be the best in their field, by sheer force of willpower, hard work, and dedicated passion. He liked to remind his children that he had achieved his success step by step. He had climbed the ladder one rung at a time and had never fallen into the trap of going after what was easiest, nor had he been swayed by fads or trends, or the social life and gossip that ended up blinding even the best.
He had first exhibited his work at the high school in Casablanca where he’d taught. He’d had a hard time convincing the principal, but he’d known how to speak to him. The principal was an old friend from college, a man who held good social standing. He had married according to his parents’ wishes, his two children attended the French Mission, he spent his holidays in the south of Spain, and he aspired to build a house on credit. His name was Chaâbi, and he’d been nicknamed “Pop”—short for “popular.” A week after the painter had talked to him about having his work exhibited in the school, Chaâbi had come to tell him some news, as if he’d been the one who’d come up with the idea: “The ministry will be very happy to support this initiative, especially these days when strikes and riots abound: you deal with the students’ rebelliousness through your art! It’s surprising, I can see no risks and I can even predict there is a promotion in store for you!” As it happened, that was the first time many kids from working class neighborhoods had ever seen any art, especially contemporary art. Before the exhibition opened, the painter had organized severalafter-school meetings where he’d talked for a long time about his work in the hopes of making the students more receptive to art and teaching them how to look at a work. He’d played them a short film by Alain Resnais on the life of Vincent Van Gogh, and another by H. G. Clouzot that showed Picasso at work. They’d appeared interested, impressed even.
Over the course of the following years, many other painters took his lead. The experiment had yielded conclusive results. Thanks to him, painting had made its way into schools, and painters who rarely exhibited their work were able to leave their studios. He was proud of what he’d accomplished.
He had worked every day for thirty years, always applying himself with the same diligence, revising each painting as many times as necessary, refusing lucrative offers from many gallerists when they didn’t seem serious enough. Acclaim for his work had come slowly but surely. Nothing had come easy to him and some artists, especially the mediocre ones, had tried to cause him problems and had ganged up to lay traps for him in the hopes of sullying his reputation. These had been cheap shots that had nothing to do with his work in progress. Those mediocre artists had failed, but as that stupid old saying goes, “There’s no smoke without fire!” His father had been worried about him: “Sooner or later you’ll get devoured by frustrated people. Don’t show your face too often, be discreet. Never forget what the Prophet said, avoid extremes and always go for the middle ground! Look, whenever someone is under the spotlight, there will always be people who go digging around in the gutter, and if they don’t find anything, they’ll just make something up! The press loves it, and when you set the record straight, nobody cares, the damage has already been done!”
Thanks to his prudence and wisdom, the year the painter turned thirty a big gallery in London organized the first retrospective dedicated to his work, which was an invaluable springboard that helped launch him onto the world stage. Shows in other capitals had quickly followed. His agent had been especially happy; he’d called the painterfrom his office in New York and spoke in his broken French: “You see, it only takes a Jew to make an Arab a lot of argent , you see, mon ami , we’ve sold everything, the price will go up and up!” That same year, he was awarded
He had first exhibited his work at the high school in Casablanca where he’d taught. He’d had a hard time convincing the principal, but he’d known how to speak to him. The principal was an old friend from college, a man who held good social standing. He had married according to his parents’ wishes, his two children attended the French Mission, he spent his holidays in the south of Spain, and he aspired to build a house on credit. His name was Chaâbi, and he’d been nicknamed “Pop”—short for “popular.” A week after the painter had talked to him about having his work exhibited in the school, Chaâbi had come to tell him some news, as if he’d been the one who’d come up with the idea: “The ministry will be very happy to support this initiative, especially these days when strikes and riots abound: you deal with the students’ rebelliousness through your art! It’s surprising, I can see no risks and I can even predict there is a promotion in store for you!” As it happened, that was the first time many kids from working class neighborhoods had ever seen any art, especially contemporary art. Before the exhibition opened, the painter had organized severalafter-school meetings where he’d talked for a long time about his work in the hopes of making the students more receptive to art and teaching them how to look at a work. He’d played them a short film by Alain Resnais on the life of Vincent Van Gogh, and another by H. G. Clouzot that showed Picasso at work. They’d appeared interested, impressed even.
Over the course of the following years, many other painters took his lead. The experiment had yielded conclusive results. Thanks to him, painting had made its way into schools, and painters who rarely exhibited their work were able to leave their studios. He was proud of what he’d accomplished.
He had worked every day for thirty years, always applying himself with the same diligence, revising each painting as many times as necessary, refusing lucrative offers from many gallerists when they didn’t seem serious enough. Acclaim for his work had come slowly but surely. Nothing had come easy to him and some artists, especially the mediocre ones, had tried to cause him problems and had ganged up to lay traps for him in the hopes of sullying his reputation. These had been cheap shots that had nothing to do with his work in progress. Those mediocre artists had failed, but as that stupid old saying goes, “There’s no smoke without fire!” His father had been worried about him: “Sooner or later you’ll get devoured by frustrated people. Don’t show your face too often, be discreet. Never forget what the Prophet said, avoid extremes and always go for the middle ground! Look, whenever someone is under the spotlight, there will always be people who go digging around in the gutter, and if they don’t find anything, they’ll just make something up! The press loves it, and when you set the record straight, nobody cares, the damage has already been done!”
Thanks to his prudence and wisdom, the year the painter turned thirty a big gallery in London organized the first retrospective dedicated to his work, which was an invaluable springboard that helped launch him onto the world stage. Shows in other capitals had quickly followed. His agent had been especially happy; he’d called the painterfrom his office in New York and spoke in his broken French: “You see, it only takes a Jew to make an Arab a lot of argent , you see, mon ami , we’ve sold everything, the price will go up and up!” That same year, he was awarded
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