Biography

Paris, the city where we think the most, where we work the most…

It was, I think, in April or May 1897, that I arrived in Paris on the day when the fire at the Bazar de la Charité plunged the whole city into consternation. In the streets, people’s faces were in awe, in stark contrast to the splendor of that radiant spring day.

I had come to spend a month as a tourist, as an amateur. I stayed for thirty-five years. That, it seems, would be enough to express the hold Paris has had on me. Although there’s always a certain modesty in expressing deep, intimate feelings, I confess, as you wish, that I love France as a lover loves his beloved. I love her for her beauty, for her spirit, for her harmony and generosity. I love it for its great love of Art. I don’t think there’s a country in the world where an artist is welcomed, appreciated, encouraged as in France – and in writing these few lines, I’m evoking one of the sweetest, most moving memories of my life: the affectionate welcome I received from all my comrades who were the most illustrious artists of the time, and the friendship that has bound us together ever since.

I was 21 and crazy about all the beauty I was discovering. Paris offered too many subjects to the tourist I was for the artist not to use and enjoy. Seduced by the indefinable, witty charm of Parisian women, I became passionate about writing it down in synthetic drawings. I showed them to friends who advised me to publish them. I took them to Le Rire, which published them immediately. The Revue Blanche then asked me to do an album on actresses. Marcel Prévost wrote the foreword. You can imagine my delight! The critics and columnists gave it an unforgettable reception.

Henri Letellier, then director of the Journal, asked me to collaborate regularly every Sunday, and in this connection I remember a charming lunch at Larue’s, where the great Caran d’Ache, with his usual kindness, tried to persuade the little draftsman that I was to accept this collaboration, something I didn’t dare to do out of shyness.

This was back in ’99. After Le Journal, Le Figaro, the posters, etc., etc., and everywhere the same cordiality, the same simplicity.

The smallest gifts, in whatever branch of human activity, are developed and multiplied in France. Through the love and taste it has for this constant creation of thought, a brain never remains without evolving, without growing.

The whole world suffers from its luminous radiance and influence, to such an extent that every manifestation of human genius comes to it for a kind of spiritual sanction.

It enlightens, but never blinds.

If I’m asked what part Paris plays in my impression of France, I’ll answer: Paris immediately struck me as the place where the elite meet, and whose exchanges give it its profound and exceptional spirit. The most proportioned, the most sumptuous, and at the same time the most intimate setting, it is the city where people think the most and work the most.

Can we fail to be moved by its beauty every time we follow this triumphal march from the Bastille to the Etoile?”