By Lipton, Eunice; Manet, Édouard; Meurent, Victorine; Lipton, Eunice; Meurent, Victorine; Manet, Édouard
Eunice Lipton was once a fledging paintings historian whilst she first grew to become intrigued via Victorine Meurent, the nineteenth-century version who seemed in Edouard Manet's most renowned work, merely to fade from background in a haze of degrading rumour. yet had this daring and lively attractiveness quite descended into prostitution, drunkenness, and early death-or did her lifestyles, hidden from heritage, take a distinct path altogether? Eunice Lipton's look for the reply combines the suspense of a detective tale with the revelatory strength of paintings, peeling off layers of lies to bare startling truths approximately Victorine Meurent-and approximately Lipton herself
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Extra info for Alias Olympia : a woman's search for Manet's notorious model & her own desire
He'll go over to the Pierpont Morgan and take a look for you. Michael is a private detective and an aspiring writer. I knew, and Ken knew, that he'd be a good person to send to the Morgan; he's a charming, handsome man, and in this instance his dated machismo might work. He wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Obviously I couldn't ask him to comb the material for relevant information; he had no idea what I was looking for-I hardly knew-but I could ask him to try to locate a letter that Meurent wrote to Manet's widow, and that Tabarant quoted at length in his book.
Maybe I'll find a note he wrote to himself about Meurent, a desire to reach her for some reason. Or a piece of gossip about her that he told someone else in a letter. Maybe a notebook reference to her artistic aspirations. I turn over each letter, each notebook page, savoring the transgression of perusing private words in a public space. But I find no reference to Meurent except the address of a "Louise Meuran" in one of Manet's notebooks. I presume that's her; Victorine's middle name was Louise.
Nobody stopped her. Nobody knew. But I was a smart kid. I was as smart as I was desperate, and I knew Trudy's desperation. I knew she longed for me. She couldn't comprehend my hatred, the venom that poured from my eyes, my heart. What had she done to deserve this? When she hit me, I kicked her; when she smacked, I cursed. Each time it escalated until I spit at her, and she pushed me away. That was our embrace, my mother's and mine. A hopeless emptying of our hearts. Never forgiving, always longing.