November 11, 2018 – September Morn

         Recently during a workshop on dialogue with a visiting author from Atlanta, we [the eight attendees at the workshop], were coaxed into an exercise about people lying.  The instruction was write a piece of dialogue where someone is lying.

         Often a writer hears the phrase, “write about what you know.”  So, I paused a moment and tried to recollect the biggest LIE I’d ever told and it made me smile and chuckle.  Obviously, I was off and running with the assignment.

         Drats! I can’t get my fingertips on the rough dialogue I wrote that afternoon, but is was someone asking about the painting by French artist, Paul Emilé Chabas entitled Matinée de Septembre – “September Morn” completed in 1911.  An amazing 7 million reproductions were made of it.  Stewed by controversy there is a 19-page treatise about the painting and artist on Wikipedia for those interested.

         Yes, it is risqué – but now it is considered “charmingly innocent” and possibly the most familiar nude painting in the world.

         The original measures 64.5 inches by 85.2 inches, my copy – a lithographic copy on canvas is a mere 18 x 24. For many years, I hung it without a frame – just the stretched canvas – in a bohemian way.  Later when we moved to a home that had a “wet bar” I upgraded it with an expensive gold/linen edge frame.

         Often, when guests visited our home they furtively glance at the painting prominently displayed and most guests are surprised and hesitate to ask about it.  A few look at the painting then quizzically at me. I easily answer their unaired question.

         “September Morn, is the name of the painting.” I cast out to see if I get a nibble.  If I hook a gullible fish, I’ll start my yarn.

         “I imagine you are wondering about the model?” That piques their interest more and launches me into a tall tale that usually goes along these lines:

         “My mother when she was a young girl.” I and my mother have the same coloring.

         “Who is the artist?”

         “Oh, I’ve forgotten his name, but he was a close family friend, it’s in the corner,” is how I answer and usually rise from my chair or move closer to the painting to claim validity of that statement.

         “Yes, Paul Chabas,” I point to the artist’s signature in the lower left corner, then I knowingly add,

         “It was painted out at Bare Hill Pond, in Harvard, Massachusetts.”  The comment adds a thick layer of credibility because everyone knows I am from Massachusetts.

         “Don’t you just love the way the foggy morning mist rises up from the water?”

         “How old was she?”

         “Young, 14 or 15, I believe is what she told me.”

         If someone challenges me that it looks like a lithograph I answer, 

         “Of course it is a copy, do you think the artist gave the painting to his model?  No, he sold it and only years later when it became famous could my mother get a copy of it to cherish.”

         When they ask where the original is I answer that too.

         “The Met has it now.  Every few years they rotate it out and put it on display.  Hasn’t been up for several years though, such a pity.”

         My husband is savvy to this hoodwink-joke of a lie, and he backs my play.  He touts the history of Bare Hill Pond including the fine fishing which makes it all the more authentic.

         Once, my mother was actually at my home for a party and the painting at that time was in the living room.  [She knew about this big lie for years.]

         My mom was reclining against the huge pillows of the chintz couch within feet of the painting over the mantelpiece.  Her short naturally curly hair was a foxy mix of auburn and white. My mother of small stature actually resembles the model with not much cleavage.

         At that house warming party, my boss introduced himself to my Mom, and he turned to look around my new home and his eyes fell upon the painting.  He scrutinized it for the longest time and when his eyes came to look for me to ask about the painting I’d already stepped behind my Mom.

         “You’ve noticed our family treasure. It’s called September Morn. You are so fortunate that the model is here with us tonight”. 

         I draped my hand over my Mom’s shoulder and she reached up and clasped it giving him her soft, shy smile.

         He looks at my Mom and then at the painting.  He sips his cocktail.  He scrutinizes my mother closely and looks back at the painting.

         “It was so cold that morning. I couldn’t drink enough hot cocoa to get warm,” said my Mom right on cue.

         Later after the party broke up my Dad remarked it must be a great party icebreaker all those years moving from one corporate job to another. We have pulled this gag for decades.  It charms my Mom and makes my Dad smile and shake his head not believing people can be so gullible.

         Now that I’ve divulged one of my most famous lies – what is yours?

        

Link to Wikipedia:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/September_Morn