Many tiny secrets (the story of Dora Maar)
At the end of the day, the shell is no match for a woman on the verge of unfurling.
The room has the impression of being tiny, choking. Actually, it is a well-sized - though narrow - space, but she has chosen to drape thick, black velvet curtains on all of the walls, and removed all the lighting save for the single bulb hanging above her final piece in the exhibition. The room is both the exit and the entrance for guests, although they do not realise it until the end.
Upon entering the exhibition space, they are plunged into near-darkness, straining into the middle-distance for the single light bulb. When they approach it, however, two staff members cloaked in black velvet hold their hands out to stop anyone from walking any further. The room is too dark to see the sweat on their faces. By now, the guests’ eyes will have adjusted to the gloom, and they will pick out the ropes blocking their access to the large photograph facing away from them. The light from the bulb will throw the faces of the observers on the other side – those who are at the end of the exhibition – into sharp relief. The lighting arrangement ensures those on the side of the photograph cannot see past the photograph. They can hear the whispers and rustle of clothing, but do not know who is watching them. Everyone in the room is momentarily part of the show, which of course, is what she wants.
Those newcomers who have just entered will momentarily watch the faces of the people across from them as they stare intently at the photograph. There is something delicious about observing the observers, something she has picked up on and plays with in the four rooms exhibiting her work. And then, impatient to see the rest of her work, they will filter through the black curtains into the next room, clutching tickets with the name DORA MAAR: PLEIN DES PETITS SECRETS printed upon them.
On the opening night Dora Maar is somewhere within the exhibition space. Wearing black, smoking a cigarette, her dark hair will probably be loose with a few curls pinned back. Dora Maar is twenty-seven and striking, with her dark eyes and thin, arched eyebrows. Her mouth is naturally downward set, giving her a solemn appearance. Just a handful of years from now, her lover will make her fight another woman for his affections in his studio, and paint her as a tragedy. Her face would become famous; The Weeping Woman. But that painting is a lie, and also a story yet to come. For tonight, Dora Maar is buoyed by triumph. She enjoys walking the line between unsettling and playful; just look at her work to the left here. A black and white image of an armadillo foetus with its tiny, star-shaped claws resting on either side of its face. The lens is disturbingly close; the image is frightful. How did she take such a photo?
To the right, just inches away from the armadillo, a photogram. The canvas is large, at least the size of a grown man. A disembodied gloved hand delicately holds an ornate, oval mirror between thumb and forefinger, and a large pearl hovers within the mirror, the shadows implying a plunging depth behind it. A couple stand before it, the woman’s eyes darting from the unborn armadillo to the mirror. From the unsettling, to the playful.
“It is the reflection of the moon.” The patron declares confidently to his date, one hand at the small of her back. She pictures lying down on her bed with her legs open, the mirror revealing herself like the splitting of a fig, and shakes her head. “It is not.” She does not elaborate further. In a dark corner behind them, there is a small glow of a cigarette, and a grin.
Dora Maar is considered to be excellent in her work; one of the few women accepted into cohort of Parisian artists calling themselves surrealists. She makes no effort to disguise her accomplishments. Her fluency in Spanish, from her childhood years in Argentina, her flawless French from her mother, as well as Croatian, her fathertongue. Her abstract painting, still very much in its infancy, will eventually unfurl its wings and take on a life of its own. And of course, her photography; a spear that seemed to launch itself into the chest of the observer and pin them down like a butterfly for Dora Maar to transmit the stories she wishes to tell. A handful of years from now, it will be Dora Maar’s left-wing politics infusing the formation of Guernica, urging her lover to be more explicit, more critical. She will even paint a small section of the ginormous canvas. Few will know this, because he will keep it secret. She, in a moment of foreboding, will tell a handful of mutual friends before she spirals into a nervous breakdown that steals a couple of her best years. But for now, she is young and convinced of her own prestige, and decides to ignore the obligations typically associated with the opening night. In the darkness, no one can find her anyway.
Dora Maar chooses to follow the young couple through the exhibition. They are unaware of her presence, and she enjoys studying their silhouettes as they drink in her work. The woman seems unsure of what she wants; at times she pulls away from her companion, at times she seems to melt into his arms. Their dance is fascinating to Dora Maar, her fingers itch for her Rolleiflex to capture their inability to remain still, as though love has placed little stones in their shoes. Usually she would be disinterested; Dora Maar is drawn to recording the most invisible members of society; mothers holding their babies, homeless men with their caps in their hands, the blind and partially sighted. Attractive, affluent couples do not take her interest, but there is an agitation between the man and the woman she enjoys observing.
She follows them all the way to the exit, which of course, is also the entrance. The final installation hangs from the low ceiling with two chains. Dora Maar ensures she is far back enough to remain out of sight from the audience members entering on the opposite side, even grinding out her cigarette underneath her black Mary Janes. The final image is her favourite; she had to fight to ensure it bookended her show. A large spiral shell is lies on a bed of sand, dramatically lit by the sky above, as if the clouds were about to part and reveal God herself. From the mouth of the shell protrudes a porcelain hand with painted nails. The hand stretches towards the viewer as if it were about to leap off the image, perhaps to throttle. Or to shake a hand. Dora Maar leans against the black curtains and envisions a giant of a woman living within that shell, shrinking herself to fit the delicate spire until she can contort and retreat no more. At the end of the day, the shell is no match for a woman on the verge of unfurling. No match for a woman on the edge of expansion. No match for a woman on the brink of victory. She hopes the young couple understands the warning.
Alas, the man is clearly tired of looking, impatient to leave. He places his hand on the young woman’s back once again, a little lower this time. Boarding on scandalous. The murkiness has emboldened him, it seems. She allows him to lead her away, glancing back at the photogram one last time. Dora Maar hesitates. She has obligations this evening. Patrons to meet. Buyers to flatter. A photographer, a friend of hers, has been hired. But she watches the young couple push their way out of the curtains with longing – not for them, but for the outside world. For new faces and the satisfying click of the camera’s back door snapping shut, freshly loaded. For beloved friends who adore her, of which she has plenty, and for lovers, who slip in and out of her door with quiet ease. For life, which clamours for her attention.
In a little more than a year’s time, Dora Maar will willingly spin herself into a decade-long web of obsession, desire and sticky misery. She will end up chasing life, rather than the other way around. Almost as if she knows this, Dora Maar lifts one satin-gloved hand to hide her face and exits her own exhibition into the street. It is only 8pm, after all.
This is a creative interpretation of the photographer and painter Dora Maar, who is one of the seven women referenced in my poem, ‘Picasso’. Born Henriette Theodora Markovitch in 1907, Dora Maar was a well respected artist in her own right before meeting Picasso, and influenced his work greatly, even working on the famous Guernica painting. Read more about her here and here.
Picasso was abusive and actively sought to sabotage the women who he lived with, painted and entered into relationships with. This series aims to reflect the greatness of these women in their own right, beyond the simple reduction to one of Picasso’s muses.