Discovering Russian Art in Paris, Part One

It must be the time of year that has me reminiscing about strolling the streets and quays of Paris. The leafy trees, the bustling cafes, the Citroens pushing red lights, the stately Seine, the cobblestone embankments and that one thing that makes Paris Paris for me: les bouquinistes.

Never have I seen anything anywhere to compare with those extraordinary, elongated green boxes propped on the walls over the Seine and absolutely jam-packed with the treasures of the published world. Everything from used books and rare comics to old prints and out-of-date maps. If it’s been printed, you just might find it here.

And never will I forget a find I made there 23 years ago. Of all the inanimate objects that have entered my life unexpectedly, this one, obtained on the quai de Gesvres on the rive droite one fall day in 1986, is probably the nearest and dearest to me. It was a lovely Saturday in the early afternoon. The sun was sparkling and a pleasantly warm/cool breeze was wafting eastward along the northern fork of the Seine just across from Ile de la Cite. I had no particular place to go that day, and I decided to spend it rifling through old gravures and dusty novels. I was looking forward to a feast of lazy leisure.

I believe it was just the second stop of my projected day-long journey when I found myself staring at the spines of two oversized volumes, beautifully bound and embossed in thick red leather. On one I read the words, “Jar-Ptitza 1”; on the other, “Jar-Ptitza 2.” Acting quickly but not yet understanding what I was about to experience, I pulled the books off their shelf and opened them. There in all its splendor was a collection of the famous émigré Russian arts review, “Zhar Ptitsa,” or, “The Firebird.” Issued in Berlin and Paris between 1921 and 1926, this periodical is still considered a masterpiece of Russian book art, according to Susanne Marten-Finnis, who has researched the topic. I knew nothing about that as I stood that day with my back to the Theatre du Chatelet, but I knew an astonishing discovery when one landed in my hands.

Here were high-quality reproductions of works by many of the great Russian artists of the early 20th century — Natalya Goncharova, Konstantin Somov, Ivan Bilibin, Boris Kustodiyev, Boris Grigoryev, Lev Bakst, Alexander Golovin, Marc Chagall and numerous others. Herein were published many of the prominent writers of that period — Teffi, Boris Pilnyak, Vladimir Sirin (later to be Vladimir Nabokov), Boris Zaitsev, Konstantin Balmont, Nina Berberova, Alexei Remizov, Ivan Bunin and others. Here were in-depth essays on writers, painters and musicians, illustrated richly and with extraordinary taste.

John Freedman / MT An untitled color plate of a painting by Konstantin Somov, which serves as a frontispiece for issue No. 3, 1921.

Originally, or at least recently, belonging to a certain Jules Auban, whose ex libris is glued into the front pages of the bindings, the issues were in strikingly good condition. The regular paper was somewhat yellowed but in excellent shape, while the many glossy pages were somewhat timeworn but still slick and shiny. The color and black-and-white plates were all in place. Except for issue No. 1, each still had its cover.

Astonished at what I was holding, I actually closed the books and held my breath. That’s all I needed, I thought, was for the vendor to see me drooling. I can’t bargain my way out of a paper bag in English, let alone in French, which I commanded then, as now, with maddening deficiency. My tactic was to sneak up on the seller when he was busy talking to someone else. Continuing to hold the volumes tightly to my chest — all 15 pounds of them — I went on looking at other items, feigning a nonchalance I prayed would not give me away. Then the moment arrived. The vendor fell into conversation with a passerby, and I worked up the courage to interrupt him and ask the big question: “Combien pour les deux?”

Preoccupied, he looked at them for a moment, touched the top one with his hand, and said (in French), “35 francs each. 70 francs.”

I swear no sign of anything ever flickered on my face. Still hugging the books to my chest, since I surely wasn’t going to let them out of my clutches now, I fumbled with my wallet and handed the man the money. When I walked off toward the Louvre my knees were weak and a stupid smile crept onto my face. That brief transaction placing a piece of Russian cultural history into my possession had cost approximately $7. The exchange rate that fall was around 10 francs to the dollar.

Money is not the point, of course. I would have turned my pockets inside-out and given the man everything he could find there in exchange for those books. I would have taken off my socks and shoes and handed them over. The shirt off my back. My concern was that I had more bubble gum wrappers in my pockets than I did bills issued by the French government. And I could not imagine walking away without those books.

My memories of that day end there. The experience must have caused an overload. I have no idea whether I kept looking for more treasures or whether I made a beeline back to my apartment to pore over my booty. What I do know is that those books remain in my possession to this day. They warm my heart each time I pass them at the entrance to my study. They never fail to astonish me when I pull them out and leaf through their pages.

Check out the photo gallery to see some of the art work that was published so beautifully in “Zhar-Ptitsa.” Later this week I will reveal another aspect of this amazing publication’s contents.