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Beatrice Wood     2

about the other without comment and from the first sentence he tu-toied me. Marcel had the charm of an angel, his face thin with high cheekbones, he had a penetrating gaze, that saw all, forgage [[forgave]] all, because "cela n'a pas d'importance."  When he smiled it was the heavens opening, but in repose his face had a stillness as if a childhood shock had closed off some part of him

When I told him I was bored acting in an academic French repertory company, he asked why I did not paint, and told me to go home and try something non-objective. 

1 "But there is no room at home to paint."

"Come then to my studio as often as you wish, only phone first."

Only occasionaly [[occasionally]] was the answer no, which I took to mean some lady was with me.  Friends explained he considered beautiful women not as good at sex as plain ones, and that sex and love were two different things. 

From then on every few days I phoned. His studio was a large square room overlooking a narrow court, facing the back of another apartment.  A double bed, usually unmade, was in an alcove.  There were two chairs, generally holding discarded clothes, and canvasses in disorder everywhere.  Near a table was the famous glass on which he was working, while on the window sill lay scattered crackers and a package of chocolate, a permanent diets, always waiting.  After the luxury of my parents home, I found it an oasis os [[of]] space. 

The first sketch I did for him "Marriage of a friend," he had published in Alan Norton's revolutionary sheet "Rogue."  It was very, very avant garde.  Alan was married to Louise, who when they divorce married Varese. 

During those afternoons in his studio, I made innumerable drawings, which he would glance at when he returned, for often

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