money. There is a flat, furniture, crew. I know that soon taken away and that. Yesterday I wanted to kill the Jews, tomorrow will destroy both the exploiter. Yes, now I see that my brother was much smarter. I read in a French newspaper that his paintings sold at auction, it is a pencil made real money. And I have found the counterfeit coin. Then he managed to hang on time. No, crazy - it's me! "
    Pinkas knew that I was a friend Pascin, he remembered the distant childhood, was deeply moved and gave me two images of his brother: "I have quite a lot of his things. Trade them and do not intend to. I want to give them away to the Bulgarian museum ... "
    The story of two brothers sounds like a didactic parable for business adolescents. And I'll think of something else: why some of my friends, among my friends - writers, artists - so voluntarily parted with life? Different as they were living in different worlds; disparate fates, can not be compared nor the underlying causes that led to the denouement, or the direct cause - each has its own "drop", which, according to speculation, "fills the cup." Yet what is the solution? (I do not want to enumerate all - it is too hard.)
    Paskin in recent years did not know the needs. For him to bow came criticism, art dealer, publisher. He committed suicide in forty-five years old, could live and live. Probably, the absence of drag force affected by past sorrows and grievances. The point, however, not only in this. Once Pasternak said that "the lines of blood - to kill. It is unlikely that he was thinking while on the fatal retribution genuine artists, just felt the that poetry is not easy. Without a heightened sensitivity can not be an artist, even if it consists of ten unions or associations. To the familiar words of excited to come to life on canvas or stone, are needed breath of passion, and the artist burns faster - he lived for two, because in addition to creativity is his own shaggy, tangled lives, like everybody else, right, no less.
    There is a legal concept of "hazardous industry"; workers engaged in work harmful to health, and issue special clothing, milk, reduce the working day. Art, too, "hazardous industry", but the poets and artists no one is trying to protect, often forget that the very nature of the profession scratch for them can be fatal.

    And then you walk in a long line past the grave and throw a flower ...