Maurice Utrillo
Nous sommes tout les enfants d’Utrillo
Anonymous, Montmartre – 1969
“Most interesting of all, to me, is the individual unrelated to any group, the man, the girl, or the old woman alone in the city, the person who eats alone, though in company, who lives in a furnished room, who receives no mail, who has no visible occupation, and who spends much time wandering the streets. For, apart from the everlasting problem of violence, the principal one that faces a historian like myself is that of loneliness, especially loneliness in the urban context.”
-- Richard Cobb,
"Experiences of an Anglo-French Historian,"
A Second Identity: Essays on France and French History (1969).
Utrillo’s Children
A Memoir of Paris In 1969
by
R. H. Dick
Copyright ©2012 Utrillo’s Children: A Memoir of Paris In 1969: R. H. Dick
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Cover: William E. Mathis, MathisJones Communications, Copyright ©2012
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Edited by Ellie Jones
Published in eBook format by Monograph Publishing
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9840-1179-7
Book Cover Photo Courtesy of Getty Images, Inc.
Photo of Grace Slick & Jefferson Airplane, Copyright ©2012, William E. Mathis, All Rights Reserved
Photo of Pont Neuf, Copyright ©2012, Todd Webb, Courtesy of Evans Gallery and Estate of Todd and Lucille Webb, Portland, Maine, All Rights Reserved
Book Cover Art: William Mathis
Design by: William Mathis & Ellie Jones
Preface
“The l960s Are Becoming Mythic – This Memoir is One Key to Understanding Them.”
The following is about a young man brought back to life by recall. Memory can be a faulty thing, and sometimes it can't be trusted. Some, who were with me in those days, may even say this is a book of fiction with little connection to the realities of Paris in the late l960s. Yet, I'm reminded of the artist painting an autumn country scene. To get every detail is maddening and you are probably going to fail. But, while mixing your colors and planning your picture, if you can succeed in providing an atmosphere, or a feeling of the season, you're probably going to touch emotional cords of those who see it.
Further, for those of us who hung around the streets, parks and bridges of Paris in the late sixties, the street artist Maurice Utrillo was an inspiration. His life, his art, and his own struggles to find himself seemed to reflect, in some measure, the times and the lives of many of those the reader will meet in the following pages. By the time he was in his early twenties, Utrillo was a failure and an alcoholic, and was becoming estranged from family and friends. He was “dropping out,” and dropping out quickly.
The title, Utrillo's Children, is therefore provocative. It is used to set the stage for a time travel back to an unsettled but exciting period – Paris in l969
R.H. Dick
St. Louis, Missouri, 2012
Utrillo's Children: A Memoir of Paris in l969
I had just seen Woody Allen's film, Midnight In Paris. In fact, I saw it several times and enjoyed it. The last time I saw it, a young woman, who was taking tickets for its next showing, asked if I had liked it and I responded, “Oh Yeah! It took me back a bit to Paris in the l960s, at least seeing some of the street scenes did.” She looked somewhat surprised and said, “You were in Paris in the l960s – Wow!” I felt a pressure in me. She looked and sounded interested, but other people were arriving to have her take their tickets and our conversation ended with little satisfaction, at least on my part.
I felt I was fairly knowledgeable about the French. I had read their great authors and knew a lot about Paris. I also had read about those Americans in Allen's film who had gone to Paris in the l920s, looking for whatever makes a creative go to this city. Josephine Baker, chasing equality; the Steins, art and understanding; and Man Ray, well who knows why he went, but through the decades, the powers of the universe had prompted artists, writers, dancers–you name it–to at least pass through the town. Ernest Hemingway felt that if you're young and go to Paris it will stay with you, and your thinking will be affected. You will live differently. You will love differently. You will even hate differently.
Somehow, Paris creates a dictionary in your brain–a kind of reference library–and later when you're confronted with life’s problems, you think back to the “City of Light” looking for answers. There is no doubt about it, at least in my experience, Paris in the '60s could blow your doors off and leave you breathing hard. As I walked away from that mall theater on that Saturday afternoon, I wished I could have talked to that young girl, but now, as a man in his late sixties, how silly would that appear. The Paris of my generation, the generation of the l960s, wasn't like Allen's film, nor Hemingway's memories, nor a Brassai portfolio of black and white photographs. I guess in review, one shouldn't expect too much carry over from one time period to the next. Ki Ki's Paris was a Paris after World War I. Lovers, artists, writers of books packed the cafes of Montparnasse, wanting to forget the War. Black Americans were dazzling Parisians at the “Le Revue Nègre,” and overall, there was a gaiety and jocular atmosphere on the “rues” of the city. Visit the museums of Paris now and enjoy what these people left us–some say it was a high point in art and culture – Yes! A kind of Golden Age!
College
In l961, I was 18-years-old and beginning my freshman year at Central Missouri State College, a small mid-western school near Kansas City, Missouri. Nestled in a town of about 10,000 people, one would never think that it would attract a faculty of such outstanding scholars and teachers, but it did.
And, as I would soon find out, there would be some students there who would jolt me like an electric shock. In fact, I was unprepared for the first day when I walked into my dorm room and had my first “shock.” I didn't see myself as a country bumpkin, but I had never met anybody like this guy. I had my suitcase, my typewriter, and I was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and Converse high tops, all appropriate I thought. Over by the window, against a beige colored wall, was a single bed and in it was guy stretched out apparently asleep–but he wasn't. On his desk, next to his bed, was a record player that was hooked to ear phones that were wrapped around his head. I was not acknowledged, even though I went over to introduce myself and hold out my hand. He didn't even open his eyes! I went back over to my side of the room and sat on my bunk and just looked at him. Soon, I just got up and left to walk around the campus and find my classrooms. Outside, it was a beautiful autumn day. I felt exhilarated