SECRETS OF AN ODALISQUE - Chapter 2

Chapter II

That Arthur would have to wait another two days to see Mrs. Blumenthal was distressing, but on the other hand, it was impossible to be bored in Venice. The better part of the day had been spent sightseeing; he had listened to the audio tapes of information on the Basilica, watched the groups of tourists parading past below, mounted the steps of the Campanile to view the best panorama of Venice from where one could fully see its dolphin-lute shape defined; he had visited the Risorgimento section of the Correr Museum, thrilled to the old masters on display in the Hall of the Great Council in the Doges' Palace.

From the Bridge of Straw, where the Gondoliers' Madonna stood, he had snapped what surely must have been the ten millionth tourist photo of the Bridge of Sighs, which joined the Doges' Palace to the prison from which the legendary Casanova had escaped.

He had shopped for gifts on the Merceria -- silk, leather, glassware -- and finally, at a small trattoria not far from the Giardini Publici, where he had admired the retrospective of Cubists that was the feature of this year's Bienanale, had treated himself to a fine lunch: risotto stuffed with gambretti, tiny shrimps and thin slices of prosciutto, accompanied by a 1976 Gavi from the Piedmont, Tenuta "La Giustiana."

Dinner had been an early affair on the terrace of a restaurant recommended by Michelin, where he had found himself unable to resist the crisp cold green beans, fagolini, in oil and vinegar, followed by a succulent agnoletto, baby lamb with bernaise sauce. The wine, perfection itself, was a 1970 Gattinara of Felice Canetti. He was still trying to get used to being able to afford such luxuries.

Relaxing now at Florian's Cafe in the Piazza with a Birra Peroni, he basked in the afterglow of the reclining sun's rays, to contemplate the alabaster façade of St. Mark's Basilica, its brick walls encrusted with foamy marble, glittering gold flashes twinkling from its sunstruck mosaics. What could be more atmospheric, with the band playing Broadway tunes of the '30's -- Rogers and Hart, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin -- than this place that Ruskin had called "a city of graceful arches and gleaming walls, veined with azure and warm with gold and fretted with marble."

As the hordes of tourists paraded past, sporting their regulation gondolier hats and Venetian glass beads, the men in short sleeved Izods and bermuda shorts, Arthur thought, how fitting to be in the most beautiful square in the world, in this splendid piazza with its 17th century arcades, and the painter in him marveled at the quality of light, the sense of poetry and sfumato the flush of setting sun brought to the area. Today he had observed many sundials inscribed, "I count only the happy hours." From now on, he had resolved, that would be his motto.

Tomorrow he would plan excursions to Burano, Murano for the glass works, the Lido to stop in on the film festival that was in progress; and if the luxury yacht "the Columbine," belonging to his on-again-off-again, decades long lover, Priscilla Ettinger's latest "live one" should be among those moored in the lagoon, tomorrow he might even sneak off for a sexual assignation with Pris.

Arthur tapped his straight stemmed pipe, took another swill of his Perroni, and flipped through the journal he had brought along. As a painter he often had to probe his deepest recesses to arrive at concept, and found that recording his thoughts helped to clarify the direction his work would take.

Ever since his father's letter had started him on this great quest of the Odalisque, the preponderance of his journal entries had concerned themselves with that subject.

He read over some of the material:

"August 8: That one single erotic act is capable of altering a man's entire destiny was a concept well known to the ancients. Moreover, the Odalisque is unique in her capacity to provide this, with the tremendous initiatory power by which she can endow her male consort with a similar energy.

"Ancient cultures contain the concept of the sacred woman as guardian and embodiment of sex, although most of their ideas likely are merely profane expressions of the inner knowledge possessed by the Odalisque, she who alone has the arcane science of total sexual bliss experience.

"August 13: The need for beauty in the Odalisque: Socrates, who was initiated by Diotima, stressed the importance of beauty, which elevated passion to a level beyond the mere physical, to a plane of higher sensuality otherwise impossible.

"August 15: Thoughts on Odalisque paintings: Some of the great masters undoubtedly were acolytes of the Odalisque order, whereas others were not. A strong genre exists in French painting, particularly of the 19th century, culminating with Matisse (called `Painter of the Odalisques') in the 20th century.

"In examining as many prints as I have thus far been able to scout in the library plus the Met and Modern (found nothing at all at the Guggenheim) I have rounded up the following Odalisque or Odalisque-inspired painters:

"Delacroix, Ingres, Velasquez, Titian, Renoir, Matisse, Cambon, Couture, Boulanger, Court, Colin, Hébert, and of course Matisse. In addition, Pradier has sculpted the Odalisque (Musée de Lyons). Now here is something rather interesting: `Venus' by Velasquez, said to be the first nude painted in Spain, since the subject was forbidden, is the case in point. Velasquez avoided penalty for painting nudity as he was protected by the King, and no other nude was painted in Spain until Goya's `Naked Maya,' whose model was the Duchess of Alba, once the owner of Velasquez' `Venus'! A fascinating connection is that on his canvas, Velasquez has placed these fosse or dimples, two indentations just above the buttocks, sign of the true Odalisque, and evidence points to the Duchess of Alba as well having been an Odalisque!

"Now as to the Grande Odalisque of Ingres, or Odalisque Couchée in the Louvre (commissioned by Queen Carolina of Naples, who was perhaps herself an Odalisque -- must investigate this possibility further): the Ingres painting seems to have one small dimple in evidence. As to Ingres' "Little Bather," called by Baudelaire the `Little Odalisque,' also known as `Interior of the Harem' ... this painting does not have the dimples!

"Of these Ingres works, Baudelaire said, `We lack the space and perhaps the words to praise sufficiently ... the Large Odalisque, which would have tormented Raphael, or the Little Odalisque, which would have surprised Poussin, that delicious and bizarre fantasy which has no precedent in ancient art...'

"Interesting that the painting Ingres himself called The Odalisque has the dimples, whereas the nude Ingres that Baudelaire called the Little Odalisque does not. Obviously Ingres was in the know but Baudelaire was not, n'est-ce pas? From my readings, it becomes apparent Baudelaire was struggling to penetrate the secrets of the Odalisque and wanted desperately to be initiated. Whether he succeeded or not is a matter of speculation.

"Bourgereau's "Birth of Venus" (1897) in the Louvre: very important to check out this rear view, as well as Canova's statue of Napoleon's sister, Pauline, in the Borghese in Rome. Dimples? Of course Titian places the necessary dimples (which he called fossette, in Italian) on nearly all his nudes, but then Titian is such a certified master one would expect him to have known. Check out Veronese -- I believe he might have been an initiate.

"August 16: How long I've confronted the `Mark of Venus' but in painting and in real life, having no idea of the significance. At last I begin to understand. Matisse's cryptic remarks; a propos: his whole process of striving toward the ideal of the Odalisque becomes clear.

"In Matisse’s journals he wrote: `I know they exist. I have seen them.' Finally, after having served a long apprenticeship, Henri Matisse was admitted to the inner chambers. His magnificent `Odalisque in Orange,' owned by Madame Gaia Blumenthal (!) attests to this. Compare the Blumenthal Odalisque with Matisse's earlier works, and one recognizes immediately that a great evolution has taken place. The `Odalisque in Orange' was Henri Matisse's epiphany, the sign that he had surpassed himself, with his placement, for the first time, of the signe d'authenticité-- the Mark of Venus.

"There's still so much I don't know. Father was careful not to betray classified information; anything under the rose, in a manner of speaking, is still to be gleaned. But I am nearly there. Soon I will be arriving in Venice ..."

Arthur stopped reading his entries, closed his journal, and opened his sketch pad. Without giving much thought to the matter, he began doodling. Unconsciously, he was drawing erect penises, with toe-dancing girls making garlands in the pubic hair, kicking en masse on the long, thick shaft of the phallus, a reversion to a successful pen and ink series he had done several years before, titled "Dancers at the Bar."

His cock renderings had been Pris' idea. Knowing he often hung out with dancers when he wasn't seeing her, and always having claimed he was about the only man in Manhattan who could get it up and keep it up, Pris had suggested a combination. Since he had the biggest prick in Manhattan and dancers gravitated to him like moths to a flame, why not invent a series of penises across which pranced the Corps de Ballet at the City Center, the entire Rockettes line from the Radio City Music Hall, and a panoply of ABT students? So the erotic series of pricks and dancing maidens had been born, and had earned him, with Pris' push, more money than he had made on any of his previous works.

Arthur interrupted his doodling to take another sip of beer. Night was slowly overtaking the city. Across the lagoon, great yachts, festive with strings of colored electricity across their prows, commanded his attention. Which one was the Columbine? Perhaps Pris was already moored there.

He was looking forward to seeing her here in this land of enchantment, but would be careful not to betray his secret to her or to anyone. Perhaps after trysting in his hotel, they would come here to the Square to bask in the atmosphere. The legendary cafe which had opened in 1720 had been frequented by everyone in the world who counted -- Mozart, Chateaubriand, de Musset, George Sand, Madame de Staël, Proust, Henry James, Dickens, Trollope, Goethe, Byron Jules Romains, Casanova, d'Annunzio, Keats, Shelley, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Handel, Ruskin, Wordsworth, Thackeray, William Deans Howell -- the list was endless. He felt connected to a great invisible past.

The façade of St. Mark's was blurring now in the soft chiaroscuro of approaching dusk, the light softening into the shadows, as again the Moors struck the hour. Pigeons fluttered to his table for a last evening crust, as an oriental atmosphere hung over the sky.