Monday, August 11, 2025
"A little thing, you know, like a puppet" - how his friends saw him
How many phallic symbols can you cram into one painting??
I just don't want to let go of my little friend, just yet. Maybe it's just a distraction from the myriad ongoing health "issues" that may yet do me in. The shadow of mortality is never far away, and I honestly wonder how much time I have left. And reading about the man's untimely demise wasn't exactly uplifting. BUT! I still uncover surprises, like this famous poster of Jane Avril sitting ringside in a cabaret with a withered-up old geezer beside her.
Freud could have used this to prove his most notorious theory. There are the obvious ones - the heads of the cellos and bass fiddles in the background; the arms of the orchestra conductor; his "erect" stick; the odd little thing like a whale on the left (one of those inexplicable little figures he always draws in the corners); the old man's cane; the back of Jane's chair; whatever she is holding in her hand - a fan, perhaps? The black gloves of the lady in the background; the riotous "thing" on top of Jane's hat, like a phallus exploding. . . and there are probably more. Lautrec had a devilish sense of humor, and was not averse to drawing penises all over the place, especially in the sexually-charged atmosphere of the Belle Epoque (also known as the fin de siecle, a darker, more shadowy title revealing the not-so-Belle Epoque's underside).
I'm still finding more. What is that thing in the bottom right corner? The old man's leg or something? And what's going on with his beard? It seems to blend into some sort of foamy-looking thing. a cravat of some kind. The man's hand on the cane might qualify, though here we risk seeing the entire painting (actually it was a poster, one of his more famous ones) as one big weenie-fest.
But those eyes. Those eyes. I don't even need to say it.
The truth is, they lost out. Imagine knowing a genius like Lautrec! What a mind, and beyond his incandescent talent, something almost supernatural in the energy, the supercharged sexuality, but at the same time, the curious detachment of the world he created and reflected. As his biographer Julia Frey put it: "Everything was for sale." Not just the women, but the paintings, the posters, the lithographs, all the brilliant work he did in 36 years - all of it had a price on it. HE was for sale, and he knew it, which is partly why he posed for all those droll photographs, purposely making himself look silly and even trite. He seemed to be saying: I don't take this life seriously, no, not at all! Come to the Cabaret, old chum. Step right up. Step inside, breathe the air, the smoke, the opium, the absinthe, the greasepaint and sweat and cheap perfume, and even darker things. He painted the air and the anxiety and the drenching, self-annihilating pleasures that were all too brief in their analgesic effect.
All of it cost him. All of it was for sale.
POSTSCRIPT! I don' t know if I dare post this to Facebook, as it's a family show, after all, and those terrible weenie references may corrupt the youth of this country, if not the world. But I had to include a cute little detail that is also relevant:
Toulouse-Lautrec
was nicknamed "The Coffee Pot" by his friends, particularly the women
of
Sunday, August 10, 2025
This is a little sad, but I had to post it anyway. . .
Thursday, July 31, 2025
LAUTREC GIFS: Now it's getting REALLY strange!
When I decided to look up Lautrec gifs (and somehow, I think the Little Lothario might have liked this strange, primitive form of animation), most of them were pretty terrible, and I didn't feel like trying to make any of my own. But I managed to winnow out a few, including this high-kicking one which is actually pretty well-animated, especially for a gif.

NOW I know what's on his head!
Wednesday, July 30, 2025
Toulouse! Toulouse! Even More Lost in Lautrec
This painting has the strange title of Poudre de Riz (Rice Powder), so named after the chalky mask this woman is forced to wear to attract customers. Though the woman is obviously young, not much more than a girl, there is nothing young about her facial expression, the tough, jaded look that has so much vulnerability and sorrow behind it. No one starts off in life planning to be a prostitute. nor did Henri decide to be a dwarf and an alcoholic. One must make the best of it, mon cheri.
Friday, July 25, 2025
Toulouse-Lautrec: zoom in
Lautrec, Lautrec - I know you too well
One of my favorite images of Lautrec. Labelled as a "trick photo", I actually think he was magical enough to split himself in two and portray himself. the Two Henris. both spectator and subject.
I love the intent way he studies himself, pencil poised, and the slightly aw-shucks fake modesty of his subject. probably imitating every falsely coy nude model he ever paid to pose. As usual, his face is full of elegance and sly wit, but still, essentially, unreadable.
What's coming across in the Julia Frey bio is his humor, which has been downplayed in favor of the tortured artist in just about every book, movie or bio I've ever seen. Of course he suffered - Frey does say his close friends felt they were helplessly watching as he drank himself to death. unable to do anything to stop him.
So he WAS two Lautrecs, at least - the wealthy aristocrat, who never needed to work and who only visited those dives as a form of slightly contemptuous recreation, and the almost skinless artist melding into those heartbreaking brothel scenes, becoming one with the cabaret acts (the little man in the corner scribbling on a napkin, which is actualy what he did, not just something in the movie), stripping off the masks, holding up what seems like an actual camera lens to capture the swish of skirts and the bloodthirsty screams of the dancers as they fell violently into a row of splits.
I'm not trying to make this "good", in fact I can barely write it at all, and though I have posted the last few entries on Facebook, I really don't know why. No one reads this blog any more and I know it, so why do I even do it? And I am even more certain that nobody bothers with my Facebook entries, except for the odd one that is utterly trivial. It says more about them than me, and I know it, but it still hurts. Has this all been in vain?
I suppose I do this as a distraction. The writing game has revealed itself to be even more mercenary and heartless than I thought. Everybody's hustling. Everything is for sale. If it's no sale, you don't exist any more, as it is almost entirely a popularity contest, even worse than the living hell I went through in high school.
And I've had enough of that.
But who wants to know? As the song says, the game of life is hard to play - I'm going to lose it anyway. So if writing is communication, I'm not sure I'm communicating at all any more. Henri never needed to worry about selling his work - his magnificent posters were the kind of advertising no other painter had ever known before, and people tore them off doorways and walls, perhaps knowing they had something of real value.
But here he is, Lautrec painting Lautrec, as if nobody else notices him, so he must portray himself.
It could be argued that every painter paints themselves - just look at our old buddy Vincent, and the more modern Frida Kahlo - but few were actually able to photograph themselves doing it. Oh, you want a self-portrait? Well, here I am painting myself! Will I get the details right? No doubt someone will say he does not. The more some people talk, the less they say. But did he give a shit? Yes and no. The bon vivant surface (usually drunk) hid a desperately broken heart which peeps through in some of his photos.
In my Facebook post, I compared Lautrec to Chaplin's Little Tramp. Though no doubt someone will say it's an absurd comparison and that Chaplin knew nothing about Lautrec, I still think it's a worthy insight. (And I'm glad somebody does, because let's face it, nobody else will care enough to find out.)
It was hard for him, not so much to love as to be loved, and as I lay there on the pullout bed in more pain than I thought I would ever experience, I truly believed in my soul that no one had ever cared about me at all. In all my days, I had never once been truly loved, though I had lavished love on everyone around me for decades.
Worse, no one even noticed.
That wounded, devastated child who never should have been born, the late-in-life embarrassment (for they truly did NOT want another baby, and my mother even told me straight-out that she wanted an abortion but her doctor talked her out of it), the disappointment, the one who did not add anything to the family's prestige, who didn't even have a university degree and wrote novels that nobody read - . Oh yes. At the core, we are one.
Wednesday, July 23, 2025
Lost in Lautrec: why Jose Ferrer was the best Toulouse
I watched the movie long before I knew very much about the man. But as with that other painter-of-the-people, Van Gogh, Lautrec's artworks are - what? Just around, everywhere. It's fashionable to hate the Hollywood versions of great artists (Lust for Life, which I really love, is universally loathed among art snobs), but to tell you the truth, I think Ferrer comes closer to becoming Lautrec than any other actor could, or should even try to.
Toulouse, Toulouse! Why do I feel that I know you?
He'd make fun of himself, cut ahead of the line, and get the jabs in before anyone else could take a stab.