In the late 1990s, Jim Dine settled in Paris with his partner, the photographer Diana Michener. Today, he is giving the Musée National d’Art Moderne some thirty paintings and sculptures dating from the 1960s to the present, and featuring several of his masterpieces. The Centre Pompidou is exhibiting this donation from February 14 to April 23 (curator: Bernard Blistène) in a show titled Paris Reconnaissance. This is a way for the artist to thank a city that has given him so much and that has nourished his art. If Reconnaissance means gratitude, note that it also contains renaissance.

« I am James Dine, age 81 ». 2016. Acrylique et sable sur lin. 210 x 210 cm. (Court. galerie Daniel Templon, Paris ; Ph. B.Huet-Tutti). Acrylic and sand on linen Page de droite / Page right: «The Prince ». 2008. Émail et peinture sur bois. 184 x 72 x 66 cm. (Coll. Centre Pompidou, Musée national d’art moderne).

Enamel and painting on wood

——— Jim, you have lived in many cities during your life, in the U.S. and especially in Europe. You were living in Paris in the 70s and 80s, when y ou began working with Aldo Crommelynck. But you really made the decision to live there at the end of the 90s, even if you still worked in New York, Walla Walla (Washington State) and Germany. What were you hoping t o find in Paris? And what kind of energy did you find

in this city? I came to Paris the first time in 1968. I w as very young. I w as li ving in London. I came to print with a publisher. And I came on and off because I had a deale r here, the great Ileana Sonnabend. We had a very good relationship, and I had this relationship to P aris because of her . And the people who worked at the gallery, the artists, including Sarkis, who I still se e. But I knew other French p ainters then, slightly. I knew Erró, because I knew him from America. I enjoyed being in Paris. It was like being in a living painting. I kept coming. One day Picasso died, in 1973, and the next year, there was an homage to Picasso show in Berlin. And the same guy, the same publisher who bro ught me here, said: “David Hockney, Richard Hamilton, and you, you’re gonna all mak e a po rtfolio in

honor of Picasso.” And I said: “Well, where shall we do it ?” He answered: “I would like you to do it in Paris, because Picasso’s printer, Aldo Crommelynck, needs some work. And he’s fabulous.” Well, Crommelynck had no time, and I had no time. So finally I made the print in Germany. But I kept coming back, and I started to work with Aldo in 1975. And I never stopped. At the time, I was living in Vermont, on a farm, I would leave my family there, come like one month at a time to work with Aldo in Paris.Year after year, Aldo taught me things about this city. He was a great aficionado of small stuff. He told me the best places to get tools in Arts et Métiers. One of my sons is an oboist, he and Aldo were very friendly and they would go to his instruments maker, on the Rue Vertbois. My life in Paris was based on Crommelynck and various friends. In the winter I loved the city because it was dark and gloomy, and in the summer it was tropical. I found my spot. As Crommelynck and I got more involved, I made more prints, I took up residence at the Hotel de Suède, Rue Vanneau, and they kept all my things for me, my bicycles—I always biked in Paris—, my easels, my winter clothes, summer clothes, everything. I worked in my room there, I could make a mess. I had a view on the prime minister’s garden, it was beautiful. But mainly, I went to 172 Rue de Grenelle, which is where Aldo’s great studio was, and I printed, printed, and printed. I was on Aldo’s fellowship. I was doing research with him. Aldo and his wife made Paris so palatable for me, and I could taste it. With my bike, I explored everywhere. I wasn’t involved in the French art world. I knew Erró as I said, but I hardly saw him. I had known Alain Jacquet and Martial Raysse in the 60s, and of course Arman. And I actually, in New York, when I was very young, I knew Yves Klein, just before he died. But that’s all. I knew nobody else. Once I think I met Daniel Buren.

PARIS INTER PARES

Meanwhile, Aldo was moving to New York, because he had this big fight with his brother. So he was printing at Pace Gallery. And then he retired. Aldo must have been fucking out of his mind! The guy was the greatest etcher there’s probably ever been, technically. And he took his pension and walked away. I think he was eternally shy, and really couldn’t stand working with other people. But I saw him all the time, even after that. In fact, I saw him just before he died. Diana and I took care of him in many ways. I left my first wife Nancy in 1988, then Diana and I took up together. We moved here in 1998. We would spend part of the year here, part in New York. Eventually I bought a farm in Walla Walla. But we were always coming back to Paris, staying at the Hotel de Suède. And then we took an apartment, You know that place, Rue de Verneuil. We really enjoyed these years. I painted there a lot, which I paid the price for, because when I left, the landlord made me pay for all kind of damages. But we moved to another place. When I first started to print with Michael Woolworth in Paris, the lithographs, which was probably in 2003, I met there two people: Aurélie Pagès, who is now head of etching at the École des Beaux-arts; and Daniel Clarke, who is a painter. We were very friendly. I said to Dan: “Look, I need an assistant, come with me. I don’t like people around me when I work, but I need people to do other things, etc.” I said: “It’s like a Mafia hit-man: maybe for two years I pay you and nothing happens, and one day I say go kill somebody.” It was that kind of thing. I was just using him when I needed him. We grew close and I became more dependent on him, particularly as I got older and busier. Much busier. So he became a very trusted assistant. I have two other assistants now. One is in Walla Walla and he keeps coming back and forth (his name is Jason Treffry). And I print in Paris with a woman, another painter—her name is Olympe Racana-Weiler.

We print woodcuts together with spoons. We have a good time doing that. I couldn’t paint anymore in my apartment. Dan found me this studio in Montrouge.This place is crucial to my art. It’s the largest studio I ever had, anywhere. It was a taxi garage. No windows, perfect for me. I love neon light. I’ve been there for three years. I’ve been painting every day since then. I sold my place in New York. I can’t stand New York. I go to Walla Walla when I can. I love it, but… I don’t have time to retire, you know. I am going to be 83, I have shit to do… Although, France has been most welcoming to me as a poet. Do you know what Double Change is?

I have no idea. It’s a cooperative group of French academic translators, who teach translation from English into French and vice versa, and teach American and English poetry and literature at the Sorbonne.Two of the guys, Vincent Broqua and Olivier Brossard, are very friendly with me and have done two books of mine in French. One is titled Nantes (published by Joca Seria). I read all the time in Paris. Lots of people didn’t know me as a poet, but I’ve been doing this all this time. And now the collected poems came out… At this old age I have young friends—they’re in their forties—I work with them on translating. The whole point of the story is that France affects my life like no other place. I feel comfortable here. And I don’t know why I feel comfortable as a flâneur. It can’t be ruined for me by fashion, which of course has ruined everything in all of the world. It still remains Paris for me. That’s my story.

Your art changed a lot here. You were talking about poetry, that’s what you did a lot with your photographs, when we met at the beginning of the 2000s. I’d like to talk about the new paintings you exhibited last fall at Daniel Templon Gallery. Since you started working in this Montrouge studio, you’ve been more involved in painting again, in a strong and powerful way. This was the exhibition of a young man. An 82 year-old young man. I feel like it. As I said, there isn’t a day when I don’t paint. I’ve still got my energy. I still walk everywhere. I don’t bike anymore, the traffic is too dangerous. But mainly I paint.

PAYING MY DEBT

Let’s talk about the Pompidou donation. I wanted to do something for Paris. Not some grand gesture. I just wanted to pay my debt.

But this is a grand gesture! Yes, but that’s why this exhibition is titled Paris Reconnais

sance. I know Beaubourg is going to take care of these works. Bernard Blistène has been great with me. And Annalisa Rim

maudo, his assistant, what she’s written about the works is brilliant.

Those 26 works, that’s a beautiful pre

sent… Oh, now there are 28! Because I saw the architectural scheme from the Beaubourg architect and I realized I needed two more pieces. So I gave two more.

Regarding your career, some of these works are very important. For example, Window with an Axe (1961–62). I always thought of it as an aggressive statement against Marcel Duchamp’s Fresh Widow...

It’s not that at all.

I know. These days, I was looking at the new big sculpture you showed at Templon, this big bronze head, a self-portrait, with all the tools glued on it. I thought that this black window, it was you, or death. It was about anger, right? It was not about Duchamp, it’s a misinterpretation. Everybody makes it. It was about two things. This was, I mean, I wanted to do something formal, these two black squares, and I although wanted to use an aggressive tool, just smash it into the window, because I was an angry young man. And to speak about what the axe can do… in working. It was about working too.

There are these two sculptures: Nancy and I at Ithaca (Green) and (Straw Heart), 1966– 69. You created them while you were teaching at Cornell University, in Ithaca (New York State). Am I right to think that Straw Heart is one of the first appearances of the heart in your work? Before, I used it when I did the stage design for Midsummer Night’s

Dream. But that was probably the first time I used it on a large scale. This straw heart has an agrarian signification. But it’s also about drawing and chance. Because it always changes, as the straw falls off I have to glue more on, and it gets bigger in area. These two pieces are all I have left of the six or seven pieces that were in the Nancy and I installation. The rest was destroyed, I don’t know why. Anyway, these two are left and they are fragile, that’s why I’m giving them here.

A BATHROBE In The Farmer (1984), there is this bathrobe, which appears frequently in your work. It’s an icon, from my work, and for many years, I considered it as a substitute for a self-portrait. I can make a self-portrait, which I’ve done. But that painting I had around for a long time painted on, it’s been painted on a lot. I had it in London, I had it in Connecticut in the 80s. It’s carefully painted, on a very rough surface. It was a chance for me to paint in a more realistic way than anything I had done until that point. And I wanted to make something monumental. I never intended to sell it. I tried to make it the best bathrobe I’d ever painted. So when this came about, this donation, I thought it would be a perfect home for this painting.

But why is this painting so important to you? Was something happening in your life when you started it? No, it was over a period of two or three years that I painted it. I would keep going back to it. But it became a kind of fine way of painting rather than as expressionist as I usually am. There was a kind of chiaroscuro in it, and although it’s quite gray, which I don’t always do. I feel very close to this painting.

The Black Venus (1991)… in my opinion, it’s one of the most beautiful sculptures you ever made. Originally, I chose to use the Venus, like painters did a long time ago, as a memento mori. And I also chose to speak about the past and about my romance with the so-called ancient world. And, you know, I’ve been involved with the Glyptothek in Munich, drawing from classical figures. So this was a result of that. There was also a maple tree that I had cut down in Connecticut. I carved it outside with chainsaw. And then painted it just with the black. I think you are right, it’s one of the most beautiful Venuses I’ve ever made.

Why is it black? Probably because I carved and painted it in nature. It looks best that way. I couldn’t have painted it red, yellow and blue as it’s already out there in nature.

« A Puzzled Mind ». 2017. Bronze. 231 x 175,3 x 180,3 cm. (Court. galerie Daniel Templon, Paris ; Ph. B.Huet-Tutti). Bronze

PINOCCHIO Let’s talk about Pinocchio, and especially about the sculpture The Prince (2008). Pinocchio appears in your work in the mid

dle of the 90s. Why so late? I kept the memory of the Walt Disney film, which I saw when I was six years old. And I kept that memory because it scared me. In 1964, I found a doll, that had been franchised by Disney at the time of the film. But it wasn’t like today with a lot of crap and plastic. This was painted, with real clothes. I kept it like a talisman on my bookshelves for forty years. And then, it struck me that it was time to talk about it. I always identified with Pinocchio, for a few reasons. One is that as a boy I was a liar, and I was frightened about what could happen if I was caught. But I also felt the story was the story of how art is made. It’s an alchemical story, turning shit into gold. You take a talking stick, and it becomes a boy. I became very involved in it, but not in a popular way. This has nothing to do with Pop Art. It has to do with my inner culture.

About your own story, you were raised by your grandfather who owned a hardware store. That’s where your interest in tools and woodcarving comes from. It took me a long time to understand that, but I went from being Pinocchio, to realize, as I got older, that I was Gepetto. Those three Pinocchios that I gave are from different times.They are representative of the different attitudes and moods of this boy.

The tools, the bathrobes, the apes, Pinocchio, all of them are you, or a part of you. They are allegories of your self. In the last show at Templon, you exhibited mostly self-portraits, especially in your prints. Can art appear only through the journey of a life? Well, you know, I gave 150 self-portraits to the Albertina Museum, about four years ago.They made a show with 65 of them, two summers ago. I was very pleased with it. A few photographs and etchings, but mainly drawings. The last day of the show, I went to see it with Diana. And I realized I could make paintings somehow with it. And I started making these silhouettes with my head and my ears. And it was once again a way, just like with the heart, the bathrobe or Pinocchio, to talk about me. What is more interesting than your own unconscious? To me it’s an endless goldmine. It’s there. If you leave it alone, that’s a waste of things.

Jim Dine Né en / born 1935 à / in Cincinnati Vit et travaille à / lives and works in Paris Expositions personnelles récentes / solo shows: 2015 Poetry Foundation, Chicago ; Museum Folkwang, Essen 2016 Musée de l’Albertina, Vienne 2017 Richard Gray Gallery, New York ; Academia di San Luca, Rome ; Galerie Daniel Templon, Paris 2018 Centre Pompidou, Paris (14 février - 23 avril)