Matisse at War: A Q & A with Christopher Gorham
Matisse at War: Art and Resistance in Nazi-Occupied France, by Christopher Gorham, is a vivid portrayal of the the advance of fascism and war into French life and culture during World War II, told through the lens of one of the country’s most celebrated post-impressionists and his family. How could I resist learning more? (Warning: I found myself pulling art books off the shelves as I read.)
Take it away, Christopher!
What path led you to the story of Matisse’s life in Nazi-occupied France? And why do you think it’s important to tell this story today?
Two things. One was a book I came across in the mid-‘90s, Artists Under Vichy. In it, the author accused Matisse of essentially sitting out the Second World War, living in relative comfort in Nice. That seemed inconceivable to me: not only was Matisse a modernist, a creator of so-called “degenerate art,” but his daughter had been in the Resistance, so I thought, how could this be? Second, my wife and I have had the good fortune to spend time in Nice, France each summer, visiting the Matisse landmarks. Was it really possible that Matisse simply painted his way through the war, ignoring the German occupiers and the Vichy collaborators? Or did he seize a patch of the cultural battlefield? Was he among the artists who were censored? How did his efforts affect his fellow citizens? These were the questions I wanted to answer.
Most of my readers will recognize the name Henri Matisse. Are there particular challenges in writing about a person people think they know something about?
I quite enjoyed it! My previous book was a biography of a once-famous presidential advisor, Anna Rosenberg, who was lost to history. It’s a lot easier to give your elevator pitch when it’s about a world-famous figure like Henri Matisse! What I found interesting about Matisse is that from his contemporaries until today, there is this notion that he was a painter of pretty things; a man who indulged himself in the pleasures of Nice; an artist untroubled by the events unfolding around him. First, Nice was the site of a four-way war between the Allies, Axis, right-wing militia, and French Resistance. Second, while it is true Matisse used vibrant color and flawless lines, much of his work during the Occupation held a latent menace, a sense of confinement, or being surveilled. His work reflected his angst over the war and over the fates of his family and friends. As his son Pierre told the New York Times in 1942, artists during wartime don’t paint skulls and battle scenes, they reflect, they filter, and sometimes it takes a keen eye to see their pain.
Did looking at this period of Matisse’s life give you a new/different understanding of his work?
Yes! I am not an art scholar. My wheelhouse is modern American history, the 1940s, the ‘50s, so this was a journey of discovery. Why did Matisse create so many cut-outs in his “second life”? Why did he use blue in so much of his work? Why did he make so many stylistic pivots? What was he in search of? I was able to answer many of these questions, but I still find it mysterious and awe-inspiring to see his art up close; it is so vibrant, so evergreen, so fresh, and so moving.
Writing about a historical figure like Henri Matisse requires living with him over a period of years. What was it like to have him as a constant companion?
Before setting off on his biography of Harry Truman, David McCullough had planned to write about Pablo Picasso. At some point, he got fed up. Picasso was a jerk, and McCullough didn’t want to spend years in his company. He moved on to Truman, and I think helped put Truman in the top ranks of modern American presidents. I was so fortunate to write the biography of Anna Rosenberg, who was smart, loyal, patriotic, witty, and respected by trucking unions and U.S. senators alike. I loved being in her company. She cherished American democracy, and worked to strengthen it by striving for greater social equality for women, for working people, for Black Americans, and for veterans. When I set off on Henri Matisse, I had a vague idea, but I found him to be an engaging figure, one who on the one hand could be economical with his thoughts—he spoke through the images he created–but who could also be a candid correspondent in his letters. While he did so in a very different way, Matisse, too, cherished the republican values of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Historians of the resistance in Nazi-occupied countries often draw a contrast between active and passive resistance—a distinction that I feel is often artificial and discounts the very real danger of those involved in “passive” resistance. Where would you put Matisse and members of his family on the active/passive continuum? Or do you reject the distinction entirely?
I don’t love the word passive, but I think it’s fair to say that compared to his daughter Marguerite, who was a courier for a Resistance network, and his son Jean, who assisted British Intelligence in the South and who harbored Allied agents, Henri Matisse was engaged in a form of resistance that suited his stature, his advanced age and his failing health. Matisse didn’t need to be a bomb-thrower; by defiantly remaining in France and by steadfastly continuing to create subtly patriotic work, he resisted and gave succor to the Resistance. Each member of the Matisse family was playing for real stakes. As Françoise Gilot said, by holding his work up against the destructive impulses of the Nazis and their collaborators, Matisse was a beacon of hope for the young. Louis Aragon, the “Poet of the Resistance” who befriended Matisse during these years, wrote quite powerfully that “Matisse was of France, Matisse was France.”
What was the most surprising thing you learned working on this book?
There were many surprises. Perhaps the most dramatic one was a remark by Matisse to one of Varian Fry’s assistants (Fry was an American sent to Marseille to rescue artists from Nazi Europe). Matisse said, basically, that he’d provided a safehouse for enemies of the regime. The risks that his family took were also very sobering. Certainly his daughter, Marguerite, and probably his son Jean, were lucky to make it out of the Occupation alive. And the tension between Matisse’s bourgeois, middle-class grounding and his daring and audacious artistic flights is a source of awe for me.
Is there anything else you wish I had asked you about?
This is a book about art and war, and I hope to have also illuminated the role Nice played. From 1940 to late 1942, Matisse’s adopted city was under Italian jurisdiction—neither occupied by Germans, nor under the curdled regime of Vichy–a haven of relative normality in Hitler’s Europe, where Jews lived and worked without the yellow star. In the second half of the war the Mediterranean port became the locus for battles between pro-Nazi militia and Resistance fighters; Nazis and the Jews they hunted; and finally Germans and the American liberators. Henri Matisse had traveled to the United States and liked much about it. Perhaps his wartime cut-out The Cowboy was an homage to the American soldiers and the country that had liberated France twice in Matisse’s lifetime.
Art credit: Joshua Pickering
Christopher C. Gorham is a lawyer, educator, and acclaimed author whose books include Matisse at War and the Goodreads Choice Award finalist, The Confidante. He is a frequent speaker at conferences, literary events, colleges, and book club gatherings. He lives in Boston, and can be found at ChristopherCGorham.com and on social media as @christophercgorham.
Sisters of Influence: A Q & A with Andrea Friederici Ross
I am happy to have Andrea Friederici Ross back here on the Margins to discuss her latest book about forgotten women changing in the world. Sisters of Influence: A Biography of Zina, Amy, and Rose Fay tells the story of three extraordinary sisters who defied the expectations of their Victorian-era childhood and left their mark on history.
Take it away, Andrea!
Even well-known women in the nineteenth-century are often neglected by biographers and historians. What path led you to the Fay sisters, and why do you think it’s important to tell their stories today?
I’ve done some work in animal rescue, so the first sister to come to my attention was Rose, who founded the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. That she was married to Theodore Thomas, the first conductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, just added to my interest. Gradually I became aware that she had these remarkable sisters, so I had to incorporate their stories as well. What I thought would be a fairly simple story became very involved once I decided to include Zina and Amy. In addition to learning about the humane movement and the classical music scene in the States, I had to educate myself on cooperative housekeeping, women in music, higher education for women, and other issues the sisters tackled. But, in the end, it makes for a better story — one that incorporates many different things women were championing in the late 1800s. The Fay sisters were a kind of real-life Little Women. They each utilized their unique skills, voices, and personalities to move their issues forward. I think this is so pertinent today: by following our passions to enact change, gradually, society evolves in a more positive direction. There is no place for stagnancy, no time for apathy. Every voice matters.
Zina, Amy, and Rose Fay were all trailblazers in their separate fields during the Progressive Era, a period marked by many political and social reform movements. What new challenges and opportunities did women face at that time, and how did they affect the Fay sisters directly?
The Fay sisters grew up in the Victorian Era, at a time when women were expected to confine themselves to the domestic realm. But through their work in women’s clubs, their writings (all three were authors), and their organizational efforts, they — along with many, many other women — helped expand the women’s sphere into the community and beyond. The Fay sisters were, in effect, bridges from the Victoria Era into the Progressive Era. It begs the question: what about us? What important historical periods are we bridging, as women? Which direction do we want to head?
Writing about historical figures like the Fay sisters requires living with them over a period of years. What was it like to have them as your constant companions?
Ha! They were good company, actually. I have three amaryllis plants that I named Amy, Zina, and Rose, and I kept them abreast of the progress on the manuscript. They say talking to plants helps them grow? I felt like it was the converse — they helped keep me on track.
Did the Fay sisters cross paths with the subject of your last biography, socialite-activist Edith Rockefeller McCormick?
Yes! In fact, they lived on the same street! I was able to figure out several instances where some of the sisters and Edith intersected. That said, they were very different personalities! For example, Edith cherished a fur wrap made of chinchilla skins. Rose, describing what may well have been that very coat, wrote, “A thousand painful deaths in one garment!”
I realize this is an unfair question, but did you have a favorite among the sisters?
As you surely suspect, I did. I started out primarily focused on Rose but, in the end, Amy’s winsome personality won me over. I think, of the three sisters, Amy is the one I’d choose as a friend. Zina was a difficult personality and, while I respect what she was trying to accomplish in terms of restructuring housekeeping to make women’s lives easier, I took issue with some of her exclusionary attitudes. And Rose was lovely but I think I’d share more laughs with Amy.
How difficult was it to find sources for these women?
I got lucky this time! Usually this is one of the most challenging parts of writing about women. But, thanks to work done by Sylvia Wright Mitarachi, a Fay descendant and writer, all of the sisters’ papers are at Schlesinger Library in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Mitarachi obtained a grant to write a biography about Zina but died before finishing the project. I was able to benefit from the materials she had gathered and organized. She even transcribed some of the cross-hatched writing in the family letters — bless her heart! We stand on the shoulders of those before us, right? I think of this quote every election day and it rang true throughout this project as well, particularly with regard to Sylvia Wright Mitarachi.
What was the most surprising thing you learned working on this book?
It’s important to note that the Fay sisters were not among the early suffragists. They weren’t fighting for the vote — they were advocating for greater involvement in their communities and the issues they cared about. This is an area of women’s history that I never learned about! The women’s movement was far more nuanced than just pro- or anti-suffrage. Much as I would have preferred for them to be among the early firebrands who paved the way for us to vote, the Fay sisters gave me a far deeper understanding of the decisions women had before them at that time. While gaining the vote was a monumental step, the quieter, gentler approaches many other women took also helped expand the possibilities for all of us today. Quiet and gentle can also be effective.
Andrea Friederici Ross is the author of Sisters of Influence: A Biography of Zina, Amy, and Rose Fay, as well as Edith: The Rogue Rockefeller McCormick, and Let the Lions Roar! The Evolution of Brookfield Zoo. She has worked as the operations manager of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, as assistant to the director of Brookfield Zoo, and at her local public school library. She enjoys speaking about the women in her books and has teamed up with historical interpreter ElliePresents to offer unique author programs bringing the women to life.
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Sisters of Influence will be released on October 14. It is available for pre-order wherever you buy your books.
Road Trip Through History: The Boom and Bust of Nininger, Minnesota
To my surprise, ghost towns were a recurring theme of our multi-year trips along the Great River Road. More than once we saw small exhibits dedicated to towns that had grown up to support the fur trade, the logging industry, or mining and withered away because industries closed, transportation routes changed, or county seats shifted. A chilling reminder of the impermanence of the things we build.
On our most recent trip, in and around the Twin Cities, we were introduced to a new type of lost town, courtesy of a historical marker. Founded in 1856 on the banks of the Mississippi, Nininger Minnesota did not grow organically around an industry. The town’s founders, John Nininger, and Ignatius Donnelly moved to Minnesota with the plan of building a new city as a contender for Minnesota’s capital. It was not an implausible goal at a time when Minnesota’s cities were just taking shape.
In order to create the appearance of a boom town, Donnelly purchased 100 of the 3,800 platted lots and advertised the benefits of the new community in newspapers and immigrant neighborhoods throughout the Eastern United States.
By 1857, the new town, with seventy buildings and a population of some 1,000, was a bustling river port.[1] It had everything you would expect in a river port at a time when lumber was booming: two sawmills, a grist mill, several factories, two boarding houses, six saloons, and a dance hall, not to mention a baseball team. The developers had aspirations to be more than just a successful port. They had plans for a public library, a debate hall, and an athenaeum–which in my mind is a combination of a public library and a debate hall, but I am not an urban developer with big dreams.
Those dreams crumbled in the Panic of 1857.[2] By 1869, Nininger City existed largely on paper, though Donnelly’s two-story mansion remained, overlooking the failed city from a hill on river. By 1932, there was nothing left except Donnelly’s mansion and the foundations of a few old buildings, hidden in the prairie grass.
Donnelly lived in his mansion until his death in 1901: one of those larger-than-life enthusiasts (aka eccentrics) whom the nineteenth century produced with some regularity. After Minnesota became a state in 1858, he served three terms as a congressman and one as its lieutenant-governor. He wrote the best-selling Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882)[3] , which is credited with popularizing the idea of the lost civilization, and three books arguing that Francis Bacon wrote not only Shakespeare’s plays, but the works of Marlowe and Montaigne. He supported women’s suffrage and the Farmers’ Alliance, an agrarian movement which sought to improve economic conditions for farmers through political advocacy and the creation of cooperatives. He ran for vice-president on the tickets of two different populist parties. (Not at the same time.)
[1] By comparison, St. Paul, the capital, had a population of roughly 10,000. The population of Minnesota as a whole was about 85,000.
[2] Here’s the short version:
Grain prices dropped due to a combination of bumper crops and reduced demand from Europe due to the end of the Crimean War. Foreign trade imbalances led to a drain on the nation’s gold reserves and increased interest rates. Banks failed. The development of railroads had been a driver of the economic boom that preceded the panic. Now the collapse of credit halted their construction. Unemployment in the large cities of the Northeast and the Midwest soared.
The Panic of 1857 also widened the economic differences between the North and the South, The South, which was less industrialized than the North, did not suffer to the same extent. Low tariffs (ahem) protected its cotton trade with Europe, and sustained its overall economy.
[3] Still in print 140 years later. I can only dream.