Chapter 1: The Beginning
I LEFT PARIS IN APRIL, 1925. Beaten, broken down, and my life much like my brush, dipped into hidden catacombs of Paris’s despair, heartache, and, loss. Leaving Paris as a painter who found his voice, surprisingly not with paint, but with the pen.
One of the many privileged voices that walked lived, and drank at the brassieres, cafés, and studios once inhabited by great minds and giants among men. The dust has now settled over my life, and I’m now nearing the end of my journey. Having finally come to some peace with my past, I write these lines down as my own, ‘Piece de Resistance.’ My rich fluid words like oil and turpentine flow effortlessly through my pen, setting upon paper my life as a Painter in Montparnasse, Paris. These pages are my canvas and my pen the brush, exercising the will. The sum of my work recorded in these pages where paintings once lost, return to former beauty. In some cases, being conceived before the reader’s eyes. I welcome the reader to my own personal gallery; an artist exhibition of images, feelings, and experiences. As with works of art, the artist lays down his memorable impression. There are lines, which move effortlessly and appear to be floating above the canvas; timeless and un-reproducible. Others lines are hard and in-congruent, yet purposeful in the work’s creation. Everything comes together as a whole, complete statement. Memories sometimes conjure the image for me of the taste of soured wine, being brought about to drink willingly once again for the reader, with purpose and intent. Some parts of the story contain painful and unbearable memories, and over time the bitter wine has turned to rancid vinegar. “Trials and tribulations are the ink which fuels the pen.” With this, I hope to make an indelible mark on this parchment and preserve special moments and bring back to life what was once full of color, vibrant with life and teeming with energy. Only clips and figures moving about on film and tarnished photos yellowed with time. The camera missed the small movements that made the figures, graceful and elegant. There were subtle movements of the neck and a flow in proper proportion; perfectly timed and delicately seamless. Accentuated long legs and limbs and proper lighting, which helps enhance the aroma of our lives were missing, illuminating the true creations God intended. The cars, buildings, and clothing were exploding with reds, yellows, and blues. Oh, how the Camera and film oft-skewed our perspective, making not men, but machines. Untimed and out of sync with our given reality, it’s my desire for the reader to walk through this Exhibition of each page and view my work hanging upon the walls of words and gaze at the metaphors and analogies that made a life. Each man has a unique story like a fingerprint, a one of a kind, unique stamp upon the earth, our birth right to immortality.
Art doesn’t apologize or hide its naked body from the public eye. Nor can the Author make any apologies and changes in a single word or phrase to make it more palatable for public viewing. A dear friend told me once, “Tauney, without conviction to the canvas, there can be no such thing as a true painting.” Let me digress and start from the beginning before the paint settled and dried onto my canvases many decades ago.
Becoming a student of the arts, enrolled at Academy of the Arts in New York. Classes brought about the long days of sketching and recording the figure. Each passing of the hand and stroke of the brush edged me on. Seeing the figures start to have form and substance were exciting and thrilling. Immovable for hours in the studio working with a plaster cast and occupied by elements of light, shade, cast shadows, and rim lighting. Each year that passed, my hand became more certain in skill. After nearly photographic reproduction with my own art. Concentrating mainly on portraiture, while practicing as a student at the Academy. Finding freshman girls teaming with innocence coming to me wanting their portrait for themselves, parent, or a dear loved one. The portrait business was a bothersome one, and the client never seemed satisfied. Having a career as a portrait artist was happily a short one and when complaints were made I simply stated:
“Madame, there is a photography studio just down the road from here. They will be happy to assist in catching your likeness.’
The canvas and brush when honestly committed without pretense or judgment do not lie. If seeing an inner sadness in the sitter and emphasized their faults, which gave the picture character, the clients did not appreciate my work and honesty. Bringing about the features and flaws brought balance and a sense of beauty. As a student trying to make painting my staple income, I began looking at the master’s works. I must admit in hindsight, I wish I had established my own personal style before embarking on such a daunting task. Using one’s own set style and comparing contrast to let’s say, Leonardo or Raphael would have been a better way to go; taking bits and pieces from them, small extracted kernels of knowledge and comparing it to my style and thus improving upon it.
Finally, after years of hard work and effort, finishing the required studies. The Academia proudly stamped its stamp of approval on my forehead.
My classmates and I would always meet for drinks at, Speak Easy’s, to discuss our variety of different subjects including, Nature, Art, Impressionism, Romanticism, Post-Impressionism, and any other ‘ism’ that has occurred since the conception of Art. Our minds did not even fathom or comprehend three words that would snare me and bring me to my eventual writing of these pages. These words were conviction, convenience, and complacency. I was lost and looking for that hue infused sanctuary called, style. Schooling is not the means to end. It teaches one how to build the human figure on paper through logic, analysis, charts, diagrams, and measurements; a Golden Mean, a playground for the followers and faint-hearted. Contradictory to anyone who chooses his or her own path. Not to bash my trade, but many artists I read about eventually had to fight and struggle to just find the very tool they started with. A traverse map leading to that very question that started artist brushes in motion. Creation.
Brushes for Bayonets
Eagerly enlisting for the war. Heavily weighed down with lofty ideals, heroism and the romantic thoughts that lead many young men willingly to the doors of perdition. After a few drinks at Speak Easy tucked away in the dark alleyways and secret entrances of the city. Friends, some nights of intellectualism and anger over the growing imperialism and alliances forming in Europe. We had signed, sealed and delivered our futures over to the U.S. Armed Forces. Such stupid pride and ignorance wrapped up and served to us in an elegantly wrapped package. All my friends were shipped to different parts of Europe, all for what? Duty and a sense of honor. Most of my friends never returned from the western fronts of Vermund, Chantilly, and Arar.
Vermund
OUR TRENCH BOOTS WERE SOAKED with grime and mud, which even soiled through our trousers. The rain had a smell of cool, wet, earth and freshly broken grass. She was relentless, daunting, and persistent like a nagging woman not letting up on our now beaten down and tired nerves. The bombing of artillery always pushed the men to their mental edge. The morning sky was gray, much like a typical rainy day and the air was giving off a solemn, mournful feeling making it even harder to see any hope in the last months of the war. “The war to end all wars,” remembering once reading those headlines in the paper, back in my hometown of Summer-Brooke. Kaiser was holding steady, and we were feeling like the war was turning for the best. We were pushing back their ranks with a slow and sure strategy. Private Johnny Betralakolos, Johnny Boy, as I affectionately called him, partially because his last name was so very hard to pronounce, reached into his pocket and grabbed his pack of Pal Malls and offered me a cigarette. The Sargent called for a break. I lit his and mine and watched him slowly take a long intentional drag. We leaned up against the wood and mud walls, peering up at the sky.
“Tauney, cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.” In some way, he was telling me the brave go to face death as we were about to. I was stationed with him and had been fighting next to him ever since the whole bloody fiasco began.
“Thanks, Othello, a cheerful Shakespearian note of encouragement.”
He looked at his cigarette and rolled it between his fingers, then he balanced the white filter with his lip.
“Hell, we will be talking about this while playing chess with the little ones running about. “
“That we will, you old Rascal! You’ll be quoting Shakespeare, and they will be transporting your ass off to a cozy asylum. “
He threw out the bit of cig onto the mud. I watched it being claimed by the thick batter-like mix.
“Yes. Think you’ll be buying that land you hark about?”
He stopped shoveling.
“Really? I don’t,” he said, “do I?”
I threw my muck and loaded into the bucket.
“Well J.B. As much as I hate telling you this…” He smiled and leaned on the handle of my shovel, “you do.”
“You should.” Picking a good amount of mud up a cricket landed on the end of the shovel. “Start writing.”
We both looked at the creature for a moment, then Johnny flicked some dirt on it, and it flew off.
“Yeah, maybe. Finally having a good amount of material.” Tossing his cigarette at me.
“You funny man, you made your point.”
J.B. Would always get the best of me. He ran faster and fought better and was one of those people you meet where anything you can, they can do better. Unlike me, he couldn’t paint. Johnny couldn’t draw a stick figure. He would have me draw funny figures in his letters to his girl, Isabelle Surbloom. She photographed well, brown curly hair with a down to earth grin. No wonder J.B. Was in such deep love. He was the type of man who never looked at other ladies when we would approach a new town and visit the local bars.
Wiping some of the mud off my arms and surveying the four mud-thatched walls. Thunder sounded out, and the rain came down. I felt my breath, increase and heart race. I was sweating and couldn’t speak.
Johnny saw and walk over to me.
. “Robert! “You’re going to be ok. Remember what to do?”
I found myself in front of him with hands in fists and sweating, looking as if I had a fever that had broken.
J.B. had seen this with me before. He saved my ass on so many other occasions. Didn’t know, but I was having panic attacks. Back then, the medical doctors overlooked such things. It was like being in a dream. Those dreams where some impending doom is coming and whatever you do, you can’t seem to move. Whence, one other reason we were getting ditch digging duty. Long story, but, I had gotten us here.
My hands were bloody from the constant stress and friction forced upon them. I started to lose my mental stability.
“Damn rain!”
“Damn war!”
“Damn this Sargent!”
“Damn all of this shit.”
Johnny Boy worked his way back over to me.
“Patience, hold your tongue, or you’ll be shoveling the shit house instead of this fine French soil.”
The look on my face was of a man pleading with another man who could do nothing but only listen.
“It’s just nonstop and constant!
And when I’m asleep, I hear moaning and groans of the soldiers all reliving their nightly war terrors under one roof!
Man’s game of chess is a vicious, demented cycle of despair, loss, and heartache. Separated by a few joyful moments of celebration.” He looked up.
“Yep, you’ve got some hope in you.” He was pressing his hand into my cheek. Quoting Shakespeare again.
“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we might win, by fearing to attempt,” winking at me. “Hey, “Tauney look up at 10 o’clock to the west. Coming in fast.”
From the distance like a lone Valkyrie, we spotted a flying symbol of hope for us. On its wing was a red round dot with a white, then blue, outer circle; cadmium blue light from the distance. It was a British fighter coasting over ahead. The pilot must have had a problem with his engine and was making an emergency landing. Bad timing and the wrong place. I sighed. My voice rose slightly.
“He’s coming in too low.”
“Bloody Hell, man, “said one of the British troops.
“He’s going to make it!”
All the men had gathered around, and some made wagers, for the others, the plane offered a chance of hope was wrapped up in that little fighter. The anti-aircraft guns burst like a gray puff of smoke all around the pilot.
Watching the plane sputter and fly lower near the French city. Archie, (anti-aircraft), was on him and fire lit the sky like a cigarette seeing first a small ember glowing by the engine. It sputtered, whined, and slowly the ember in the distance turned into a flame, following an explosion sending the plane into a downward spiral, hitting the ground with a hollow thud! I saw the pilot try to move away from the plane and then he just went limp as the flames engulfed the smashed and shattered vehicle.
“Tauney, you always think those planes will make it.”
The whole unit was watching, and I think deep down part of them died with him; the last bit of hope. We all returned to digging in silence and worked in deep thought.
The trenches were a horrible place, the closest thing for one to imagine what hell was like. There were thousands of men, wave after waves of Regiments, being sent to their deaths. This was our turn, and it was an extremely odd circumstance, we were sent to assist the British, French, and Belgians. The lot of us smelled of urine, body odor, and cigarettes.
Johnny Boy looked and me and kept shoveling.
“Just keep working and don’t linger on it long pal.”
The Sargent screamed suddenly and broke my train of thought. He was a tall, thin man with a large protruding jaw, intense eyes, and slightly sunken in cheeks. He smelled of pungent, heavy cologne. I’ve always remembered his teeth, they were straight white and always seemed to be showing. When he yelled, it made me wake and shutter. His whole chest and lung cage moved with each breath.
“Attention!” He spoke in a low, gravelly tone.
“Line up and prepare for the frontal assault, fall in!”
Those words fell from his lips and impressed on my brain knowing he had given us our orders. A daisy cutter shell landed by his side and the side of three others. Within seconds a blast threw several men into the group of us, and we all proceeded to scramble over many other bodies to avoid the explosion. Sergeant almost had a look on his face as the shell exploded. I could see him reaching out his hand as if he was saying goodbye to his family and children. Then everything went red. My clothes, my rifle, the boots of the soldier in front of me. The force of the impact made blood from my ears rang, and then a dull high pitch noise became stronger and larger with each passing second. We were all stunned, dazed, and bewildered. I lay there stiff and tight, hoping I wouldn’t feel German steel piercing my side. The Germans were all over us. Our platoon quickly handled the situation by killing twenty-four soldiers and capturing five. The attack was a desperate attempt to gain leverage and ultimately ended up a suicide mission for the Germans. These men so far away from home and watching each other die in horrible, unthinkable ways.
Laying there, ears buzzing and aching with the color of red cadmium all over me, including bits of mangled flesh. The rain strangely comforted me. Watching it cleanse the earth, my clothes, and refresh my senses. Washing the sins of the enemy away. Taking away all the blood and purging me symbolically by rains ritual it often performs. After a moment of calm, screaming could be heard. Groaning and the most uncomfortable feeling came over me. I frantically pulled myself into a ball and checked the limbs of my body. Both guilt and compassion fell over me as all my body parts were there. Trying best to get on my feet and help the others who weren’t so lucky. Then my vision rose to see the desolation that had just sent men like rag dolls to their deaths. The sergeant was missing a leg and arm. He was killed on impact. Poor sod, he was so excited and couldn’t stop talking about seeing his wife and children. In 8 weeks, he was going home, and these were his final months. A squad of German planes could be seen overhead, and Archie wasn’t completing the job. Seeing the men dropping around us, and then the smoke dissipating. One plane crashed almost on top of us. I could feel the heat from the wreckage from over the trench walls. Johnny Boy grabbed me and picked me up, and we fled the area towards safer ground. I hugged him and felt a total loss of composure. My breathing went from heavy to panicked, and then finally to tears.
Final Assault
The sun was just peaking over the edge of the ridge of position. Another sergeant called us to line up and prepare for an assault. I prepped my bayonet like I would my brushes at the academy before, trying to convince myself it would be done with soon. The ground was wet, and so were the walls of our little temporary haven. Looking over at my friend Johnny Boy, he was perspiring more than me. Both of us Leaned against the cool, wet mud-thatched enclosure. He looked over at me and nodded. He showed a glance of confidence. He had a long neck with dark hair that one would see when traveling to Greece. His hands looked like a sculptor’s hands, strong with thick muscles flexed as he gripped his rifle and inserted his bayonet. His eyes were light blue and forgiving, compassionate. He was a man I was proud to have by my side. He grinned at me, and I could see the damage and wrinkles brought by war and stress at such a young age. His face turned from a smile to a grimace, and he raised his head and addressed our fellow comrades in his usual Shakespearean flare.
“True nobility is exempt from all fear.” All the men yelled and then it was as is if God himself turn off the sound. It went quiet. Sargent Wentworth broke the silence like a knife slicing through the thick foggy air.
“Anyone,” he barked, “turning around or fleeing the battlefield will be considered AWOL and be shot on sight. “
I sneered, (they don’t tell us this kind of thing when signing up). The Sargent continued.
“Murphy,” pointing at the map. “You and Shawl take half the squad and take out those guns on the east side.
Sanders and Conner, your squad bank left and get us control of this area here.” pointing to a provisional map. “Platoon! Ready!
“Wait till I give the order.”
Crawling and pacing slowly through the mud and there were about 50 or so of us the French and British were flanking the Germans on the right. Sanders told us to hold steady, and we waited.
That was one of the longest moments of my life, waiting for the next words. Would these be the last words this soldier would hear? Uttered throughout the halls of war. In that instant, the steady hands of time slowed down almost in a suspended animated state. Seeing myself in that instant hugging my girl, Emma, and her giving me goodbyes leading me to the station. Kissing my lips, cheeks, and eyelids. Feeling her body next to mine, making love under rich fluid skies and April’s dogwoods and cherry blossoms. The steam pouring out from the train’s engines seemed to be almost breathing in new life. Preparing itself for the long trip ahead. We were its cargo, men with hopes and visions of futures and heroic deeds and an adventure awaiting us. We were not yet, not poisoned with the sour taste of reality and disillusionment. The hands of time could no longer be held back and by their very nature burst forth. My vision of Emma, my mother, purity herself, jerked back the present moment hearing those damned words.
”Charge!” Screamed the captain.
Climbing out of the trench almost slipping trying to find my bearing and stable footing. Being thrown into the sea of sharks and screams of terror. Placing my vision, on my comrade’s back. My mind was racing and repeating, “don’t fall Johnny boy, don’t fall keep running. Run you bastard Run!” The mind has a funny way in hindsight to objectify reality. I saw my fellow soldiers fall like dominoes all around me, a dark cloud of soldiers like a mist heading towards us. Screams, faces, bombs, the sharp, quick, sound of whizzing bullets all around me. Men bursting apart riddled with holes from rapid gunfire. Then my worst fear occurred, my beloved friend. The domino suddenly had a face, a name, and blood on his neck and sleeve were running like the small streams I grew up next to in Summer-Brooke. He dropped in an instant and Me along with him. My face fell in the mud and bemired my vision. With the taste of iron in my mouth mixed with sludge and body fluid. I crawled to my fallen friend. He had been pierced with a bullet through the cheek and then the bullet found its exit out of the back of his skull. I smelt gunpowder, leather, and some other sense impossible to explain and put into detail. The sounds and shells going off all around me seemed to culminate together into a symphonic movement. Being never more terrified in my life, but there was an unmistakable musical monstrosity taking place in our closed-off universe. The machine gun fire and grenades, shelling, even the fallen soldiers claimed by the adversaries’ bullets, followed in a distinct timed fashion. It was playing out before us. This was a symphony of chaos and destruction. We were its final movement.
I stayed on the ground with bullets zipping, calling my name. Other men were falling all around me; men with lives, families, and stories to be told over warm campfires and with children on their laps. Gone in an instant. There was lying dead in the mud was my friend. The one who saved me on so many occasions. He almost seemed to be my guardian angel, until this moment occurred. As though some mighty force was randomly snuffing out their hopes, visions, and, dreams in one wave of its deathly hand. There was a Zinging sound in the air and then feeling as if one of the horses on our farm had kicked me and then a sting that manifested into full on pain. I fell to the ground, unable to breathe or speak. Now, I was that domino. The Last I remembered was the Soldier charging at me and feeling his bayonet being buried deep in my thigh. My return gesture of goodwill was my bayonet in his rib cage. We danced the dance of death. He then fell on top of me with the force of a fallen tree, staring me squarely in my face, as though he was telling me, “Why? All this...” Blacking out after that and only remember my senses reacting to a bright, reassuring light and clean smells of cotton and alcohol. The nurse came to check on my wounds. Touching her arm finally speaking, since the incident.
“Where… where am I?”
“You’ve been out for three days, they moved you to a hospital south of Chantilly.”
Looking around frantically
“Where’s… Betralakolos… a... Greek fellow?” Raising myself. The nurse with her loving eyes and warm understanding gently settled me back to my cot.
“Rest,” she said, “you’ll open that shoulder wound again and not to mention the doctors had a hard time with that leg.” She paused, “you could have lost it.”
I felt the security of my infancy and youth returned, but only to find it fleeting as war often treats her casualties. I was honorably discharged and given a Purple Heart. My souvenir was the silver etched cane I bought for myself always to remind me of the loss endured. I would partner with it to this day.
