Lisa Chaney - Coco Chanel - An Intimate Life

Asking for help to recover from her ceaseless mourning, she saw before her a man resting his forehead on the stone floor: “He had such a sad and beautiful face, there was so much rigidity and pain in him, and his exhausted head touched the ground with such weariness that a miracle took place within me.” All at once, Gabrielle felt shameful. “How could I compare my sorrow… with someone in this distress? Energy flowed through me. I took new heart and decided that I would live.” 7Gabrielle believed she wasn’t alone, that the man she had loved was near her “on the other side, and wouldn’t leave me.” She now told herself that as long as she felt Arthur was waiting for her, she had no right to weep. “It doesn’t matter that you’re alone on this side still, for a while.” 8Gabrielle later told a friend how the woman “who had turned into a shadow, came out of that church transformed.” 9

In Venice, the reborn Gabrielle understood better Misia’s fascination with Sert, the Spanish painter of grandiosity. Intense, short and vibrant, José Maria Sert was full of impassioned self-assurance, and also possessed a cruel streak. He was obsessed with art, enjoyed a consuming passion for women and, aided by an alcohol and morphine habit, lived in a world absurdly full of fantasy, high drama and adventure. The abandon of his parties was legendary.

Even the artists of Montmartre and Montparnasse, snobbish about Sert’s abilities as an artist, gave him credit for his creation of atmosphere with his striking choices and juxtaposition of objects and works of art. In Venice, Sert spoke about works of art with an erudition that “generated endless connections” for Gabrielle, and she marveled. He took her to museums and churches and showed her the mournful splendor of the city’s buildings. Fascinated and amazed, she absorbed it all like an intelligent, wondering child. Like so many before and since, Gabrielle fell under the sway of that melancholy, watery paradise La Serenissima, and returned to it regularly for the rest of her life.

In the end, though, it wasn’t history that motivated Gabrielle. With the mind of an artist, she intuited that by nurturing in oneself a certain savage disregard for the past, one was better able to make things for the present. Without denigrating the past, Gabrielle could say, with Misia, “Oh, to hell with these Botticellis and da Vincis,” and they would go off to rummage around, unearthing unlikely treasures in some backstreet junk shop, or move from the city’s restaurants to the luxury of a fashionable salon. This was the Venice where Gabrielle saw works of art in the palaces for which they were made, where she socialized with the Serts’ friends, international and Venetian society keen to live the life of the present as much as dwelling upon the illustrious past of their ancestors.

By chance, the three travelers came upon Diaghilev, in a tête-à-tête with a mutual friend, Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna (the elder), and they stayed on to lunch. The grand duchess herself had been left with little and was gracious, and grateful that she and her children had escaped the ravages of the revolution. While they talked, Diaghilev spoke of his perennial financial problems. His choreographer, Massine, was rehearsing a new production of The Rite of Spring for performance in Paris; the cost would be prohibitive. As much as anything, this was because Diaghilev insisted on a vast orchestra. (In struggling to resuscitate the postwar fortunes of the Ballets Russes, he faced problems: ballet audiences had changed, and both his French and Russian patrons’ sources of wealth had collapsed.)

It is said that Diaghilev paid no attention to Gabrielle on this occasion or several others when they met while in Venice. 10But we know that Gabrielle had not only been at the original performance of The Rite of Spring, the premiere of Parade in 1917, and the parties afterward, she had also been at the Parisian premiere of the first postwar Diaghilev-Stravinsky ballet, Pulcinella, in May of that year, 1920. And yet this woman whom Morand had described as “quite a personality,” was apparently meek and silent on these occasions. As we have seen, Misia would have the world believe that Gabrielle trailed around as her shadow in these early years of their friendship. The implication is always that the bohemian types with whom Gabrielle would socialize — and, on occasion, have affairs — liked her for nothing more than her money. The most significant reason for their friendship with her, however, was Gabrielle herself. As to her subdued manner in this period, it was more a result of her state of mourning than because she was meek and self-effacing.

From Venice, the ever-restless Serts took Gabrielle down to Rome. “We arrived weary and drained, and were obliged to visit the city, by moonlight, until we were exhausted. At the Coliseum he [Sert] remembered the recollections of Thomas de Quincey, and said some wonderful things about architecture and about the parties that might be given amongst these ruins.” 11Recalling Sert’s gargantuan appetites and his inability to do anything on a small scale, Gabrielle said that “he was as munificent and as immoral as a Renaissance man.” His perennial good humor, his erudition and encyclopaedic knowledge of the oddest things made him, for Gabrielle, the perfect traveling companion. She said that this “huge, hairy monkey, with his tinted beard, his humped back, his enormous tortoiseshell spectacles — veritable wheels — loved everything colossal.” 12He led her through the museums of Venice, explaining everything, and found in her an “attentive ignorance… that he preferred to all his erudition.” 13Gabrielle thought Sert resembled “some enormous gnome who carried gold as well as rubbish inside his hump like a magic sack. He had extremely poor taste and exquisite judgment, the priceless and the disgusting, diamonds and crap, kindness and sadism, virtues and vices on a staggering scale.” 14

Returning to Paris, Gabrielle appeared to have emerged from her emotional retreat, and the Serts pronounced her cured. Gabrielle would never be entirely cured of Arthur’s loss, bearing forever its scars. Nonetheless, her powerful urge for life was too strong to lie dormant in her for more than a certain amount of time. Exhilarated by the two Serts’ mad adventures, she had decided “to live.”

One of the first signs of this more positive frame of mind was that Gabrielle now made a dramatic move. There are several versions of this story. One has it that she appeared at Diaghilev’s hotel and asked if she might see him. Another, which subtly alters the balance of power, has it that she asked him to come and see her. One suspects it was the latter, and that her description is correct:

I understand that there is a great tragedy. He has fled London because he could not pay his debts… “I live at the Ritz hotel, come and see me, say nothing to Misia.” He came to my apartment… I gave him a check… I think he didn’t think it was real… He never wrote to me, he never compromised himself by a word. 15

The astonished impresario, who had hoped Misia Sert would bail him out, had instead been given a very large sum by Gabrielle to relaunch The Rite of Spring. Her request that he tell no one was to no avail; Diaghilev thrived on indiscretion almost as much as his boon companion, Misia, and in no time at all she knew. The customary explanation for Gabrielle’s gesture of munificence is that she was flexing her cultural muscles: it wasn’t only Misia who could make things happen. Unlike Misia, however, for whom the cultivation of a salon was almost a raison d’être, the artist in Gabrielle meant that she was only moderately interested in one with herself at its center. (As we have already seen, her interest in power was not for its own sake; it was above all a means to an end, usually freedom to do her work and thereby maintain her independence.) Gabrielle never failed to fall under the spell of creativity, and what primarily interested her in Diaghilev’s case was the fact of his being another artist at work. Anything made well, however modest, never ceased to enchant her. There was, however, nothing modest about Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes.