Marguerite
The apartment stood on a bustling riverside street overlooking the Seine. The first floor housed a plain café, where an unfriendly waiter served lukewarm coffee, bitter through and through. The man was sitting at a terrace table, wearing a bowler hat low over his eyes. He turned up his collar coat, shivered briefly as the wind brushed across the Seine, and took a sip of his coffee. He had set his mind firmly that once he finished this cup, he would just go there. To Henri Matisse’s atelier on the fifth floor of this apartment.
That week, the man had visited the ateliers of painters throughout Paris. His mission: collecting modern paintings by French artists and sending them to Japan. He was a Japanese painter, studying art in Europe for the second time through the support of a philanthropist. When he first set foot in Paris, every aspect of the city felt novel and stimulating — nothing like Japan — and his heart raced, almost painfully, with excitement. Let’s do so, he resolved, in that moment. Not everything will turn out as I hope. Some things may prove impossible. But I shall do my best.
Introducing the most recent works of this country’s vibrant painters to Japan felt as essential to him as creating his own paintings, if not more so. He persuaded the philanthropist to acquire genuine art — paintings by pioneering French artists — to support young aspiring painters and the future of Japan. “Our dreams are short, yet true at last.” We need that radiance in Japan,” he murmured.
Through a chain of introductions from painter to painter — each day’s meeting directing him to the next — the man moved from one atelier to another, steadily buying paintings. Amand-Jean, Desvallières, Simon, Cottet, Ménard... They were all superb, and yet for some reason, his heart did not leap with joy. Balanced composition, harmonious colors, beautiful models, and the popular Impressionist-style brushwork — they were all clearly masterpieces. So why?
And there he was at the apartment at 19 Quai Saint-Michel. After gasping his way up the 102-step spiral staircase, the man knocked on an aged, carmine red door. Behind this door lives an artist, Henri Matisse, who creates entirely new paintings. His heart pounded with excitement as he waited for the door to open. When it finally did, a woman’s face appeared through the crack.
Her russet eyes, soft and luminous, gazed at him and smiled. The deep green of her flowing robe and the black ribbon around her neck emphasized her skin’s whiteness. “Welcome, Monsieur,” she said with the warmth of greeting an old friend. “I’m afraid my father is away in Nice. Would you like to see the paintings displayed inside?”
Guided by Matisse’s daughter, the man toured inside the atelier. He looked at the paintings that covered the walls of each room, blinking and sometimes narrowing his eyes. As rumored, the works were unlike anything seen before. The untamed use of color truly embodied “wild beasts.” And yet, the interplay of color and form radiated an invincible strength, reminiscent of Cézanne. When the man discovered a portrait of a young woman hanging in the master bedroom, he could not move from the spot. She was a brown coat with a dark brown fur scarf and a white hat accented with a rose-colored flower, her pure russet eyes offering a smile in the soft shadow of the hat’s brim. Looking into the woman’s eyes, the man felt a terror roll down his face and hurriedly wiped it away with a handkerchief. The daughter pretended not to notice.
Six days later, upon receiving the news of Matisse’s return, the man headed back to the apartment on Quai Saint-Michel. Matisse welcomed him in high spirits, perhaps lifted by the sunshine in Southern France. The man swallowed his nerves and made his bold request: “Please, allow me to buy that painting hanging in your bedroom — to help brighten the future of Japan.”
The man revealed his intention of asking the philanthropist to open an art museum. “I’ve had the idea in mind for a long time, but since it’s such an audacious plan, I kept it to myself until now. You’re the first person I’ve confided in,” he explained.
The painter, however, kept his head still, refusing to nod. “I shall keep this work close to me until I die. I must unfortunately decline your request.”
“I know how you feel,” a calm voice chimed in. The daughter, having observed their exchange in silence, finally spoke up.
“...It’s a portrait of me. I suppose that’s why you’re so reluctant to part with it. But, Papa, I shall not go away. I will always remain by your side. There will be many more occasions for you to paint my portrait. So why not let this painting go to Japan with this gentleman? Being displayed in a Japanese museum would be far more delightful than remaining hidden in this room. Papa, please — won’t you kindly allow this painting to go to Japan?”
The portrait of Marguerite made its way to Japan with the painter Torajiro Kojima. Since then, it has hung on the wall of the Ohara Museum of Art in Kurashiki, sharing its smile with visitors to this day.