Utrillo's Children; A Memoir of Paris In 1969

Robert Ph.D Dick

Description

For those who hung around the streets, parks and bridges of Paris in the late 60's, the street artist, Maurice Utrillo, was an inspiration. In Utrillo's Children the author shares his memories of a time when young people were questioning authority, government, the war in Vietnam and why young men were being sent there to die for a cause that was not clear. The author relives his time in Paris during a volatile era of riots, revolution, drugs and corrupt government and shares his story of survival during those turbulent times.

Sujets

• Histoire
• History
• Europe

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780984011797
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

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
All Rights Reserved
Cover: William E. Mathis, MathisJones Communications, Copyright ©2012
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Ellie Jones
Published in eBook format by Monograph Publishing
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No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval, system without permission in writing from the author.
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 and alive, and I looked forward to the beginning days of my classes.
Several days passed but my roommate never showed up–in fact, I didn't see him again for almost a week. A couple of times I went over to his desk to see what he was listening to on his record player. There was no Elvis or Kingsmen, but stacks of French language records. There were books in French by Proust, Rousseau, Voltaire, and others in English like The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx. One well-worn book with multiple book marks was by someone called Rimbaud.
There was a map of Southeast Asia with a country called Vietnam circled in red–never heard of it! There was a folded up map of western Europe with Paris, France also circled in red. Shit! Who was this guy? I began making friends on my dorm floor, which took the sting out of my roommate situation.
Others said that they had seen him on campus but didn't know his name. Then one rainy evening I returned from the library, walked into my room and there he was. His desk lamp was on, and he was reading some book. It all looked a little eerie, but this time he held out his hand and introduced himself. With that gesture, a relationship began that would impact my thinking and my life.
His name was Jon Marqua, and I didn't know it then, but Jon would become kind of a titular head of a small group of us that would grow close over the coming years. We were the exceptional ones; we were the outsiders who chose to plunge deeply into all issues. We were the young philosophers who read the great books and had the great questions.
Jon was a 25-year-old French Jew from Independence, Missouri, who had an intelligence off the charts–not in any show-off way, but you knew when you got around him that his brain burned hot. Our group (there were four of us) knew that Jon was not to be intellectually fucked with. He was an exceptional guy, and you felt a little privileged to be around him. It was from Jon that my interest in French culture took root.
He was a man of mystery. He would disappear and we didn't know where he was. One time he hadn't been back at the room for a couple of days when I saw him in the college library with this black gal. He didn't see me, but they were making out in the stacks. They were in the bowels of this college library that smelled of old books and paper, and they were going at it hot and heavy. I never asked him about her or any of the other women that I knew he was sexing, both on and off campus. Jon never talked about women or sex.
Jon had a way of expressing himself that seemed to jump out of the pages of leftist literature. Sometimes I would say, “Jon, how you going today?” and he would respond in varied ways depending on his mood. “I'm a Jew, what do you think?” Or, “I'm just getting by, but struggle is my brother!” Or, “I'm like an olive in a mart