The Artist and the Model
to Maximo Trueba my brother, sculptor
to Pierre Garnet my friend, sound engineer
- Potatoes... - Very good.
And beets too.
What's going on?
They're seizing homing pigeons.
What for?
They claim espionage, but I think they eat them.
Put them on. They should fit.
Thanks.
What's your name?
Meme.
Where are you from, traveling all alone?
- I'm from near Reus. - Where's that?
It's in Catalonia.
Where you going?
I don't know...
So you left once the war ended, after Franco won?
They confined me there...
Couldn't you stay?
Your parents...
Are they alive?
I don't know...
Were you in a camp?
She fled from the camp.
Where are you headed?
I don't know.
You could stay awhile,
but not here, a bit further up on the mountain.
You could sleep there if you want.
Explain it to her.
He's my husband.
His name is Marc Cros. He's a sculptor.
Do you know what a sculptor is?
He works mainly with women.
With models.
You understand, live models?
What is a model?
You have to assume positions
and pose still while the artist works.
Bare ass!
Naked?
Yes, why? Does it bother you?
You've got the sort of body he likes. I know, I know him well.
If you agree, you can stay up there in the workshop.
We would feed and pay you.
Tonight you can stay here.
And tomorrow you move up there. What do you think?
Want one?
Listen...
It's like any job.
I did it too.
- You? - Sure.
For years.
My mom would say
So they pay you for not moving or doing anything?
For God's sake,
what a mess!
Does he come
to work here often?
Nobody has set a foot in here since the war began...!
Poor thing has a good one coming...
Come on, girl,
bring your things.
You can move in here, though when it gets hot,
the stables are your best bet down below.
And, watch it, when you tidy up!
He knows where he keeps every single piece of rubbish.
If you touch or move a thing, he'll fly into a rage.
He thrives on disorder.
I've been chewed out more than once
for butting in where I didn't belong.
Look at this well,
the water is delicious.
Don't worry; he's a good man,
though an artist.
Good morning.
Morning.
I brought apples.
My wife sent you that.
Stand there.
You can get undressed.
Turn around, turn around.
Lift your arm above your head.
Higher, higher, higher.
Yes, like that.
Clasp your hands, join them well...
Don't look at me, don't look at me.
Good.
Lower your arms.
Sit down.
Lean over.
Turn around... with...
your back turned... yes...
No, not this.
I can't get it...
Is it my fault?
Of course not.
What must the sculpture be like?
What do you mean?
What will its name be? What will it look like?
How do I know? I have no idea. What do you want me to say?
Back to work, eh?
So it seems... don't worry.
Don't worry, it's Emile. He's used to it.
Here, I caught a few.
Are they thrushes?
Be careful.
I set traps in the cemetery.
Nobody looks there.
- Well, good luck. - Thanks.
When will you need me?
I just began.
- Let me know. - Okay.
Bye, Emile.
It's Emile,
he works in marble.
He has a workshop below, near the cemetery.
That explains the thrushes.
He also helps me with the pointing.
Pointing?
Yes, pointing, to pass plaster into stone.
Okay, let's continue.
That's good.
London here...
you're listening to our 7th news bulletin.
In northeast Stalingrad...
How's the girl?
Fine, fine.
Does she pose well?
She does what she can.
Hadn't had that happen in a while.
She's a country girl. She hasn't a clue about sculpting.
So, I wasn't wrong?
You like her body?
Yeah, it's not bad.
Better than mine at her age?
Not a chance!
They don't make bodies like yours anymore.
Her breasts are like small pyramids. That's good.
Why don't you ask her over for dinner from time to time?
We'll see.
Her family may have no news.
That's possible.
Do you think they're dead?
That's also possible.
They arrested her.
They put her in a camp.
She's used to silence.
Do you think she has enough clothes?
I mostly see her naked...
Here...
You... now you...
You choose.
You lost! You have to...
You've got to! Come on!
You have to tell her!
What do you want?
Why are you circling me? Cat got your tongue?
Is it true what they say?
What are they saying?
That a naked girl's up there...
Who says that?
Everybody.
Yes, it's true,
but she's not naked all the time. She's a model. Know what that is?
Artists have the right to see women naked. Artists and doctors.
Mr. Cros, for instance, needs to see women that way in order to work.
What about priests?
What about them?
Do they have the right to see women naked?
What? What a thing to say! Priests, heavens no!
Artists need to see women to make beautiful pictures and sculptures.
And doctors must see women in order to cure them.
What could priests do?
Don't give it a second thought. Come on, let's go.
Come, let's go, Henri!
Come on, let's go!
Come, let's go, Henri!
And why are you here?
Go home, it's late.
I love that!
You can't invent this light...
One must take advantage...
Out here, everything moves...
Even the light moves... How do you capture all that?
You see all those leaves?
There are millions... and no two are alike.
You could live 150 lives and barely have time
to get a glimpse.
That's why you need an idea.
You must find your idea!
If not, it's a waste of time. That's all, a waste.
How do you find an idea?
If I only knew!
How long does it last?
What?
This work.
How long will it take you to finish?
Not a clue! I haven't found the idea yet.
The idea! It can take you 15 years to find it.
And after this one, will you do more?
We'll see.
Do you think the war will end soon?
Let's hope so.
Any idea when?
You ask the dumbest things!
I have a sculpture to complete. With or without a war.
And who knows if I'll succeed.
Time seems to fly faster than it used to.
For me, every hour counts. Every minute!
You understand?
Do you even care who wins the war?
Why do you ask me that?
No reason.
Men are savages.
Nothing can be expected of us.
In 1918, we thought it would be the last war,
and you see...
You, yourself,
have seen what happened in Spain.
And, for what, can you answer that?
So, the best we can do is to remain
calm in a small corner
eating some potatoes.
While there's some left.
How does it feel to pose naked?
Nothing special. You get used to it right away.
Did you like it?
I did and I was in demand too. I posed for tons of artists.
Once I posed for an entire class.
- Were they all men? - Yes.
No... there were women too.
Do men pose naked too?
Of course.
Do they pose naked with naked women?
Sure sometimes, why not?
Why do you ask?
You're not thinking of posing naked too, are you?
Yeah, me posing...
I have nothing better to do!
Come, I want to show you something.
- What? - Come.
Look at this.
It's nice...
Nice?
That's all you can say about it?
Christ, look again! Observe the way one should observe.
Learn to look at things
with attention.
It's the best drawing in the world.
There's none better.
- Did you do it? - No, no, of course not.
I Wish I had.
No, Rembrandt did it, a Dutchman.
It was done with the tip of a rod,
carved and dipped in ink.
It's a masterpiece.
A masterpiece with no pretenses of being a masterpiece.
Observe the tenderness
of the scene.
The position of the child's arms
enables you to feel its footsteps...
its insecurity and doubt...
And even though you don't see its face,
you can feel its joy.
Maybe they're its first steps...
Its first steps...
Right,
that's what I was saying...
Look at the young girl's arm,
drawn in apparent haste and little attention to detail, but who cares,
what matters is the love
she feels for the child.
She holds the baby and notice
how she's about to let it go.
- It must be its older sister. - Must be,
but
look carefully,
even though her back is turned, from the angle of her back
and head
you can feel her attention
focused on the child,
who laughs
excitedly
before it begins to walk.
How is such wisdom possible?
And this is the mother?
Yes, yes, undoubtedly.
She's used to this. This isn't her first time.
She's standing nearby
to intervene if necessary.
Notice her heavy clothing,
it's coarse,
dirty perhaps.
And this is the father...
He just got home from work
and they want him to see the baby take its first steps.
Right.
And this, who is she?
A neighbor who happens to be passing,
and observes the scene.
Do you feel the weight of the bucket,
judging from the position of her left arm?
Yeah, you're right.
Rembrandt uses her...
to recreate that instant, to capture a slice of life,
something as simple as life.
How long do you think it took him?
Oh, four or five minutes, at full speed.
It's almost a photograph, a snapshot... but time doesn't matter here.
It's the idea,
he had the idea...
He had the idea.
Damn, did he ever have it!
Don't be afraid.
I will help you.
Merce!
Coming!
You eat too much bread...
I was hungry.
Did you drink wine?
A little, yes.
Good, let's work.
- Shall I pose like yesterday? - Yes, then we'll see.
Move your left foot forward a bit.
And don't move!
I wasn't moving, it's just that I have a cramp...
What's wrong today? You can't stop moving!
There's someone...
Where?
Out there...
What's going on?
You'll see...
What are you doing?
Butt out, I'll handle this!
What are you doing, you shameless louts?
Have you lost your mind? They're only children!
If you come back here again, I'll fill your butts with buckshot.
Who is that?
Come on.
Let me explain.
Where in Perpignan?
In the Metropole garage.
I joined the underground instead of serving in Germany.
I had a friend who belonged.
Have you fought yet?
Yes.
And who was the other one?
An American.
He parachuted to join us, but they spotted us.
Is it serious?
I don't know.
We can't take him to a doctor. It'd be too risky.
Could we hide him here a bit?
What do you mean here?
I could take care of him until he heals.
Are you in this too?
What are you doing?
I know the mountain trails well.
I help people cross over.
To Spain?
Yes, at night.
- Jews? - And others.
That's why your legs look like that?
Can he stay a few days?
And all I wanted to do was settle down and work!
Now I'm harboring fugitives.
- And if they find us? - No reason why they should.
They always find out! Never fails!
I better go. I'll find another place
to hide. - Where will you go?
I know a cave near here.
- You won't make it. - I will.
I'll go with you.
You abandon me?
Now what...?
It's the Germans!
Happy to see you, my friend.
What a surprise...
I was stationed in Narbonne and figured that...
Well, it's a surprise, a splendid surprise...
Allow me to introduce my friend Werner Bodenhofer,
Professor of Art history at the University of Munich...
Merce, my model...
Enchanted...
- And... - Pierre.
Pierre, my assistant.
Miss... Sir...
Are you injured?
He fell...
He was almost crushed by a block of marble...
and became the first victim
of my senile propensity to monumentalism.
- Sit, Werner. - Are you sure it's no bother?
Not at all. Normally, when I work,
interruptions are welcome.
People always disturb a man like you.
Not this time.
I bet you can't guess
what my friend Werner is carrying inside.
He's carrying me. He's carrying my life.
I worked on it for years.
Over 400 pages!
Four hundred pages for a life where nothing happens.
Maybe nothing happens,
but there are still many things I'd like to know.
There's nothing to know.
I'm trying to work, but I'm blocked.
That's all.
Well...
So you like Alfred Jarry?
I do too, but he's not very well known in Germany.
Faustroll's Gestures & Opinions.
What are these? Are they yours?
No, they're on loan.
Andre Gide's Prometheus Badly Chained!
Dedicated to Stuart Merrill...
Do you know Gide is, sadly enough, prohibited in Germany?
Marcel Proust too.
They even burn his books.
- Have you read Gide? - No, but I intend to.
Excuse me...
Could I see your last work?
My last work? There it is. There you have it. That's it...
that one and that one.
As many as you want. That's all.
But...
all these sketches... You've worked hard.
That's the problem... I've only got sketches!
I have sketches galore...
What's missing is what I see in my dreams.
But when I wake up, it's gone. And what's gone is what I need...
Understand, dear Werner?
Of course.
May I take pictures with your consent?
No, no photos... You can't take photos of this. It's only work.
Sketches are nothing!
But let me take one so the visit was not in vain.
No, this cannot be published. It can't be shown in a book.
Sorry, Werner, forgive me...
What a pity... it's beautiful.
It's all work.
And work shouldn't be shown.
Only the result matters.
No, no, no...
For me, it's important to understand the process.
To understand how you can arrive at a creation from this...
till the final work.
The body of a woman...
I'm guessing it's a woman, am I right?
No, you're right...
It's a woman's body.
But this time,
it's different.
I wish this woman were
like a rock...
Like a plant from the earth...
Like a tree...
like the sea.
An emanation, straight from nature.
I've been searching for it all my life.
Without achieving it?
No, never, never...
You always speak of balance,
the wholeness of forms,
of evidence...
What do they mean
all these words?
I don't work with words, Werner.
What I know
is that you have to find balance,
so you can destroy it later.
Like when you fling a stone into the water.
As wholeness goes...
I know
a tree...
It has grown inside a stone.
It's violent, but wondrous.
Nature triumphs...
always.
Beauty reveals itself
in places
that seem impossible.
Bombed villages
and budding trees...
Nature.
I would like to stay longer,
but I must leave.
I have many things to do before we're transferred.
- You're leaving France? - Yes.
In four days.
To the Russian front.
It's hard there...
Very.
Especially since Stalingrad...
I'd like to finish the book before.
- Understand? - Yes, before I die.
You...
OI' me.
I'll keep working as I can.
But it's not easy.
Writing about a French artist is not well regarded nowadays.
Yeah...
I even have to hide when I write.
That bad?
I feel like I won't see him again.
- Is he really writing a book? - Yes.
So then it's true that you're very well known, and even abroad!
Yes, and you may even appear in the book as well.
At least he took your picture.
Me?
I don't think I'd like it. Do you know many Germans?
No, but many Germans know me.
So, he can stay then?
Another wasted day!
I ordered it two years ago. Two years!
Yeah, they sure took their sweet time.
Problem is nobody wants to work anymore.
Young people are in jail
or who-knows-where.
A drop of rosé?
Can't say no to that.
Think it'll Work?
It looks perfect as is.
It's a pity to spoil it.
It'll have to do.
To you!
To us.
You're thinner.
Me?
It's all that coming and going in the mountain.
Your body changes.
It's the union between
the hip and the upper thigh. Something's off.
It's not right.
Stop moving!
How am I supposed to work if you can't stop fidgeting?
What's on your legs?
It's bramble.
What bramble?
When I walk in the garden... It's full of bramble.
In the garden, ha!
Who cares about bramble!
How will I recover every hour that I lose because of you?
And those sun spots? You have blisters!
Who can work like this!
Listen up.
Since I'm paying you
let it be for something!
Get back in position.
Which position?
Like you were a moment ago.
- Elbow resting on thigh. - This one?
Yes, like that.
Lift your head some.
No, less... less.
That's it, good.
Don't move.
That's good.
Crickets stay underground four or five years.
They're larvae then.
When spring arrives, they come out and begin to sing.
They sing all summer long.
Father, why do they sing?
They sing the glory of our Lord, dear.
Like birds do.
- Why don't fish sing? - And later in fall,
when the cold arrives,
the cricket lays the eggs which remain underground
and it dies. That's how the story ends.
Let's go.
What's that? May I see?
- Shame on you. - Father, it was Henri.
He's gonna be a painter when he grows up.
A painter?
So he can watch naked women all day!
That's your excuse? Today's walk is now an hour longer.
Come, step on it!
One-two! One-two! One-two!
I'm going to keep this for him, he's sleeping now.
Did your wife have a nice body?
The prettiest I've ever seen.
She'd take off her clothes
and it was all there.
You just had to mold her.
All the artists wanted her, Matisse, Derain.
I was lucky she stayed with me.
Doesn't she ever come up?
- Rarely. - Why?
Too many memories,
many things.
Thank her for everything.
The shoes, the clothes...
Are you sleepy?
You should get some shut-eye.
It's very hot.
Could you lend him some money?
Lend who money?
Pierre, he doesn't have a cent.
He can't even buy bread.
He could sell his books!
I can't sell them.
- Why not? - They're sacred.
Sacred? What do you mean sacred?
They belonged to the American buried above.
- He parachuted with them? - Yes.
That shows he loved Literature.
I barely knew him for an hour.
He said: If anything happens, keep them.
He died shortly after.
So I'll keep them forever. They're sacred.
Thanks.
He'll leave tomorrow.
Or the day after.
So, you're better?
I've healed or almost have.
I'll go with him to Spain.
I've never known how to make letters well.
You just have to learn.
Once you know, it's easy.
You should start preparing mine...
When do I start this one?
Soon.
I'll go with him to the border.
I'll be back in the morning.
How can I thank you?
Don't waste time...
See you tomorrow.
Good luck...
Will you have the coffee here or outside?
Here, here.
That's breathtaking.
I'm certain she'll come back.
Have you seen your legs?
I came back as fast as I could.
Am I too late?
Go sleep a little.
Shall we work?
Just what I needed...
Shall we stop?
Have we finished?
Shall I get dressed?
What's wrong?
Are you leaving?
Did it last long?
Yes...
ten minutes...
Did you tell her?
No.
Did she notice?
I don't think so.
Have you seen other men naked?
Yes.
Many?
Three.
I'll tell you a secret.
Okay.
There are two proofs that God exists.
The first and most important,
is the woman's body.
Genesis and all that is malarkey.
Can you imagine God creating man?
There's no need to make God look like a fool.
First, He created the heavens,
He created earth,
He created the oceans,
He created the seas and the rivers,
He created plants,
and animals, birds, fish...
All this beauty...
paradise...
And then he thought of
creating a being
for Himself,
a beautiful creature, a perfect one,
one to share the world with.
A being to keep him company throughout eternity,
unending,
and, probably boring.
Someone to embrace in winter
and whose skin could be caressed in summer.
He created woman
and called her Eve.
What about Adam?
Wait...
God
and Eve
had a son and they called him Adam.
He only forbid them one thing. He forbid Adam
from sleeping with his mother.
But He caught them
in the middle of...
Well...
He caught them...
That was the original sin.
That's why God abandoned us,
He realized He couldn't count on us,
or that we weren't worthy of His trust
and He banished them from Paradise.
That's why you only do naked women?
Probably.
We, men, are no more than an accident, accessories.
Woman, however, is the first form.
The essential...
form.
So, I'm Eve.
You understand nothing!
And the second proof?
Of what?
That God exists?
Oil.
Olive oil.
Why all the celebrating?
It's for the Russians. They're advancing.
And in Italy, the Americans are near Rome.
So, it's finished?
Are you sure?
Yes.
Then, may I leave now?
When do you want to go?
You must be the one to say so.
Go whenever you want.
It looks nothing like me.
Why should it look like you?
All this time you thought I was making a portrait of you?
To get a portrait, there must be a resemblance, you must copy.
But we, when we require a model, it's for...
another reason.
As my friend Cézanne used to say, it's so that...
We can consult nature.
It seems the war will end soon.
The Germans have begun their retreat.
You must be happy.
Aren't you?
Of course I am.
The underground is growing.
As are the arrests.
It looks like they've bombed Rome.
Those who dropped bombs
must've ignored Michaelangelo's existence.
What will you do
once the war ends?
I don't know.
Do you think I could find
work as a model somewhere?
Of course you could.
I'll write a letter
for my friends in Marseilles.
Matisse...
will surely like you.
And you, where will you go?
Where do you want me to go?
I'll soon be visiting the Lord Himself.
I'll make His portrait,
just for you and send it to you.
When one begins to understand things, it's time to move on.
That one's always together, there... Something doesn't fit...
Well...
One must flee from perfection...
It's deadly...
But, it holds...
it remains...
Morning, a letter for Madame Cros.
- Thanks. - Bye.
Madame, a letter for you!
My sister's written.
- What does she say? - She's not well.
Where is she now?
In Bordeaux.
She has no news from my nephew.
Why don't you go and see her?
You don't mind?
No, besides Maria's here.
Here's what I owe you
and your letter.
Thank you.
So, you're off to Marseilles?
Yes.
Can I ask you a favor?
Of course. What?
Can I take the bike?
Marseille by bike?
Why, is it very far?
Take it.
Thanks.
Lea is headed for Narbonne.
It's halfway... she could take you.
When the war ends, I'll come to visit you.
I hope so.
Be very careful.
You've seen there are checkpoints everywhere.
When an army's been defeated, they're especially dangerous.
Don't worry, I'll take the side roads.
Many thanks...
Thank you.
You're so beautiful...
You're
the beautiful one, dear...
So, you'll continue working on it...
Now that it's outside, I'll retouch it here and there...
- I'll be here early tomorrow. - She'll be waiting.
Come, we'll be back tomorrow.
Bye, boys.
- Till tomorrow. - See you, thanks.