The Snake Charmer

The studio was packed with friends and admirers who’d come to celebrate an unappreciated old man, someone who’d long since given up on success and acclaim. Well-wishers raising their glasses to toast Henri Rousseau all shared a secret; the guest of honor was a shameful liar.

Rousseau was a generation older than these new kids on the block, artists like Pablo Picasso. Picasso had lent his studio and arranged the banquet for Rousseau. The Spaniard was one of the few who knew the artist’s real name. Most of those patting the old man on the back referred to him simply as Le Douanier (the customs officer). Even this was a lie, spread by Rousseau himself. He never held the position of customs officer, he’d merely been an underpaid toll collector at one of the gates of Paris.

The banquet thrown for Rousseau took place in 1908 when the artist was sixty-four. He looked older than his years and would be dead in two years. This would be the only time in his life when he would be celebrated by his peers, and his weary eyes must have misted over at the sight of so many young artists gathered to pay him homage, this at a time when he couldn’t sell his work and had been supplementing his income by playing his violin in the streets. Most critics laughed and dismissed his work as naïve or childish, but Le Douanier found a home in the hearts of these talented young bohemians.

Picasso told the story often, how he’d seen one of Rousseau’s paintings protruding from the back of a pushcart stacked with trash. On the canvas a sturdy woman had been portrayed in a brash guileless manner unlike anything Picasso had seen. The peasant pushing the cart offered the canvas for a few coins, telling the future Father of Modern Art that it could be painted over. Picasso had no intention of re-using the canvas, which he considered a masterpiece. He purchased it on the spot, and later dashed off to seek out the artist.

Picasso was fascinated by Rousseau, who claimed to be self-taught with “no teacher other than nature.” Picasso admired the old man’s paintings, enjoyed the fanciful stories and spread the word. Before long, Le Douanier was the darling of young artists on the prowl for something fresh and new. Interesting that this was to be found in the paintings of an unacknowledged old toll collector.

The direction of art was changing. Academies and salons were no longer the vanguards of artistic exceptionalism. Years of training to master perspective, color theory and paint application were suddenly considered a waste of time. Truth would be the goal of modern art. And truth, contrary to what philosophers thought, couldn’t be taught but was to be found in individual human expression. Picasso and his friends recognized more than truth in Rousseau’s work; they saw purity, and innocence untainted by art history. Psychology was about to be born, and would soon replace philosophy.

Rousseau’s best known paintings depicted jungle scenes, and Rousseau claimed they were inspired by his military service, which was said to have included the French Expeditionary Force to Mexico. This was a lie; Rousseau never set foot in exotic lands, never journeyed outside of France. The animals he painted were inspired by trips to the zoo, illustrated books and visits to taxidermy shops. Many of the exotic plants in his work were taken from old engravings or observed at Paris’ botanical gardens.

In 1907 Rousseau painted The Snake Charmer. At first glance it’s easy to see why art critics ridiculed it; the colors and modeling are flat and unsophisticated, the lighting is peculiar, and the snakes are unrealistic tree branches. Even the plants refuse to conform to nature, his ferns stand in straight lines as if in a police line up. Rousseau later admitted that when he visited botanical gardens and saw exotic plants he felt like he was entering a dream, no doubt a place more real to him than his shabby life.

Serious artists no longer concern themselves with mimicking nature—cameras perform this chore—so when I stood before the surprisingly large Snake Charmer a few years ago I wasn’t prepared to be assaulted by the intensity of Rousseau’s reality. This wasn’t the reality of a sugary Parisian street scene, the type made famous by the Impressionists; here was something both new and ancient. Rousseau’s painting pulses with psychological energy while speaking timeless truths. It blazes a path forward toward Surrealism and the subconscious while harkening back to a place primordial, where cave painters captured the souls of animals to make them easier to hunt.

Now when I see this painting I envision Rousseau charming a young generation of artists, those who would later see in his work the impetus to bid farewell to preconceptions of reality in favor of a world of imagination, a universe of wondrous possibilities.

Rousseau was a liar; but has anyone else ever lied so exquisitely?

Also by Rousseau:

"The Dream." Rousseau's last painting.

Sleeping Gypsy.

High Heel Hell

Most of us have experienced it, the high school ritual known as Senior Prom.

The Willamette River runs through downtown Portland. An esplanade bordering the river is crowded with restaurants that are popular on prom night. For years Mrs. C. and I have made a habit of parking ourselves on a bench to watch the parade of young people dressed in finery on their special night. Stretch limos come and disgorge self-conscious teens trying their best to look nonchalant and grown up. Mrs. C. and I have fond memories of our prom, which we attended together forty-two years ago.

It’s hard to ignore how mature the girls look beside gawky guys in tails or white tuxedos with top hats and canes. (I kid you not.) The young men often look ill-at-easy in their rented tuxedos while their dates look like elegant Grace Kellys. But there’s something amiss with these young women—the way they walk. More correctly, the way they struggle to walk.

They wear high heels, even those towering over their dates, and they wobble about like nineteenth century Chinese women with bound feet. They totter and lurch like they’re on stilts. I guess it’s understandable that young women these days aren’t practiced at walking in heels; who’s going to teach them? It’s unlikely their mothers wear heels and teens don’t like to emulate their parents at this age anyway. Finishing schools once focused on walking with grace and poise but today young ladies get their culture tips from The Bachelorette and Jersey Shore.

Every now and then we spot a young lady in sneakers that match her outfit. Our last prom night expedition provided the rare sight of a radiant girl, her pink satin gown accessorized with matching bunny-shaped slippers. Returning home with aching feet wasn’t in her future.

After exiting limos, many of the girls remove their heels and lug them around. Their dresses have been designed for that extra elevation and hems are now dragging on the ground. And the dancing hasn’t even started, not that the boys look interested in dancing. If memory serves, most of them will stand around the edge of the dance floor with their hands buried in rented pants.

But dancing isn’t what terrifies these guys most. Two concerns at this stage of the evening make it likely that before the evening is over they’re going to sweat through their rented tuxes. First: how will they know when the moment is right to kiss their dates, and will they be brave enough to seize the opportunity? Second; they wonder if they have enough money to cover the cost of dinner if she orders anything more expensive than the chicken special.

The boys are too distracted to notice that their dates are struggling with their shoes. They have yet to notice that their dates even have feet.

In Defense Of The Nap

Yogi Berra once said, “I take a two hour nap from one to four.” Funny, but naps have gotten a bad rap lately, only appreciated by exhausted moms desperate for a break from fussy babies, or kindergarten teachers praying for an after-lunch moment of quiet.

I love naps. But one afternoon I neglected to close the bedroom door and was awakened by the sound of Mrs. Chatterbox talking to our son, CJ. In response to his questions I heard her say, “Dad? He’s taking a nap….No, he isn’t sick….Really, there isn’t anything wrong with him; he just likes to take naps.”

Another time my mother called after I’d dozed off. When I woke and came downstairs Mrs. C. said, “Your mother called and wanted to know where you were.”

“Did you tell her I was taking a nap?”

“I told her you’d gone on an errand.”

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

“It was the middle of the day. I didn’t want her worrying about you.”

“Is that the real reason? Are you ashamed that I enjoy an afternoon nap?” I asked.

I was prepared to remind her that I usually rise early to go swimming and generally stay awake much later than she does in the evening, and I was shamefully eager to remind her that she often falls asleep on the couch during the afternoons. She was too smart to answer, but she’d clearly given her answer.

I was prompted to ask friends and acquaintances about their napping habits. You’d have thought I’d asked a roomful of guys to raise a hand if they had a small penis. I was treated to snickers and eye-rolling, and it was suggested that I should have my testosterone level checked, as if naps were somehow unmanly. No one would admit to taking regular afternoon snoozes, not even the wizened men I swim with.

I began wondering if I belonged to a little discussed minority—closet nappers—perhaps the last bastion of acceptable prejudice. I reflected on popular sayings that maligned me and my fellow nappers, such as the shame associated with being caught napping on the job. The media delights to show us disturbing pictures of Congressmen napping in the House Chamber, or Senators dozing off at hearings. And God help the pilot unnecessarily criticized for falling asleep at the controls, or the poor bus driver who decides to catch a few winks while driving a load of screaming kids home from school. Even someone as esteemed as Oliver Wendell Holmes demeaned himself by writing, “I don’t generally feel anything until noon, then it’s time for my nap.”

After much consideration I’ve decided to make a significant change in my life. In the afternoons I will not longer be taking naps. Naps are bad. They indicate laziness and sloth. Instead, I will endorse a less condemned pursuit. From this point forward I will partake of a revered activity endorsed by many cultures around the world. Instead of a nap, I will be taking a two hour afternoon siesta.

Please don’t call between one and four.