The Missing Matisse Read online

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  The Missing Matisse

  Copyright © 2016 by Pierre H. Matisse. All rights reserved.

  Cover artwork and interior illustrations copyright © 2016 by Pierre H. Matisse. All rights reserved.

  Interior photographs of the author with Si Robertson and the Robertson family copyright © Korie Robertson. Used with permission.

  Interior photograph of Henri Matisse in his studio copyright © Michel Sima/Rue des Archives/Granger, NYC. All rights reserved.

  Interior photograph of the author's baptism copyright © John Howard. Used with permission.

  Unless otherwise noted, all interior images are from the personal collection of the author and are used with permission.

  Designed by Pierre H. Matisse and Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Bonne Steffen

  Published in association with the literary agency of The John Howard Agency, 102 Yellowood Drive, West Monroe, LA 71291.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The stories in this book are about real people and real events, but some names have been omitted or changed for the privacy of the individuals involved. Dialogue has been recreated to the author’s best recollection. In addition, culturally offensive language as well as some profanity is used occasionally in these pages, contrary to the normal editorial standards of Tyndale House Publishers. In order to accurately reflect the dialect of the wartime period depicted, we have permitted such instances to stand.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Matisse, Pierre H., date, author.

  Title: The missing Matisse : a memoir / Pierre H. Matisse.

  Description: Carol Stream, IL : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., 2016. |

  Includes bibliographical references.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016031504 | ISBN 9781496413833 (hc)

  Subjects: LCSH: Matisse, Pierre H., date. | Matisse, Henri,

  1869-1954—Family. | Artists—United States—Biography. | French

  Americans—Biography. | Christian biography—United States.

  Classification: LCC N6537.M3945 A2 2016 | DDC 759.4 [B] —dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016031504

  Build: 2016-10-05 09:27:33

  First and foremost, I would like to thank God and dedicate this book to Him. Now I’ve come to the realization that He has always been there for me, and He’s always had my back.

  This book is further dedicated to Tata, Papa, Maman, all my grandfathers, my dear wife Jeanne, and all our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Also to the numerous good people who have helped me in difficult times, to survive and prosper along the way.

  Last but not least, this book is dedicated to all the children in the world who suffer and should not.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1: Father and Son

  2: Contraband, Pirates, Sardines, and Stars

  3: Tata

  4: Black Clouds on the Horizon

  5: A Funny War

  6: Les Boches Are Coming

  7: The Big Bang

  8: Never Give In!

  9: A Lull in the Storm

  10: Farewell to the Suitcase

  11: A Perfect Student

  12: Dreams and Creations

  13: Adventures on the High Seas

  14: A Dark Stormy Night

  15: Hunger at the Dining Table

  16: Curfew à L’Italienne

  17: Detour to Paris

  18: Mountains and Maquisards

  19: Nightmare by Daylight

  20: Is He Or Isn’t He?

  21: Good-bye, Paris; Hello, Normandy

  22: June 6, 1944: Normandie

  23: Spitfires, Shrapnel, and All That Jazz

  24: Kaput

  25: Interlude

  26: Rite of Passage

  27: Algerian Holiday

  28: Only a Mother’s Heart

  29: O Canada

  30: Art, Interpol, and Uncle Sam

  31: What’s Up

  32: Identity

  33: Revelations

  Acknowledgments

  Endnotes

  Introduction

  I AM RENÉ PIERRE LOUIS HENRI MATISSE.

  When I was a young child, my mother and father would often tell me the story of my names before I went to sleep. The first decades of my life were a journey with many surprising twists and turns—through the happy early years growing up with my artistic family to the harrowing years of living in Nazi-occupied France. When I was twelve years old, everything changed—my most prized name, the one that held family, history, and promise for the future, was torn from me in a single abrupt moment amid the surrounding destruction and chaos of World War II. For most of the rest of my life I felt alone, until I discovered an astonishing truth that allowed me to see my life in a new light. My quest was over. And, in the end, I knew I had never really been alone.

  My story is complex, but I tell it simply. This is how it happened.

  Prologue

  FOUR COLORS, TRAGEDY, AND ADVENTURES

  If it makes you laugh, if it makes you cry, if it rips your heart out, that’s a good picture.

  EDDIE ADAMS

  IT IS JULY 1939, and I am a budding artist at eleven years old. It’s not surprising, since both of my parents are French artists. My father, Jean Matisse, is a sculptor, and my mother, Louise Milhau Matisse, is a talented painter and ceramist.

  For a month, my mother has been trying to teach me the theory of colors. She graduated from the prestigious École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris, but her lessons with me fall on deaf ears. I can’t make sense of the color wheel she keeps referring to, and in my expert opinion, her explanations of chromatic what-have-you and primary and secondary somethings get in the way of my artistic creativity.

  I have my own ideas. For me, the more tubes of colors, the greater the artist. If an artist has ten tubes, he is only a ten-bit painter.

  Whenever I am sent to the art merchant on errands for my parents, I buy another glorious tube of paint for my carefully selected collection, all purchased with my savings.

  With my box of thirty-plus paint tubes, I am obviously a more dedicated and talented artist than others.

  If only I could afford all the Sennelier colors displayed on the shelves, then imagine what I could paint!

  I can’t wait to show all the colors to my grandfather Henri Matisse—the master of color. When we are in Nice, I will be getting a lesson from him.

  THE SUMMER BEGINS with the promise of a very special vacation for our family of four—my father, my mother, my eight-year-old brother, Gérard, and me. My parents have planned this vacation for months. It will turn out to be the only family vacation we ever take.

  During our two-month-long trip to visit all of my grandparents, we will first drive from our home in Paris to Grandfather Henri’s on the French Riviera. I’m excited that we’ll be in Nice on July 14, Bastille Day, to watch the spectacular fireworks for which the city is so famous.

  While we travel, I will paint a few pieces to hang in the Louvre, side by side with the great masters, as nothing less will
do. Like Grandfather Henri, I am an artist on my way to fame and a life of adventure.

  It is a beautiful sunny day in paradise when we arrive on the French Riviera. I understand why Grandfather lives here. Everything is perfect. When I stand on the beach, I see countless boats, swimmers, and sunbathers, some enjoying French bread, cheese, and sardines. I love the smell of the sea and the fresh air with a taste of saltiness. And the light seems to shimmer off everything. I will have time to explore this later. For now, I have to prepare for my art lesson.

  Gaining private access to Grandfather in his studio is like getting an audience with the pope. He is a busy man, and I am well aware it is a great favor to be granted some of his precious artistic time. So I arrive right on time, proudly carrying a box packed solid with paint tubes in every color imaginable. I have memorized some of the convoluted names of the color tubes, ready to speak the art lingo to Grandfather Henri like a pro.

  His studio is on the top floor of a hotel, and I am excited to work there with him, maybe forever. Large windows overlook the Mediterranean, and easels and paintings fill the room. I find Grandfather Henri with his back to me, busy tracing a few charcoal lines on a big canvas. A model reclines on a couch, bathed in the summer light.

  Grandfather turns away from the canvas when he hears my footsteps.

  “Ha! So here you are, Pierre . . . the artist, hum!” he greets me, motioning to put my box on the table. Still holding his charcoal stick, he walks over and forages inside my precious box of paint tubes.

  “Hum! One, French ultramarine blue; two, chrome yellow; three, vermilion; and white—this makes four colors.”

  He points his charcoal stick at each color, repeating, “Bleu, jaune, rouge, et blanc. C’est tout ce que tu as besoin.”

  Wait! What did he say? Only four? That’s all I’ll need?

  He pauses, then smiles. “I’m confiscating this box. Hum! Now you go paint with those four colors. Furthermore, I forbid you ever to buy anything else than those four colors. C’est tout.”

  He returns to his canvas. “End of the color lesson. Tell your mother, father, and brother that I send my love.” This is the last time I will see Grandfather during this visit.

  I can’t believe this! My superb collection of carefully selected colors did not impress him at all. Grand-père is getting old and losing his mind, I think.

  As I make my way down the stairs, I mutter to myself, “How can a talented artist like me paint something serious with only four miserable colors? Unheard of! This is crazy!”

  Eventually I calm down and realize that this is a challenge. Because I am a man of action I will show Grandfather Henri what an artist like me can do with only four colors.

  To my surprise, using only four colors has its merits. There are two definite advantages—painting becomes much less complicated, and I don’t have to carry around a cumbersome box of paints. My artistic endeavors improve dramatically. How about that! I have to admit that my grandfather is not as crazy as I thought.

  For the rest of the time in Nice, our family enjoys the festivities of Bastille Day and the natural beauty surrounding us.

  SOON IT’S TIME to leave for Beauzelle near Toulouse to visit Grandmother Amélie Matisse, whom I have heard has recently separated from Grandfather Henri. I’m not looking forward to this part of the trip, since Grandmother Amélie rarely smiles and, for whatever reason, doesn’t seem to like me. Nevertheless, I look forward to roaming the grounds of her magnificent country estate, which is surrounded by sheep pastures and cornfields. The estate itself is enclosed by high stone walls, and within the walls is a spectacular garden as well as a large wooded area at one end, where I spend most of my time.

  I am disappointed that there is no sea, no beaches, no lake, no rivers, not even a small pond in Beauzelle. I am drawn to water, although it’s often where I get into the most trouble.

  However, the country scenery at Grandmother Amélie’s is very inspiring, so I immerse myself in my painting. Thanks to Grandfather Henri’s four-colors-only strategy, I have turned out a couple of small landscapes in a short period of time that I believe are pretty good.

  The last week of August, we pack up the car to head for Saint-Georges-de-Didonne, where Grandfather Milhau, my mother’s father, has a fantastic estate on the Atlantic Ocean. I’m tired but in good spirits. My great-aunt Tata, who is like a grandmother to me, will be there too.

  Grandfather’s sprawling property is just five hundred feet from the beach, with two houses, a shop where he makes navigation instruments, and a beautiful garden with flowers and vegetables.

  I enjoy spending time with Grandfather Milhau because he is mechanically minded, and I take after him in that way. On one of his visits to Paris when I was about nine, I confided to my grandfather that I was working on a new project—color photography.

  A few days later, Grandfather took me with him to meet the inventors Auguste and Louis Lumière, who had built an early motion-picture camera and projector called the Cinématographe. I remember one of them projecting a single photographic slide on a screen that featured his granddaughter in a yellow dress jumping over a red rosebush. Her leap had been caught in midair, the image crisp, not blurred. Grandfather marveled that the Lumières had successfully captured colorized movement in the photo.

  Rats! I couldn’t believe they had already achieved what I set out to do—color photography. I was both impressed and depressed. From that point going forward, I decided all my future projects would remain hush-hush until completed.

  A WEEK LATER, in the late afternoon, Grandfather Milhau, with tears in his eyes, gives us the bad news. “France has declared war on Germany. This war is going to be a nasty one, a lot worse than the one in 1914,” he says. It is September 3, 1939. England and France have declared war on Nazi Germany. Our wonderful world as we know it is gone forever.

  Early the next day, my father and I go for a walk alone on the deserted beach. Suddenly Papa stops and looks out over the ocean as I stand beside him. For a while he says nothing. We take solace in the sound of the surf soothing our heavy hearts.

  Then I hear Papa’s voice, in a low tone just a decibel above the surf’s relentless song. “Tomorrow I am going to war.” He clears his throat. “Some soldiers will never return. I might be among the ones who never come back. Today you are not a child anymore, Pierre. War is making you a man. For you, the childhood games are over. From now on you will have to look after your mother and your brother.”

  Papa lights a Gauloises cigarette, takes a puff, and puts his arm around my shoulder. He keeps his eyes on the ocean, looking far off in the distance. “The time has come to be brave. Do you understand, Pierre?”

  “I do, Papa.”

  I get my father’s message, indeed I do. I’ve grown up with a visual history lesson around me—the Paris streets are full of crippled survivors of World War I, many missing limbs or with faces scarred from shrapnel. They are part of everyday society, and I never stare at them because it is impolite. Now I will be part of history, part of the war against the Nazis. On this day I am proud to have been declared a man by my father at eleven years old.

  What I don’t know is how long this war will rage on and how many millions will suffer and die. The women, in tears, will pray to God to save their men. The men, as they leave for war, will pray to God for their loved ones and for courage. There is much that will change for me and my family. If only I could have been warned.

  1

  FATHER AND SON

  Even a minor event in the life of a child is an event of that child’s world and thus a world event.

  GASTON BACHELARD

  HOW FAR BACK can you remember in your childhood?

  My first memory at about three and a half comes to me in exact details. This day is alive with vivid colors, the aroma of warm café au lait, and the sounds of a household in action. The golden rays of the sun stream through a large window, casting a warm light in the big dining room. It is July 4, 1931.

 
We are at our home in Sèvres, a place famous for its porcelain, in the southwest part of Paris.

  It is breakfast time and, strangely, I am eating alone at the large antique Spanish table that is Maman’s prized possession, with my brown cocker spaniel, Bouboule, at my feet. He is my best friend and an inseparable companion. But usually Maman, Papa, Bouboule, and I eat breakfast together.

  The maid serves me my breakfast, an oeuf à la coque (soft-boiled egg), toast with butter and jam, and café au lait. She is in a wild hurry as if her apron were on fire. Today nobody is paying attention to Bouboule and me. Even more unusual, Maman is nowhere to be seen.

  As the maid scurries by, I ask for my mother. She abruptly tells me, “Shhh! Keep quiet.”

  Within minutes, the staircase at the end of the dining room becomes crowded with people going up and down. An older man with a black leather bag races up the stairs. Then this large bossy woman whom I’ve never seen before starts giving orders to everybody. I see Papa! He looks sick as he runs up and down the staircase carrying basins of hot water, taking the steps two at a time. With all the excitement going on, I have barely eaten. The bossy woman comes into the dining room and tells me to go outside and play in the garden with Bouboule.

  Following commands has never been my strong point, or Bouboule’s either. We must find out what this commotion is all about, so I slide under the table, and Bouboule quickly joins me. From our vantage point, we watch undetected as the scene unfolds. We feel the tension mounting higher and higher from moment to moment.

  The large woman who has taken over the whole household is now telling my father to get out of the way. She is surely in big trouble for that! I wait breathlessly to see what happens, and I’m stunned that Papa does what she says.

  Suddenly the scenario changes. People stream down the stairs and start hugging one another. There is a lot of excited talk, punctuated by laughter. My father opens a bottle that makes a loud pop, and I hear more laughing. Then somebody accidentally steps on Bouboule’s paw, which is sticking out from our hideaway, and he lets out a plaintive howl. I freeze. Our cover is blown. Faces peer at us beneath the table, and I am coaxed out. Now everybody hugs and kisses me.