A Brush With Greatness

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Added: Wed Jul 30th 11:51am
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The following is an excerpt from Ruth Hamilton's autobiography, "The Hamilton Saga." She wrote the book at age 90.  In the coming weeks, GrowingBolder.com will publish Ruth's description of her trip to Europe in the summer of 1937. As the people of the continent braced for the prospect of war, she was stunned how little her fellow Americans knew about the fear and intimidation that Europeans were dealing with.

But before she headed to Hitler's Germany, she visited with relatives in Denmark. In this excerpt, she has just taken a ferry to Copenhagen and she discovers that the son of one of her idols is in town.

I was up early the next morning and had a great breakfast with real bread, bacon, and eggs and to sightsee.  A sightseeing bus went around the city and the museums, churches, schools and parks and pointed out places that I would visit later.  The homes were all so well taken care of, a few needing paint, but lawns all looked as though cared for by the same gardener.  I visited with a lot of strangers and two days went quickly. 

Then the third day, I was in the lobby as it rained and so I perused the Daily Arvisen newspaper and could read a lot of it.  I nearly dropped off my chair when I saw the name Gauguin -- me the Paul Gauguin gal who had just returned from the Glypotek Museum thrilling over numerous original Gauguins, very early ones before he fled to the South Seas, his wood carvings and a few early ones from Tahiti.  One of which I sketched to show Billy, my announcer.  It was Tehura, Paul’s girl wife and what a story that is.  And also at the Public bath and swimming pool was a porcelain horse with a mermaid and I thought the guide had said Gauguin.  Also outside the National Museum was a huge nude called the Boxer and later I discovered was Jean’s, who was the sculptor son of Paul’s.

I hastened to the desk and the clerk was not busy and I, breathless, was holding the travel notice of Emil Gauguin on a train on a trip to the U.S. The nice clerk enjoyed my glee and took the paper, read the item and answered my question, “Is he any relation to Paul Gauguin?” “Yes, it is a son, an engineer. There is another one here, Jean, a sculptor.”

My ears were ten feet long and I fairly shrieked, “I wonder if I could ever meet him?” And I did in a flash when the clerk said, “Call him.” And he took a phone book, and began dialing. I was in a dream for sure -- Paul Gauguin’s son here? I knew he had five children and I could quote Paul’s history. But a real live son? The clerk spoke in Danish to Jean that I understood and there I was talking to a famous son. In Danish, I began to say I was such a fan of his father (which was the wrong thing to say) and raved over Paul’s Glypotek Museum collection.

Then the poor dear got his say and “Where are staying? And may I come tomorrow evening for a visit?” I had said that I wanted to interview him for my radio program in the fall.  It sounded like I was pretending to be a big shot, which I was far away from, and I felt terrible after I hung up confirming he would call at seven.

The clerk was so excited after hearing my comments and my fond admiration for the famous artist who had deserted his Danish wife and children to master his art in Polynesia.  He eyed me suddenly like I was a celebrity.  I was limp and stood like a zombie answering the clerk’s questions about my country and then I went to bed.

Sleep was far away as I kept my book knowledge going about the exciting life of his father and what to talk about.  A student had given me Irving Stone’s best seller, “Lust for Life” about Van Gogh and Paul that I read on the Berengaria. (In a few years I would meet the famous author, Stone, in Hollywood).

The next day I was up early and rain again so I did little venturing out. I paced the lobby and visited with strangers who were dull, wrote letters and looked at my watch a hundred times for the key number seven.  I dined in the pub, that took time, and soon I was in the lobby with rare emotions.

It was full of people and cigar smoke, women smoking large black ones and the mist so deep one could hardly see across the room.  At exactly 7 o’clock there he was. A tall slim man in a long ill fitting black coat, a dark slouched hat, over a narrow distinguished face with a slightly crooked nose that held gold-rimmed glasses.  He stood for a few moments looking over the lobby and saw this American so distinguishable way back then from clothing and especially stockings and shoes.  In a second, he spied me in my beige tweed suit.  Over he came, stood straight with his six feet height, doffed his old hat, bowed low and said, “I am the son of the famous painter.”  Again I was dead speechless and so nervous. I took his hard for a shake and what a strong one it was. 

“How wonderful to meet you.  I am an admirer of your father.” Again a very wrong thing to say but I did not know it then.  We sat for a minute, and as the smoke and din was too much he commanded, "Come with me to my Shooting Club and we will have a good dinner. I am hungry and we shall have a real Danish meal.” I mumbled that I had eaten but he did not hear as he led me out to the taxi stand. 

What elegance was his club, a la very British, macho and expensive. I intended to pay my way as in Sweden because Depression was everywhere and I did not want any favors. He ordered the proper wines and courses that I was too excited to remember. I was in dreamland again with another unusual adventure. He was so gracious and spoke a little English. I told about many books I had read about his father.  Then came, “I saw my father only a few weeks when I was very little and never talked with him, ever. I hate him for what he did to my mother. We suffered as children when he left to go to Tahiti and I have never seen any of his works.”

I was aghast and, “Not been to the Glyoptek?” “No, and I never shall.  He overshadows me and I will never be famous.”

His anger raged on after more wine and when I mentioned Tehura, the famous painting of his father’s child wife, he bristled.  “I have no idea how many half brothers and sisters I have running around the South Seas.” And he laughed loudly. 

The waiters I noticed lingered close to hear our talk.  I told of the Boston Art Museum owning Paul’s last and most priceless oil he did when nearly blind and poverty stricken.  The canvas is pieced and a tiny bit looks like burlap when examined closely as I did on a visit.  It is called “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” He was delighted to hear that and he beamed.

He knew about the French man who subsidized Paul for years. Then “he could not get to Papete fast enough to get everything from the shack.  Our family never saw one painting.  But do you know what happened to that swindler?” Of course, I did not and said, “Please tell.” “Well, first let me say how wonderful to know that painting is in Boston. He must have sold it to get some of his lending money back.  And want to hear how he ended up?” “Of course,” and wished to add, “hurray!”

Slowly it came with his eyes sparkling as thought a great revenge satisfied.  “One day he was picking apples and fell from a ladder and broke his neck.” And did Jean laugh.  I held my breath recorded every word.  This would be a great story and Billy, my poet, would be flabbergasted that I met a son of his most favorite artist. 

Jean’s hate was suddenly transferred from his father to the father’s benefactor, and I turned the subject to “The Moon and Sixpence,” by Somerset Maughm, a novel about Gauguin.  Yes, he had read it but his father died from syphilis not leprosy as in the book.  “I usually read the last chapter first in any book and if I like it I read.”

Then, as if he were doomed, “I’ll never be famous because he overshadows me.”  I tried to comfort him, me the novice art critic, “When I get home I shall surely tell about meeting you and why don’t you write a book?” He frowned, "Nobody would read it.”

So I turned to other subjects.  “Tell me about yourself.” And he began when I asked about a big scar on his check.  “I was a terrible child and reckless and one day when very little I slid down a stair banister with a pencil in my mouth and fell.  I did a lot of silly things, hated school, ran away many times.  We lived for a long time with my grandparents in Copenhagen. Grandpa was a Lutheran preacher and very strict. I loved to carve and build things, became a cabinet maker after a seaman’s journey to South America where I tried to find relatives on the Gauguin side and did.”

I quizzed and he answered. “I am employed at Bing and Grondle’s porcelain factory and have a good salary. I was the first sculptor to practice with porcelain over clay. Yes, am married, the second time.  My wife is very young. We have a little girl. My son by the first is in Paris studying architecture.”

I told about the lovely sculptures of his that I had seen and quizzed about the tall Boxer on the Museum grounds. “Who was your model?” “I was.,” and he rubbed his hands with glee. “Many of my pieces, especially fountain, are now in Paris, Norway and here.” I mentioned a fountain with mermaids in AAlberg that I saw. Was he happy! “Yes, indeed, it is mine.” The porcelain horse at the public swimming place he was not happy about, one of his first and it is badly cracked.

My curiosity grew in leaps and bounds and I wanted to hurry back to every museum to see more of Paul Gauguin. Jean Rene’ surely was a clone of his dad from his marriages and adventures. Later I would meet him and a concert pianist (who was his mistress, I heard) at his apartment and so lovey-dovey they were. And still he had not seen one painting of Paul’s. Then I was in Copenhagen when his company gave a huge tribute to Jean’s 25 years of service and an exhibit but all were so costly I dared not think of owning anything of his. He had mellowed a little and spoke more kindly about Paul. Age sure does mellow everyone.

I told him about my meeting with the famous Swedish sculptor Karl Milles and what I saw at his studio.  Jean was fascinated as he admired Milles very much.  When Count Hamilton came into the conversation he roared and thought I was a genius to get the five Coats-of-Arms for 25 dollars. The time was getting late and I was tired but did not want a minute to stop and more wine came. I sipped and had more coffee but he was feeling great and then I said again out of the blue, "Why don’t you write your autobiography? That way the world will know you and I shall do my best to get it published in my country.” “Oh no. My father will always overshadow me.”

I noticed the check when it came and asked for it autographed  It was a costly meal. The taxi came and later, to my hotel came an invitation to visit him at his studio in the morning. I scribbled the address.  What a night! A book of information for me. I slept like a log after such a meal, wine and talk. 

Coming next week, Ruth gets a special treat -- she gets to watch Jean at work in his studio.