BRASSAI'S CAT; PARIS 1983 — RICHARD SCHULMAN

Roland and Abram Topor :: Father and son 1983

If I could remember all of my dreams. My day in Paris with Jean Dubuffet, Roberto Matta, Pierre Restany and Roland/Abram Topor

Paris was a gift for me in the way a child remembers his first toy from under the Christmas tree. My eyes were aglow with happy tears. All gifts are mindfully temporary.

If I could have one day back and have five thousand more just like it…it would be a day

like so many days in Paris: I weaved together a life’s experience in twelve hours. The thrill to be alive.

I stepped across from my hotel to the cafe/charcuterie/fromagerie for a baguette swept with butter, layered with jambon and fromage. I placed it inside my levi/denim jacket pocket so I could pry a thumb length bite apart for hourly sustenance.

I am way too big to be considered elfin. But when an army of winged angels swept my spirits from the 6th arrondissement to the 18th I saw Paris the way my dreams then and now breathe life into my eyes. I was gifted a bit of verve. My camera responded.

My first appointment was to photograph a young Texan model in training at Paris’ famed necropolis; Cimetière de Montmartre. Later that morning I gobbled an omelette spewing butter from the inside out. I drink a petite carafe of red wine. It was a delicious way to move on to more agendas under the presence of Sacre Coeur.

My morning baguette still resting inside my jacket, I ran to make quick snaps. Statues and the Eiffel filled my lens. I think my heart almost flatlined when I realized I was late to meet the director of the Centre Pompidou (Beaubourg). There of course was the Metro. But young and eyes that felt magnetized by everything French and France, my feet flew.

Brassai’s Cat was waiting for me among Montmarte staircase shadows. I stood alone sensing that everything behind me and in front of me was vanishing. I became emblazoned and unhinged in order to save myself from failure. I was on the cusp of something. I needed to realize that success and accomplishment stood before me. I had a decision to make.

Hundreds of steps seemed to out pace my gait to the flats. Breathless steps, intricate visuals. With Enya’s “Orinoco Flow between my ears I continued to dance down the steps. This is what I enlisted for: A photographer’s life in Paris.

The day was to become a burden of joy. A sense of belonging, a sense of what the future had planned. A window to the heart had opened. I am not sentimentally swayed.

I walked into the Beaubourg Directors’ office. We were informally introduced by someone I had met from the Gallery Maeght. Without hesitation he handed me a piece of note paper with artists’ names and addresses listed.

“I already called ahead for you. Jean Dubuffet is expecting you to arrive at 2:00. Roberto Matta is expecting you at 3:00”. I interrupted and mentioned that I had a 4:00 appointment with the art critic Pierre Restany followed by a portrait session with Roland Topor. The Director suggested that I have a choice: I can cancel appointments with Dubuffet and Matta and do what I want with Topor and Restany, or?

I made the choice that I have always made: I will do it all.

Jean Dubuffet danced the soft shoe for 30-45 minutes without letting me in his studio.

Matta seemed to think he was a character in the 1930s “The Shadow” I kept close to his door. I tried to understand what his intentions were. I might have heard in his French or Spanish, “The Shadow Knows”. An afternoon of mystery was surprisingly exhilarating. Were the cagey encounters valuable? In hindsight the obvious answer is yes. But of course for another blog and time to share their reality.

The renowned art critic Pierre Restany made me think of Rodin’s “Balzac”. Pierre was brilliant and generous. His tiny 3-4 hundred square foot space felt like Lilliputian corridors. His collection of art history books were begging me to jump inside. The ghosts of art’s past had secrets for me if I would only step inside. I realized that this library was an homage to books seen and not seen. I bowed to Pierre. I was privileged.

I told him about my day and my stay in Paris. He suggested I move to Paris. He was willing to open a million doors (and books) for me. I hinted at what I needed to accomplish in New York first. He gave me his French smile, “your loss”.

And so I was gone.

I had two more stops on this day’s Parisian run.

Roland Topor upon first glance appeared to be a giant dough boy. He was tall with unique features. But behind this unique countenance was a creative force who I wish I had known all of my life.

Roland was smart and witty. He shared his past. He shared his drawings he made for Fellini and Herzog. He shared his book cover for “The Tenant” (which Polanski turned into a movie). Then, like a magicians wave of the wand, in walked Roland’s father Abram.

I don’t know how many languages I can say “Wow” in. But Roland had spent maybe thirty minutes explaining how the “Tenant” was about his father’s life in Poland and later in France. Suddenly this tiny little aged giant walks into room. The magic made my heart skip a beat.

My energy had vanished. The day had drained me in the most enjoyable way. But I still had this last picture to make and another appointment. I realized I had tried to make too much happen in a single day. Abram sat down and smiled. Roland stood near his father. I yelled “stop!!”. The two looked in different directions. I snapped the my Nikons shutter. They were frozen, I froze the moment. “My god” I said. That was the picture. Still exhausted, I explained the image.

Over coffee and cakes we talked for another half hour or so about their art, their space and I wish so much more.

I slipped out of their home at twilight. I was to be a guest of honor at a cocktail/dinner evening.

I would have much to share that evening.

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