Willie has obtained an introduction for Gus to none other than Reynold Bryce. You know who he is, don’t you, Molly? He made a name for himself as part of the Boston School back in the eighties—particularly with his paintings of the young girl he called Angela. Then at the height of his fame he took off for Paris and has remained here, becoming one of the leading lights among Impressionist painters. Anyway, he is THE patron and lodestone for American artists in Paris. His salon is where one needs to be seen. He holds an exhibition every spring and if he includes your work, you are IN! Gus is hoping he’ll include her, naturally. She’s been painting some really interesting canvasses recently, although I think she may be a little avant-garde for traditionalists like Reynold Bryce. Gus says she’s not sure whether she’s a Fauvist, a Cubist, or simply a modernist, but she’s thrilled to be among artists who dare to paint with her boldness. We met a rather dashing young Spaniard in a bar. His name is Pablo Picasso and he said that Gus’s work shows promise. I’m not sure I can say the same about his daubings—most odd.
Speaking of young painters, we have just made an astounding discovery. Remember it was Gus’s cousin who lured us to Paris in the first place. Well, it turns out that I have a relative here as well—a distant cousin. When we were about to leave for Paris my mother told me that we had family members who had settled there when the family left the turmoils in Eastern Europe. My grandfather came to America and my great-uncle’s family went to Paris. Mama had no current address for them but their last name would have been Goldfarb like ours. I asked at several synagogues but to no avail—in fact the Parisian Jews did not exactly extend the welcome mat. Well, I admit that I do not look like the good traditional Jewish woman, nor do I practice my religion, but it turned out that the cause of their caution had more to do with the current wave of anti-Semitism that has swept this city, culminating in the dreadful treatment of Captain Dreyfus—falsely imprisoned and shipped to Devil’s Island mainly because of his race.
Having heard this, we’re not sure how long we’ll stay, though of course among the more bohemian community of artists and writers, race, gender, or even appearance don’t matter a fig. Talent is all that counts. You’ll be amazed to learn that I was the first of us to have a talent acknowledged here. We went to a soiree and were each instructed to write a poem. I read mine with great trepidation but it was pronounced good. At this gathering I was instantly drawn to a young man with an interesting face and such soulful dark eyes—clearly also Jewish. We started to share information about our ancestry and lo and behold he turned out to be my long-lost distant cousin, Maxim Noah. Apparently his mother was a Goldfarb. His parents are dead, and he lives in a studio with artist friends up on the hill called Montmartre. And the poets I met have invited me to join their group. It seems that in this city poetry is as important as painting. Did you ever imagine that such a place could exist on earth? If it weren’t for the anti-Semitic sentiment and for missing our delightful godson Liam, we might never want to come home!
But I digress. As I mentioned, Maxim lives with some other young artists up in the rural part of Montmartre and invited us to visit him. “Primitive” is hardly the word to describe it, my dear. No heat, no running water, just a group of young men painting, creating, discussing. Maxim suggested that Gus and I take a place nearby, but I pointed out that we were no longer eighteen and that civilized New Yorkers needed heat and a daily bath.
But having finally made artistic connections in the city we wanted to move closer to the hub of the current art world. We have finally found a place of our own in that general area that suits our needs. Our previous lodging was in a more genteel area near the Seine—preferable in some ways but too far from the exciting world of the arts. What’s more the landlady was a fussy old bird who objected to the smell of paint and our late hours. So we have found what we consider a wonderful compromise … a top floor atelier on a street close to Pigalle. Not as primitive as the streets further up the hill and mercifully close to a station of the Métropolitain railway—yes, dear Molly, they have a perfectly fine working subway here, making travel across the city quick and easy. There are already three lines with more under construction.
As you can see from the address at the top of this letter, our new home is on Rue des Martyrs. I must confess we picked it for its name. Gus was tickled pink to be part of the martyrs—she said she always knew that she’d have to suffer for her art! The street itself is a good mixture of commerce and residence, lively yet not too raucous. We can take advantage of the little cafés around Pigalle and yet escape from the hubbub by climbing the five flights to our little nest whose balcony gives us a glimpse of the new church that is being built at the top of Montmartre (if we lean out far enough). I wish you could see it, Molly. You’d love it here. Do policemen ever get time off for good behavior? Would Daniel ever consider traveling to Europe? If not, please persuade him to do without you for a while. You know we’d pay for your ticket if that was a problem. We yearn to see our adorable Liam. He must have grown so much since we parted from you. Think of the cultural opportunities of Liam being exposed to Paris at an early age. Gus says we are to keep pestering you until you agree to come. It’s too lovely and breathtaking and exciting not to want to share.
Gus sends her warmest regards, as do I, and a big kiss to dear Liam.