Introduction

In search of a replacement for his lost Hermès agenda, Brigitte Benkemoun’s husband buys a vintage diary on eBay. When it arrives, she opens it and finds inside private notes dating back to 1951—twenty pages of phone numbers and addresses for Balthus, Brassaï, André Breton, Jean Cocteau, Paul Éluard, Leonor Fini, Jacqueline Lamba, and other artistic luminaries of the European avant-garde. After realizing that the address book belonged to Dora Maar—Picasso’s famous “Weeping Woman” and a brilliant artist in her own right—Benkemoun embarks on a two-year voyage of discovery to learn more about this provocative, passionate, and enigmatic woman, and the role that each of these figures played in her life.

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Excerpt

Found Object

It arrived in the mail, carefully packed in bubble wrap. Same trade- mark, same size, same smooth leather, but redder, softer, with a well-used sheen.

He’ll like this, I thought, maybe even better.

He had just lost a small Herme?s diary, newer than this one, but somehow ageless from constantly sliding in and out of pockets. Engraved with his initials, T.D., it was a kind of talisman to which he’d been attached, practically, physically, sensually.

As always when he loses something, which happens regularly, I had to help him look. Passport, keys, phone: generally I find them fairly quickly. But this time the diary could not be found. After sev- eral days, T.D. resigned himself to buying a replacement.

“Sadly, that kind of leather isn’t made anymore,” the salesclerk answered, vaguely apologetic, politely definitive. Others might have settled for full grain, striated, or crocodile. But T.D. never gives

up. His lucky find showed up on eBay under “small vintage leather goods.” Seventy euros. And a few days later it arrived.

Obsessive behavior is a contagious disease; in his absence I wanted to verify that the found object really was an exact replica of the lost one. I inspected it from every angle. Then I opened it.

The seller had removed the annual diary refill where the former owner must have noted appointments, invitations, or secrets. But a small index for telephone numbers remained, slipped into the inner

9

pocket. Without thinking, I began to leaf through it. I must have been a bit distracted because it took me three pages before a name caught my eye: Cocteau! Yes, Cocteau: 36, rue Montpensier! I remember

a shiver running down my spine, then the breathtaking discovery

of Chagall: 22, place Dauphine! I flipped wildly through the pages: Giacometti, Lacan . . . Here was the whole lineup: Aragon, Breton, Brassai?, Braque, Balthus, E?luard, Fini, Leiris, Ponge, Poulence, Signac, Stae?l, Sarraute, Tzara—twenty pages on which the greatest postwar artists were listed in alphabetical order. Twenty pages I had to read over and over to believe. Twenty astounding pages, like a personal telephone directory for Surrealism and modern art. Twenty pages I gazed at in wonder. Twenty pages that I touched softly, hardly breathing, afraid they might self-destruct or fade like a dream. And at the very back, to date the treasure, a 1952 calendar, proving that

it had been purchased in 1951. Never again would I scold T.D. for losing things.

Now, of course, I wanted to know who had written these names in brown ink. Who could have rubbed elbows with these twentieth- century geniuses? A genius, clearly!

To be honest, I should admit that I had no say in this. I did not choose this address book; it burst onto the scene, imposed its pres- ence, imposed itself on me. And here I was, trapped, unable to resist the call of these names, like a police dog offered the scent of someone who is missing: search, search.

I was hooked before I even knew who was hiding behind this handwriting. Intrigued by these friends, knowing nothing of the life, I was chasing a ghost. I didn’t know the ghost’s name, but the pages were like a small keyhole through which I could peer at a world long vanished and like no other.

10

FINDING DORA MAAR

Michele S.

Hameau de la Chapelle Cazillac

The postmark showed that the package had come from Brive- la-Gaillarde. How could such Parisian addresses come from Brive-la-Gaillarde?

The ad on eBay noted that the seller was an antique dealer located in a hamlet about thirty kilometers from Brive, in Cazillac,

a charming Lot village in the green valleys of the Causse de Martel. Cazillac, with less than five hundred inhabitants, known (a little) for its Romanesque church, twelfth-century tower, wash houses, a bread oven, and the Sauvat cross that symbolically marks the forty-fifth parallel, the halfway point between the equator and the North Pole. That’s where my address book came from! A forgotten place on earth, but exactly in the middle of our hemisphere.

I did find the name of a Surrealist artist who came from that area. But who would have known Charles Breuil? Not Breton, appar- ently, or Braque, or Balthus . . .

Edith Piaf was also a frequent visitor to the Causse de Martel. In the 1950s, “The Little Sparrow” (la Mo?me) returned many times to a rest home a few kilometers from Cazillac. At sunset she went to pray at a small dilapidated church perched on the cliffs. She was even said to have paid for the restoration of its stained-glass windows, swear- ing the priest to secrecy during her lifetime. So was this Piaf? She had been friends with Cocteau, she knew Aragon during the Liberation, and Brassai? had taken her photograph.

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But in a speedy response to my first message, the seller of the address book put a quick end to all speculation regarding Piaf and Cazillac: “Many years ago, I bought a lot that included two Herme?s diaries during a wonderful auction in Sarlat, in the Perigord. I know nothing more about them, but I do know the person in charge of the auction house, and I can ask him if he has information on the sellers. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll keep you posted.”

A month later, she kept her promise: the seller was a woman from Bergerac who apparently delivered the diary herself, along with other items, to the auctioneer. Miche?le S. also remembered the exact date of the auction: May 24, 2013, in Sarlat. She suggested that I contact the person in charge of the auction house to learn more. But he proved difficult to reach, on vacation, busy, obviously unmoved by the romance of the found address book: “I hardly know this pair of sellers, especially since they recently moved very far from this area.

I think it’s likely that either their ties with the former owners of these diaries are nonexistent or that they don’t want to hear about this.”

Clearly he himself had no desire “to hear about this.” In a few sentences, and then two or three brusque phone calls, he tried his best to bar access to the former owners.

To cajole him, I told him that my father had also run an auc- tion house. And I wasn’t even lying! As a child I had spent entire

days there, playing among the Formica furnishings and Provenc?al armoires, opening rusty iron boxes and creaking drawers. I always hoped for a treasure hidden among the old albums, in the jumble of pocket watches and keys, or under the piles of sheets still stiff with starch. I remember the slightly acrid odor and the clouds of yel-

low sawdust escaping from wormwood. It was there I heard about “vacant successions.” The fate of those who died without family distressed me, their furniture scattered one Saturday morning to the four winds. I remember bids of one franc, lots for five francs,

my father who seemed to be playing with his gavel, shouting “Going, going, gone!” and the buyers ecstatic when their bids won. One of his friends called it “the poor man’s casino.”

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FINDING DORA MAAR

I did not let up on the manager of the Sarlat auction house. I promised him that I knew his trade, I understood his ethics, I sym- pathized, I simpered. He would not bend. It was impossible to get from him the new address of the sellers, or even any information on what other items they might have delivered to him. He agreed only to forward a letter to them, to which they never replied. And he stopped answering my messages as well: “It’s a delicate matter that I cannot ‘legally’ push further without incurring possible complaints.” Legally speaking, I knew he was right. My father confirmed it: “The name of the seller must remain confidential.” This was, I think, one of our last serious conversations. He only found it surprising that there should be so much mystery around a simple address book. He would have been more accommodating. Then he added with a smile: “After all, it’s not a Picasso, this little thing of yours!” Well, why not? I checked. Sadly, the handwriting looked nothing at all like Picasso’s.

But intrigued by his remark, I returned to the last message from the auction house manager and considered it more carefully. Why tell me that he hardly knew this couple? He knew them well enough to know that they had moved “recently” and “very far from this area.” And he must have called them if he could state with so much certainty that “their ties with the former owners of these diaries are nonexistent” and that “they don’t want to hear about this.” Why such secrecy? And he asked no questions about the address book. In fact, he seemed embarrassed by mine.

He had no idea how much energy someone as stubborn as I am can devote to a mystery that falls in my lap. Little did he know the treasure I was holding! The door to the Sarlat auction house could well be closed to me, but my address book remained opened to the most fascinating world imaginable.

An explanation was bound to exist. There had to be a reason why, one day in Bergerac, someone had come upon this red leather case and decided to sell it without thinking of emptying its con- tents. Perhaps it was enough to locate Bergerac on a map: subpre- fecture of Dordogne, in the center of “Purple Pe?rigord,” only one

13

MICHE?LE S.

hundred kilometers from Bordeaux, Brive-la-Gaillarde, Cahors, and Angoule?me, but more than six hundred kilometers from Saint- Germain-des-Pre?s. Who could have lived or died in Bergerac, and also known all the notables of Paris?

Wikipedia lists a certain number of “figures linked to the dis- trict” who might have visited the geniuses in the address book in the 1950s:

—Desha Delteil, “classical American dancer famous for her acrobatic postures”

—He?le?ne Duc, actress

—Jean Bastia, director and screenwriter

—Jean-Marie Rivie?re, actor, theater and music hall director —Juliette Gre?co

None of these profiles really corresponded to the address book entries. Not even Juliette Gre?co: her 1951 address book would have included instead the names of Sartre, Vian, Kosma—this was not exactly her world.

But I would find out sooner or later. I would not give up. I would learn who had owned this address book. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Picasso said, “First I find, then I seek.” The author has used this quote as one of the epi- graphs for her book. Have you ever found (or acquired secondhand) an object and tried to uncover its history, either through research or imagining who might have owned it? Is there an object in your life that holds a great deal of personal meaning?

2. Dora Maar wrote, “My destiny is magnificent whatever it seems. In the past I used to say my destiny is very hard whatever it seems.” What do you think she meant by this? How have your thoughts about your own future changed over time? What does the concept of destiny mean to you? Do you think this author, a journalist with an interest in art, was destined to find this address book and learn its story?

3. How do you think the theme of obsession plays a role in this story—for the author, for Dora Maar, or for other people in Dora’s life?

5. If someone found your address book—or perhaps today’s equivalent, the contact list in your cell phone—do you think they could use it to discover who you were and what rela- tionships you had? How do you think that process would be complicated, or simplified, by the digital tools we use today?

6. Dora Maar seems to have undergone a transformation from her student days as a leftist, anti-fascist revolutionary to her later years as a religious conservative. Do you think it is possible to have a complete reversal of beliefs from one period in your life to another? What kind of event or experience might cause that to happen?

7. The author suggests that Dora Maar may have learned to be anti-Semitic from her father. Does this imply that we can’t escape becoming like our parents? Why do you think Dora kept a copy of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf?

8. Dora Maar is widely known through Picasso’s representations of her as the “Weeping Woman.” Do the author’s theories about who Dora was and what happened in her life line up with the image of the Weeping Woman? Why or why not?

9. Why do you think Dora Maar wanted to be known as a painter rather than a photographer?

10. What do you think of the author’s insertion of herself and her personal history into this
story? Why do you think she does this? Does it improve or take away from the story?

11. Dora Maar’s real name was Henriette Theodora Markovitch. She chose the name Maar for herself. The author explains that Maar is a German word that means crater and has a relationship with fire and fusion. Why do you think Dora chose this name?

12. How would you classify this book? Biography? Memoir?
Cultural history? Fiction? A combination of these genres? The author often imagines what Dora Maar and her friends might have said or thought based on facts she learns about them. Do these imagined con- versations enhance or complicate the credibility of the story?

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