My amazing link with Renoir

IF I were one bit superstitious, I'd

believe Renoir and I are

mysteriously linked in existential

planes; I could also flatter myself

to think a reincarnation was

realized between us.

Coincidences show the multiple

crossing of our paths.

I started looking into this matter

seriously when I went through

some difficult negotiations with

the seller of Renoir's former atelier

in Paris on Boulevard Rochechouarat facing Montmartre. It

used to be very close to the celebrated Medrano Circus now

demolished and replaced by a poker-faced modern

chest-of-drawers type of building. In Paris in 1953, it was in this

very same circus where I used to draw clowns, jugglers and

daring trapeze artists.

The circus people were absolutely driven by their

avocation--and tension. The stage fright was evident, but their

determination was admirably greater. It was a most painterly of

worlds. The pounding music and flashing lights lent a feverish

atmosphere even to less dangerous acts, like the trained dogs

who quarreled to have the privilege of going first on the arena.

If I remember right, the Medranos were a Spanish Gypsy family

with long circus traditions.

Renoir was a constant visitor of the circus.

Untouchable atelier

Negotiating for the

atelier was difficult.

The owner was a

tricky, dishonest

operator. There were

several conditions

discussed in a ''battle

of wits'' and even, at

the last minute, hours

before we were to

sign the deed of sale,

he was trying to trick

me for a higher price.

In one dangerous instance, I used the Gulf War as an excuse

not to sign the contract. He wanted a big chunk of the sum to be

sent secretly to Israel. I could have been totally duped because

there would have been no proof of my payment. Finally, I was

glad I got away from my predicament as the atelier had been

classified as ''untouchable'' by the Fine-Arts Commission and

would never be able to have an elevator.

Unfortunately, the former boulevard, being so close to Pigalle,

had become a congested artery of international tourism. Later, I

thanked my stars as I found an infinitely better place, although

with a less romantic history.

Very early upon my arrival in Paris in 1952, I immediately came

across the spirit of Renoir. I lived in the Minerva hotel with my

window right in front of the celebrated ''Moulin de la Galette''!

Flirting at ''Moulin''

From my window I could dream of all that rich past so well

depicted by Impressionists, an ideal place for a young mind

trying to soaking in the culture, myths and heroes like the

Renoirs, Monets, Manets, Toulouse-Lautrecs of this world.

They had seen and treaded the same streets, gone dancing and

flirted as I did later on.

The post-Impressionists Van Gogh and Gauguin also went

hunting for dates and courtships and mistresses, as I and a

Mexican friend did, after the usual ligaw and sayaw daw. It just

was right across the street. Besides, the hotel owners only cared

about one thing: for you to pay the rent, period. They did not

want permanent liaisons unless one paid for two...rightfully so!

As long as there was no noisy quarreling or drunken

misbehavior, the moral questions were left to us. It was a most

refreshing open-mindedness after a more restricting inquisitorial

ambience in Rome.

It was also in this hotel where I first saw pure-white snow,

powdering the mythical ''Moulin de la Galette.'' It was fabulously

''otherworldly'' in its crystalline qualities. I opened my window

and just gazed till the cold made me snap out of my

wonderment.

I got on to my paint-box and slashed two versions of the

view--with numb fingers and dripping nose--then a good friend,

the Mexican who lived in the same hotel, dragged me to the

streets in crazy joy. We bombarded each other with powdery

snow.

I finally met a very nice Spanish-speaking Uruguayan nurse in

''Moulin.'' She helped me overcome my linguistic deficiencies

and pressing ''needs.'' She was a truly liberated little lady who,

because of her profession, knew no embarrassment about the

human body. When we had enough dancing, we went across

the street for a ''rest'' and just trekked back to the ''Moulin.'' She

was in Paris on a medical grant, a postgraduate thing I cannot

recall. Till the grant lasted, we had our comings and goings that

were really jubilatory and my guardian angel, Renoir, winked at

me for thinking of him before such resplendent glow of skin.

Once he was asked when was it that he considered a nude

painting finished, he said, ''Simply when I feel like slapping its

buttocks!''

To the great dismay of the prudish critic.

Alas, grants do end one day as they are not life-pensions, and I

eventually lost my Elena despite all our promises of meeting

soon again, etc. I shall never forget her. But Uruguay is not

around the corner, 'di ba? I very often think of her when the best

Renoir nudes wink at me!

I kept on going back to dance. With my French starting to get

better responses, I did not depend on foreign ''dancing'' partners

anymore. We followed the same road--Renoir patted me on the

back and, I suppose, slapped the buttocks of the prettiest ones.

Hotel life was fine up to a certain point. A major drawback was

that you could hear your neighbors experiencing a hiccup or

brushing their teeth so...you can just imagine the rest! It was

quite disturbing if not enervating. You ended up having your

neighbor's boudoir on your lap; in exchange your secret life

became a ''live'' offering to the neighbors.