In season 11 of ArtCurious, we’re highlighting the lives and work of the women who supported some of the world’s favorite artists. Today, for our season finale, we’re discussing Gertrude Stein, a writer and art collector whose world-famous Paris salon was a meeting place for several giants of Modernism: Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Suzanne Valadon, and many more.

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Episode Credits:

Production and Editing by Kaboonki. Theme music by Alex Davis.  Additional music by Storyblocks. Research help by Mary Beth Soya.

ArtCurious is sponsored by Anchorlight, an interdisciplinary creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle.

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Episode Transcript

All of this current season on ArtCurious, I’ve been declaring that we should Cherchez La Femme—find the woman—find the woman who is there behind the scenes, waiting in the wings. The woman who has made a big difference in an artist’s life and career. The mother who sat patiently for her portrait to be painted. The widow who believed in her brother-in-law’s art. The gallerist who stood on the margins of society to promote the works she loved. And then there are the collectors.

 Oftentimes, art collectors end up making an artist’s career—collectors drive the value of artworks up and down, they urge others to purchase works or to avoid a particular artist or style or exhibition. And sometimes, they help make art happen by encouraging the right people at the right time. And even the biggest artists need a little help from the right well-placed collector, writer, thinker. In Paris at the beginning of the 20th century, there was one woman whose influence made a big difference in the lives of several big-name artists.

 Some people think that visual art is dry, boring, lifeless. But the stories behind those paintings, sculptures, drawings, and photographs are weirder, more outrageous, or more fun than you can imagine. In ArtCurious Season 11, we’re highlighting the lives and work of the women who supported some of the world’s favorite artists. Today, you know her face, but you might not know her name, or much about her life—meet Anna Whistler, the mother of American painter James Abbott McNeill Whistler. This is the ArtCurious Podcast, exploring the unexpected, the slightly odd, and the strangely wonderful in Art History. I'm Jennifer Dasal.

 Now, how can you truly encapsulate the life and times of Gertrude Stein in one measly podcast episode? She was one of the writers who epitomized modernism, a force of nature both literary and aesthetic, and her story has been the subject of countless books. Her books have been the subject of countless books, so we’re not going to touch too much on her writing here today. Instead, we’re here to focus mainly on one thing: Gertrude Stein as art collector and artistic tastemaker.

Gertrude Stein was born in Allegheny, Pennsylvania,  now part of present-day Pittsburg, on February 3, 1874. She was the youngest of the five children that were born to parents Daniel and Amelia Stein, an upper-middle-class Jewish couple who spoke both English and German in their household. By the time Gertrude was three years old, the family—hoping to imbue their children with European taste and culture, moved the family to Europe, settling first in Vienna, and then later on the outskirts of Paris. It would be Gertrude’s first taste of France, but certainly not her last.  After that European sojourn, the family moved back Stateside, this time settling in Oakland, California, so that her father could work as the director of nearby San Francisco’s Market Street Railway. The family stayed there in California for about a decade, when, after both of her parents had died, the decision was made that Gertrude and her elder sister Bertha, should return back east to live with an aunt. It was then that Gertrude found herself living in Baltimore, Maryland—and where she became friends with folks like the Cone Sisters, whom we mentioned previously in a recent episode of “A Little Curious.”  The Cone Sisters, as you may recall from that episode, enjoyed hosting “salons” in their home, a way of bringing together artists, writers, and intellectuals together for conversation, debate, and entertainment. By all accounts, Gertrude loved this idea—and later, she’d become the queen of her very own artsy salon. But first, she had to complete her education.

Stein attended the Society for the Collegiate Instruction of Women, an organization that was an annex of Harvard University meant to educate women near—but definitely separate from—their male colleagues. Harvard at that time was an all-male university, but the Society’s annex—which would later be renamed to Radcliffe College, was open to women like Gertrude Stein. While at Radcliffe, she focused on the study of psychology under the supervision of the renowned (and now legendary) professor, William James. James ran experiments that featured Gertrude, among other students, to test what happens when attention levels are split between two activities—something referred to as normal motor automatism. What’s interesting is that some, including Steven Meyer in his book, Irresistible Dictation: Gertrude Stein and the Correlations of Writing and Science (2001), see the written results of these psychological experiments as subconscious prose, or writing that appeared more spontaneous or boundless—akin, some say, to stream of consciousness writing. It may have been one of the precocious Stein’s first brushes with what would become a truly modernist literary aesthetic, though Stein herself didn’t necessarily believe in automatism or automatic writing per se. Still, as a burgeoning writer studying psychology, she couldn’t help but notice that words had meaning, had an effect on people—and that words could be played with, could be playful. Words could break rules. She would later learn, too, that art could do the same.

After graduating from Radcliffe in 1898, Stein followed the directive of her Radcliffe advisor, William James, and took his advice to attend medical school. Not that she wanted to be a doctor—and it really doesn’t appear that she had any interest at all in medicine, but James—who had called her, quote, “my most brilliant woman student”—encouraged her to return to Baltimore to attend Johns Hopkins. And for almost four years, she did. But she didn’t spend all her time actually studying medicine in medical school. Well, she did work hard at the beginning, at least, spending her first couple of years engaging in the studies of anatomy, toxicology, and pathology, but as the years in her med program progressed, she found herself paying less and less attention. She went to the opera instead, wrote, read, went on long, rambling walks, and crushed, hard, on the partner of a fellow Johns Hopkins student named Mabel Haynes. Haynes had a lover, a Bryn Mawr graduate named Mary Bookstaver, called May by her friends, and Gertrude found herself falling head over heels for May. It was what Gertrude would later call “an erotic awakening.” But May was committed to Mabel, an acknowledgment that eventually left Gertrude heartbroken, and that rift  just happened to coincide with a growing disinterest in medicine, as well as her frustrations with the medical school’s overtly paternalistic—even misogynistic—culture.  When, in 1902, her brother Leo, equally stir-crazy,  announced that he was traveling to London, it must have seemed like the perfect opportunity to escape. Off she went to London and Leo, and she did not return to Baltimore for the better part of three decades.

The Steins didn’t stay in London forever, though. In 1903, they left London and opted to resettle in Paris, as Leo wanted to immerse himself in the Parisian art scene, known at that time—and had been for decades prior—as the most exciting and avant-garde city for creators. And Gertrude agreed, writing later, quote, “Paris was the place that suited us who were to create the twentieth century art and literature.”

Here's a little sneak peek: Paris changed everything, and Gertrude Stein, as we know her, truly comes into her own.  That’s coming up next—right after this break. Come right back.

Welcome back to ArtCurious.

 Paris was a whirl of color and excitement in the first years of the 20th century— it was the period known as the Belle Époque, the “beautiful age,” a term created, most likely in retrospect after World War I, to describe the city’s glittery ostentation and its embrace of all things modern and new. And for the scrappy makers struggling to make ends meet in Montmartre and Montparnasse, it was both a curse and a blessing—they might not have enough money to buy a loaf of bread for dinner, but boy, did the city inspire some killer works of art. Gertrude Stein found herself smack-dab in the middle of this avant-garde paradise,  and she wanted more of it. She not only wanted to live it, but she wanted to be surrounded by it at every turn. So did Leo. So, with the help of their eldest brother, Michael, they began exploring the idea of establishing their own collection of art.

Michael Stein, by this point, had amassed enough wealth not only from his family’s inheritance, but also from his job, as he took over his father’s career as the director of San Francisco’s streetcar lines. And when he and his wife, Sarah, moved to Paris, he also began building his own network of art dealers and artists. Through him, Leo and Gertrude got to know fellow collectors like Bernard Berenson and renowned dealers like Ambroise Vollard, and everyone they met seemed to be pushing them in a different collecting direction. You should invest in the Old Masters, one said. Works on paper by Daumier is the way to go, another would decree. Berensen suggested that Cézanne was the best idea, and Leo loved the Impressionists. And Gertrude? She wasn’t quire sure what to think yet, but she did know that even though they had a family trust to pay their living expenses, they didn’t have enough left over for Old Masters. They had to go newer, because newer (back then at least) meant cheaper. So they went to Vollard, purchasing small pieces by Cézanne, Renoir, Gauguin, and others. Vollard later mused nostalgically about them, saying, quote, “ the Steins were [my] only clients who collected paintings not because they were rich, but despite the fact that they weren’t.”

 The turning point in the Stein’s collecting came when Michael Stein introduced his younger siblings to the work of Henri Matisse, an artist who had garnered critical attention in 1905 at the Salon d’Automne, the annual Paris Salon exhibition, when art critic Louis Vauxelles sneered that their unnaturally colorful and unrealistic paintings reminded him of fauves or “wild beasts.” Matisse’s painting, a portrait of his wife titled Woman with a Hat, was singled out as especially hideous to most of the art-going public, but Michael and Sarah liked it—and so they bought the painting for the equivalent today of around $100. It was a bold move, but the Stein family liked bold—and Gertrude took a shine to the work, and to Matisse himself. She began to collect his works, controversial as they may have been, in earnest. And it’s that attraction to the new, the controversial, the not-immediately-liked, that set Gertrude’s—and indeed, the whole Stein family—apart in their collecting.

And people noticed—not the least of whom was another artist just beginning to gain his footing in Paris. Pablo Picasso was savvy in his identification and cultivation of potential collectors, and he saw that Gertrude and Leo were starting to dabble in collecting the Fauves, and Matisse in particular. That was when Picasso knew that he had to get to know the Steins.  He started small—sidling up to them and offering to paint Leo’s portrait in a small, flattering gouache—a kind of watercolor—but it was Gertrude who made the biggest impression. According to Fernande Olivier, Picasso’s then-lover, Picasso was drawn to what he called Gertrude’s “massive” head and body, and he felt that he had no choice but to paint her.

And quite famously, paint her he did. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves a little bit. First, Gertrude and Picasso had to get to know each other a little bit.

Likely inspired by the artsy and thoughtful gatherings they had experienced in Baltimore at Claribel Cone’s home, Gertrude and Leo began holding Saturday evening Salons at their apartment, number 27 Rue de Fleurus, which often included organized viewings of their artwork collection. Gertrude also made it clear that she didn’t like to be interrupted from her writing, and that she resented unscheduled drop-ins by friends or friends-of-friends, so the weekly event was a good way to make sure that everyone could socialize without overwhelming their social schedules.  Picasso started coming along, and he often brought friends—Fernande Olivier, of course, but also George Braque, his soon-to-be Cubist confrère, the poet Guillaume Apollinaire, and other artists like André Derain and Marie Laurencin. It was the place to see and to be seen—and only a couple of years later, the salon had become so renowned that Sarah Stein noted, quote, “the crowds were so pressing that it was impossible to hold a conversation without being overheard.” Image being crammed into this Parisian apartment, with paintings hung gallery-style, three or four canvases high up the wall toward the ceiling, lit by gaslight and chock-full of heavy brown furniture and cigarette smoke. It must have been a heady place, and a heady time—and most of all, the Stein salon was a place to make connections and to share ideas. It was also a good place to start a good beef. Famously, it was in the fall of 1906 that Picasso and Matisse met each other for the very first time, and they met at the behest of Gertrude Stein. You may recall, as we discussed in ArtCurious Episode #39, that when Matisse and Picasso met for the first time, it wasn’t love at first sight. They immediately got into a frosty rivalry, with both of them vying for the attention of Gertrude—their patron, their matron of the arts. And we can understand why. Over these years, Gertrude Stein was not only blossoming into an accomplished writer, but she was becoming well-known as both a literary and an artistic critic, an incredible tastemaker. One glowing remark from her could launch a career. One snide comment could cut you down in an instant. She, as much as anyone else who attended the salon, was the draw. She was quickly becoming one of the most famous people in Paris—and her fame would only continue to grow as the decades progressed there.

 Gertrude Stein was one of the preeminent patrons of modern art—but that’s not all she was. There’s more to her story, including her famed relationship with Picasso, coming up next—right after this break. Come right back.

Welcome back to ArtCurious.

Gertrude Stein wasn’t just a great patron of the arts. She also was a model and a muse. Perhaps not in the traditional, potentially misogynistic manner that we use those terms, but she did indeed inspire Picasso to make her portrait, as I alluded to earlier. In 1905, not terribly long after Stein and Picasso became friends, she commissioned him to paint a portrait of her—something that Picasso desperately wanted to do anyway, so it was definitely a win-win situation for them both. But the process of its creation was not an easy one for the subject or the artist. Stein was subjected to somewhere around 90 different sittings—and remember from our episode on Anna Whistler that sitting for a portrait isn’t necessarily a fun or easy thing—and eventually, Picasso found himself metaphorically up against a wall, and he said to Stein, quote, “I can't see you any longer when I look.” He abandoned the project, and it wasn’t until months later that he did indeed finish the work. Neither he nor Stein would know that this work was a turning point, a portrait that would ultimately lead the artist to Cubism. His Portrait of Gertrude Stein, now in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum in New York, is weighty, massive—strong and bold. It grips your attention as a viewer, and Stein’s face is incredible. It’s mask-like, and it’s mask-like on purpose, a reference to Picasso’s growing interest in the so-called “primitive” works of ancient Iberian and African cultures, which was to become an obsession with many of the artists in his circle. And it was with these works in mind that he finished the portrait—all without Stein sitting down for another modeling session. The completed work, then, isn’t so much a truly exact or representational portrait of Gertrude Stein so much as one that captures both artist and sitter’s enthusiasm for the new, the now, for modernism. An interest in breaking some of the rules, in stepping away from the strictures of tradition.  It opened the door for Cubism to burst forth, for Picasso’s iconic Les Demoiselles d’Avignon to shake the art world up—just as Stein’s writing would shake things up, too. And by all accounts, both parties were super-pleased with the results. In a 1938 book about Picasso, Stein discussed this painting at length, writing, in true Stein fashion quote, “I was and I still am satisfied with my portrait, for me, it is I, and it is the only reproduction of me which is always I, for me.”

It should be noted that, especially in the case of the friendship between Stein and Picasso, that experimentation and inspiration truly flowed both ways. Just as Picasso was enthusiastically invigorated by Stein and sought to represent her in oils and acrylics, Stein found herself drawing from Cubist principles and riffing off of them in her writing. Literary historians note that her repetition of words or phrases, how she would simplify sentences and chop them into fragments, mirrors the way that Cubist artists fragmented and flattened out the picture plane of their paintings. Essentially, some argue that Stein thusly invented a kind of “verbal Cubism,” inspired as much by the artists whom she collected as they were, too, inspired by her as both subject and collector.

As Gertrude Stein became a more confident collector and avant-garde patron, as well as a stronger and more experimental writer, her relationship with her brother, Leo, began to sour. His interest in the salon crowds began to wane, and some of the newer artists who sought Gertrude’s attentions irritated him. In 1907, something monumental happened in Gertrude’s life, something that would have big ramifications for her relationship with Leo: she met the San Francisco-born expatriate, Alice B. Toklas. Toklas, as we know, would go on to become the great love of Stein’s life, and she’d go on to become her lifelong partner, moving into the Stein apartment in 1909. Though Leo purportedly supported the women’s burgeoning relationship, what he didn’t support was his sister’s writing, apparently. And that was putting it lightly. He apparently used the word “loathe” to describe his feelings toward her work. In 1913, he wrote, quote, “It was of course a serious thing for her that I can’t abide her stuff and think it abominable…” But Leo continued, noting that art had a lot to do with it, too. He said, quote, “Yo this add my utter refusal to accept the later phases of Picasso with those tendency Gertrude has so closely allied herself.” Eventually Leo moved out, leaving France entirely before settling in Italy—and supposedly never seeing his sister again.

The split between the Stein siblings had a consequence that went beyond emotions and family: they had to split up the art collection that they had spent the better part of the past decade building up. And they split it really based on taste, and though it might not be a surprise, it’s still telling of their individual tastes. Leo took the Renoirs, and Gertrude kept all the Matisses and almost all of the Picassos—the only Picasso works he kept were some, quote, “cartoonlike sketches” that Picasso had made of Leo himself.

Gertrude Stein continued to host her weekly salons for nearly the rest of her life, and some may argue that Stein’s cultural influence, and the salon itself, may have reached its pinnacle in the 1920s when she mingled with fellow expats like Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. But that name drop right there explains a lot—the community and the salon began edging away from the artistic avant-garde towards the literary. Whether or not that was intended is a question that I have, but we can’t deny that it was the earlier period—her first decade in Paris—that  Stein had the most clout in the realm of the visual arts.

As I noted close to the beginning of the episode, there’s no way, within an approximately half-hour long podcast, to truly discuss every bit of Gertrude Stein’s life. I haven’t dug deeply into her relationship with Toklas,  I’ve barely touched on her writing, and I’m also not getting into her troublesome and strangely anti-Semitic positioning during World War II. All of that is worth covering, and perhaps we’ll have another opportunity to cover more about Gertrude Stein in the podcast or elsewhere in the ArtCurious realm in the future. But today, we’ve solely focused on her positioning within the visual arts in the early part of the 20th century. And just as she continued with her Saturday salons throughout her life—even carrying it on during and after the two world wars—so did she continue to collect art. Sometimes, truth be told, it took a hit—to make ends meet during the lean years, she’d occasionally sacrifice some works, selling them so that she could afford to cover her and Alice’s living costs. But still, she carried on. When she died in 1946 at age 72, her collection of art—including 47 paintings, 38 of which were by Picasso—remained on the walls of the home she shared with Toklas. Stein had officially passed ownership of them to her nephew, but he allowed Toklas to maintain them until she died, twenty years after her partner, in 1967.

 Thank you for listening to the ArtCurious Podcast. This episode was written, produced, and narrated by me, Jennifer Dasal. HUGE thanks to Mary Beth Soya for her awesome research for this episode and for almost all of our episodes this season. Our theme music is by Alex Davis at alexdavismusic.com, and our logo is by Dave Rainey at daveraineydesign.com. Our podcast is co-produced by Kaboonki - podcasts, creative video, and more. Subscribe to their show, Subgenre, a podcast about the movies, available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and at subgenrepodcast.com. Kaboonki: Leave your mark. The ArtCurious Podcast is sponsored primarily by Anchorlight. Anchorlight is a creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle. Please visit anchorlightraleigh.com.

The ArtCurious Podcast is also fiscally sponsored by VAE Raleigh, a 501c3 nonprofit creativity incubator, which means you can donate tax-free to “ArtCurious” to show your support. To find the donation links and for more details about our show, please visit our website: artcuriouspodcast.com. We’re also on Twitter and Instagram at artcuriouspod.

Check back with us soon as we explore the lives and works of incredible women who supported the unexpected, slightly odd, and strangely wonderful world of art history.