Given my many interests in artists, here’s another post for you—this time about Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901). My collection will include a few of his traditional sketches from Moulin Rouge, which you’ve probably seen (and they are marvelous—do a Google search), but it will mostly feature his more varied works. #artrauflikes
“Being born an aristocrat usually comes with lofty expectations from your family. Certainly, they don’t expect you to become an artist. And if you’re from an ancient aristocratic lineage, then you’re supposed to live up to the highest of standards. You know, like horse riding, studying Greek and Latin.
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was born a top-shelf aristocrat, then went on to break his legs and disappoint everyone even before he started drawing.
His father had grand aristocratic hopes for him. ‘Ah, my son,’ he said, ‘we shall hunt on horseback, and then there will be women, to whom we will say in Greek, “Come hither, ladies!” And if they don’t understand, we, as true aristocrats, shall switch to Latin.’
‘Okay, dad,’ Henri agreed, fell off the horse, and broke his thigh.
However, other sources claim he broke his thigh standing up from a chair. In the case of Toulouse-Lautrec, these infamous ‘other sources’ are incredibly persistent, popping up at every turn with corrections: ‘not from a horse, but from a chair,’ ‘not incest, just happened that way,’ ‘not bad influences, but Van Gogh.’
Falling from a horse seems more believable, but the weight of aristocracy is heavy; it presses down on you whether you’re trying to stand up from a chair or simply sitting in it.
In any case, his father wished him a swift recovery so they could continue with their Greco-Latin equestrian pursuits.
‘Okay, dad!’ Henri said, and a year later, he fell again and broke his other thigh. ‘Not from a horse, but into a ditch!’ immediately interject the omnipresent ‘other sources.’
His legs healed (meaning each on its own, not fused together), but refused to grow any longer.
His parents were terribly upset, especially his father, because short legs don’t get you into proper male aristocracy. They’re all about balls, horseback riding, military service, and then marriage, which you’re definitely supposed to stride into widely.
They should’ve been worried earlier, back when they were all sleeping around in their aristocratic circle without much thought.
But nature had its own growth plan for Henri, so instead of longer legs, he got a big head, large hands, talent, self-irony, and something else. For some reason, every biography of Toulouse-Lautrec insists he had a great sense of self-irony and something else. Even the ‘other sources’ agree on this. Unanimously.
Since his father couldn’t take him to his rooms or hunting, he took him to fairs and circuses instead. Henri liked the circus, but never really connected with his father. Apparently, his father was quite the aristocrat and felt uncomfortable in his son’s company. So, he would regularly tell the family he just needed to pop out to the neighboring castle to grab some bread, only to return several months later, smiling sheepishly and spinning plausible tales about lunch breaks and receiving goods.
Henri was unlucky with women, and of course, we think it’s because of his height. But who knows, maybe he just always introduced himself with his full name! And when your name is Henri Marie Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa, it’s understandable that the part of your name after ‘de’ would be spoken to a retreating female back.
The future artist’s parents eventually divorced, leaving Henri with his mother and his painting. Broken legs and artistically inclined relatives turned out to be quite convenient—while he was recuperating, they gave him drawing lessons. And they did so to such an extent that 152 cm of Toulouse-Lautrec was sent off to Paris to study with the popular painter Léon Bonnat.
And he ended up in Montmartre. As the poet said: ‘Montmartre feeds the youth, gives to Toulouse-Lautrec.’ Perhaps that’s why, in his short creative and frankly brief biological life, Henri produced a thousand paintings and five thousand sketches. And about four hundred lithographs.
‘It all started when he befriended Émile Bernard and Vincent Van Gogh. One day, the three of them were wandering the streets of Paris in search of inspiration, and the experienced artists gave young Henri a professional creative push. They hired him a prostitute.
As writers say in such cases, ‘this meeting defined his entire future life!’ We’re not writers, at least not all of us, so let’s keep it simple: as a result of the rendezvous, Henri painted a great thematic painting, then another, and then another. Just like that, word for word, Henri went into marketing.
Being on friendly terms with the owner of the ‘Moulin Rouge’ cabaret, Toulouse-Lautrec convinced him he’d make such an advertisement for the establishment that it would blow everyone away. ‘Moulin Rouge’ was on the brink of bankruptcy at the time, so the owner had little choice but to agree.
When Henri presented the draft to the client, he was horrified and even exclaimed in frustration that Henri was frankly… not yet mature enough for advertising creatives. But the poster went viral, patrons flooded into ‘Moulin Rouge,’ and clients flocked to Toulouse-Lautrec. Posters, book covers, comics, stained glass—Henri drew everything. ‘Yessss!’ exclaimed the clients, ready to troll the public with Henri-authored advertisements.
Accustomed to the admiration for his posters, Toulouse-Lautrec once thought of opening a personal exhibition of his paintings, but then everyone unanimously decided it was ‘The dirty work of a lascivious dwarf, having nothing to do with art.’ A familiar story, isn’t it? But for Henri, it was a blow… well, roughly to the chest area. And as if in retaliation, he plunged into his work, embracing ever more truthful and harsh images.
The cabaret world, free from prejudices and full of dancers, appealed to the artist—a perfect place for someone with great self-irony and something else. Thus, Henri led an active creative and frankly whirlwind sex life, enjoying great success in both.
But then there was the soul… Of course, the soul was restless, searching for great and pure love. Like with a woman named Alina, who, unlike the others, was not from the dancers, but of quite aristocratic origin. At first, everything was going well, but then her parents took Alina back to the convent, and Henri moved from Montmartre to the city center—to the bottom of Parisian bohemian life. And Henri, thanks to his small stature, lay on that bottom as low as possible.
The girls there could hardly be called dancers, but since Henri was by then quite a drinker, he was generally satisfied. Toulouse-Lautrec spent his days among artists, nights among prostitutes, and such a life can knock down anyone. Anybody familiar with artists will tell you that.
Among the unrestrained orgies, he met a girl he called La Rousse (The Redhead). She quickly became one of his favorite models and gave Henri her heart, inspiration, and syphilis. ‘…Valkyrie!’ as a character from the entirely unrelated movie ‘DMB’ would say.
However, the origin of syphilis inside Henri is not entirely certain—there’s a theory he got it from his mother. Inherited, so to speak. This is kindly reminded to us by the ‘other sources.’
Gradually, Henri’s creative energy gave way to depression, and self-irony to paranoid delusions, so Toulouse-Lautrec ended up in an asylum. They patched him up there to the extent that he was discharged along with a series of circus paintings, including the notable ‘The Rope Dancer.’
But the effect of the hospital lasted only a short while under the pressure of the brothel effect. Henri relapsed into a deep alcoholic-prostitute spiral, dived headlong into a stroke, broke down with paralysis, and a couple of weeks later, expired in the family castle under his mother’s care. She still considered him her son, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge him as an artist.
What can I say? It’s always incredibly hard to imagine the heights of tragedy that talent, family issues, marketing, and self-irony can bring a person to.”
#artrauflikes
Hi, I'm Rauf Aliev. 