By Lipton, Eunice; Manet, Édouard; Meurent, Victorine; Lipton, Eunice; Meurent, Victorine; Manet, Édouard
Eunice Lipton used to be a fledging paintings historian while she first turned intrigued through Victorine Meurent, the nineteenth-century version who seemed in Edouard Manet's most renowned work, in basic terms to fade from background in a haze of degrading rumour. yet had this daring and lively attractiveness relatively descended into prostitution, drunkenness, and early death-or did her lifestyles, hidden from historical past, take a distinct direction 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
His musing and sadness touched me and made me feel safe. He was smart, too-I mean , he'd gone to Harvard and some Gentile prep school-and I think somewhere I wanted company, rather like what my father had provided. I thought we'd talk about books. And he was a writer, he said. Years later, feminists would say about those pre32 MY MAMA TOLD ME ... " Let's say I wanted to be a writer and didn't know it. " At the High School of Music and Art, where I went to school, I took no special writing or literature classes.
I was fascinated by this mixture of trai ts-tha t on the one hand each woman coveted the conventionally masculine persona of artist, but on the other, each agreed to the typically feminine role of object. Women traditionally were models and muses, wives and mothers, not artists and geniuses. I 38 VOILA VICTORINE thought it would be fascinating to watch two such competing impulses in the same woman and in women of different classes. Morisot (1841-1895) was an obvious choice, despite the fact that I didn't much like her work.
I'd doze fitfully, wake with a start, sweating and anxious, filled with rage toward everybody but especially toward my mother. She didn't want me to write; she didn't want me to do anything . I was sure of it. She'd come home from work at five-thirty-she was a bookkeeper in the fur district-and brush past me, hardly noticing. For supper she'd make me and David meat cooked to some shade of gray in the portable broiler and vegetables rendered lifeless by the pressure cooker. In the evening she'd sit in the kitchen with her girlfriends just on the other side of a cardboard divider from my desk.
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