Duchamp, Man Ray & Me

Alan Swyer
November 2022

“Je vous ecoute,” a voice announced over the phone many years ago, though the memory remains fresh to this day.

“Monsieur le Professeur,” I replied, exaggerating my mild American accent while responding in French. “I would really like the opportunity to come in and see you.”

“Pourquoi?”

“To explain why I missed the oral exam,” I answered in French.

“Ca ne peut pas se faire maintenant?”

“I would much rather do it face-to-face. S’il vous plait.”

“Attendez. Vous n’etes pas francais?”

“Je suis americain,” I explained. “From New Jersey.”

“Demain matin a dix heures,” grumbled the Professor, setting the time at 10 the next morning. “Et sans faute,” he added, meaning without fail this time.

It was the Spring of 1967, and I can still remember being uncharacteristically nervous, and for good reason. The final exam I’d missed was for a full-year course in modern art, not just one semester as in the U.S. Worse, knowing that each lecture had a stenographer in attendance, which meant that to study for the exam one could purchase a polycopie – a bound transcription of the lectures – I had never made an attempt to appear in class even once.

It was Paris that was my classroom. In what would prove to be the final days of that magnificent city having a small town feel, there were rarely lines at the countless museums,
including the Louvre. Nor were there wait times at the ever-changing array of special exhibitions, or even the slightest difficulty entering Notre Dame, which was conveniently around the corner from my girlfriend’s family’s apartment on Quai Aux Fleurs.

Thanks to my student card I was a constant visitor at the Jeu de Paume, the Musee d’Art Moderne, the Musee du Luxembourg, the Musee Marmottan-Monet, the Musee National Gustave Moreau, and galleries galore, plus of course the Louvre.

Then there were the French art books I devoured while seated in the Jardin du Luxembourg or Le Select, especially those by Elie Faure, whose history of modern art I’d seen Belmondo read aloud in Godard’s “Pierrot Le Fou,” and cited by Henry Miller.

Yet my immersion in the world of art did little to negate the reality that I had never once set eyes on the professor. That meant that upon arriving at the Musee d’Art Moderne, where he was Director, I was fully capable of walking right past him if by chance he was in the vicinity of the entrance, or ambling down the hall.

Fortunately, that proved not to be the case. After explaining the reason for my visit to the guard overseeing the administrative offices, I reached my destination, then announced my arrival to the professor’s secretary.

A wait ensued before I was led into an office filled with affiches – posters – of exhibitions through the years, as well as countless objets d’art and photos.

“Vous comprenez” said the Professor, who could have passed for the twin brother of the actor Maurice Ronet, “that if you were French you would not have this opportunity at all?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Oui, Monsieur le Professor,” he corrected.

“Oui, Monsieur le Professor.”

“Alors la verite, si’l vous plait,” studying me in a way that made it clear the my face was no more familiar to him than his was to me. “How in the world,” he went on in French, “did
you manage to miss the exam?”

“Ca ne va pas vous plaire,” I responded, no longer making an effort to overdo my
American accent. “In fact you won’t like it at all.”

“Dites-moi.”

“I overslept.”

“And if I ask why?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Allons voir,” said the Professor, with a meaning that was somewhere between “We’ll see” and “Try me.”

“I got home yesterday afternoon with a plan of doing nothing but studying.”

“Et?”

“There were urgent messages from my girlfriend.”

“A propos de?”

“Meeting her and her family. I tried to explain that the timing was awful, but she insisted.”

“So you went?”

I nodded.

“Ou ca? Where did you go?”

“Well,” I said with almost apologetically, “there was a tribute last night for Man Ray.”

“Et vous etiez la?”

“First we were part of a small group invited to have drinks with him and Marcel Duchamp.”

The Professor took a deep breath. “And you were invited?”

“My girlfriend’s stepfather was.”

“But you were included?”

Again I nodded.

“And then you went to the tribute?” he asked.

Once more I nodded. The Professor fiddled momentarily with a statuette on his desk while studying me. “How is it that an American speaks another language,” he then asked in French.

“As opposed to playing softball in the Bois de Boulogne and reading the Herald Tribune?”

“C’est moi qui pose des questions,” the Professor said curtly, making it clear he was in charge.

“Largely it’s my girlfriend, who insists I speak to her only in French. Plus it’s the other boxers.”

“The what?” he asked in French.

“I’m on the Paris University boxing team.”

“Comment ca?”

“It was a way to make friends, and especially to be able to take a swim and a shower six days a week since I’m living in a place with a communal bathtub.”

“And what do you do for money while living here?”

“Truthfully?”

“Oui.”

“I’m the only impoverished kid in Paris with an expense account.”

“Comment ca se fait?”

“I’m writing the Paris section of a travel guide for the youth market for a publisher called Simon & Schuster.”

“C’est vrai?”

“Want to see my credentials?”

The Professor shook his head. “Parlons d’hier soir,” he said. “About the tribute, what language was it in?”

“Half in French and half in English. Anyone who only spoke one or the other was probably lost.”

“And what was the format?”

“There was a moderator,” I replied. “But mainly it was a back-and-forth between Man Ray and Duchamp.”

“Au sujet de?”

“Chess. Women. Art. ‘Jules Et Jim’ –“

“Pourquoi ‘Jules Et Jim’?” asked the Professor.

“Duchamp acknowledged that one of the characters was based on him.”

The Professor smiled. “Vous aimez le film?”

“Bien sur,” I said. “And the novel it’s based on.”

“Did you know,” wondered the Professor, “that Henri-Pierre Roche was an art critic?”

“And, if rumors are true,” I added, “occasionally a spy.”

This time it was the Professor who nodded. Then he looked at me quizzically. “What does your girlfriend’s stepfather do?”

“He’s the managing editor of a magazine called ‘Encounter’,” I said, not knowing at that point that the publication’s funding was largely provided by the CIA. “But may I ask you a question?”

“Allez y.”

“I’m assuming you’re, for want of a better word, a fan of both Man Ray and Duchamp.”

“Absolument.”

“Then why didn’t you attend?”

“Franchement? I could not get a ticket. But why is Man Ray – or even more to the point, Duchamp – important to you?”

“Though this may come off as disloyal, even more than Picasso, to me Duchamp is the most important artist of the 20th Century.”

“Why disloyal?”

“Picasso’s son is a friend of mine.”

“Comment ca?” asked the Professor.

“Claude and my girlfriend have been friends forever. And Chantal, Marie-Christine’s mother, is a close friend of his mom.”

“You know Francoise Gilot?”

Once again it was my turn to nod. “But not as well as I know Claude.”

“Alors dites-moi,” said the Professor. “In your opinion, why Duchamp more than Picasso?”

“He challenged the notion of what is art.”

“Continuez.”

“Instead of someone like Matisse, whose work I love, appealing to the eye –“

“Oui?”

“Duchamp wanted to serve – or I guess challenge – the mind. Who else would have had the audacity to sign a urinal R. Mutt and call it art?”

Despite the seriousness of the meeting, I found myself starting to giggle. When I tried to hold it back, it turned into a fit of laughter, seemingly stunning the Professor.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y’a?” he demanded. “What is so funny?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Here I am talking about Man Ray, Duchamp, Picasso, when before I got to Paris the most famous person I’d ever met was Phil Rizzuto.”

“Qui?”

“Nobody you ever heard of.”

The Professor stared into space momentarily before speaking. “About Duchamp’s readymades,” he then said. “I completely agree. But you still didn’t tell me how or why you
slept through the exam.”

I must have winced, because the Professor laughed. “It’s just a question, not an interrogation.”

“After the event, we went down to Les Halles for a bite.”

“Qui ca?”

“Man Ray, Duchamp, and my girlfriend’s family.”

“Et vous?”

“And me.”

“Personne d’autre?”

“Only us.”

“Et ca a dure combien de temps?”

“We stayed there eating soupe a l’oignon and drinking wine until roughly six in the morning.”

“Et puis?”

“I foolishly thought I would take a nap for an hour or so. But –“

“Oui?”

“Guess who didn’t wake up.”

Our conversation was interrupted when into the office stepped his secretary. “Je m’excuse,” she said to the Professor, “mais vous avez un autre rendezvous.”

“I’m sorry,” the Professor said, turning toward me, “but I must go.”

“What about my exam?” I asked.

“Vous blaguez?” he said with a laugh, which was the French equivalent of “Are you kidding?”

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Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel ‘The Beard’ was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.