Basia. by LYDIS, Mariette.

Folio (395 × 300 mm), with 7 pencil drawings (one on vellum, partially coloured, with original clear cellophane guard, 6 on calque), all signed or initialled, mounted with original paper windows, plus manuscript title leaf and 3 leaves of letterpress text, with one large initial ‘B’ applied by hand in red. All mounted on stiff card and bound concertina-style in the original wood veneer boards, upper cover lettered by hand in gilt. Some rippling to the drawings and to the plastic guard (see note). Covers slightly scratched.

A unique artist’s book evidently made by Mariette Lydis for her subject, the otherwise unidentified young woman, Basia. The title on the wooden boards and the title-page is lettered by hand (gold and red respectively) and the latter is signed and dated. The first drawing is a magnificent portrait head in pencil on vellum, with lips and eyes heightened with colour, followed by three more large portraits of Basia: seated in a loose dress, standing in buttoned shorts and sandals, and breastfeeding an infant. If the volume is then turned over and opened, a very different sequence appears. It opens with three pages of letterpress text ― the artist’s passionate appreciation of her subject followed by three superb nude drawings of Basia.
The printed dedication must have been composed and set (in handsome Garamond italic) solely for this unique copy. We can find no trace of it elsewhere, and since it leaves no doubt as to the strength and quality of the artist’s feelings for her model, we reproduce it in full. It is also one of the few sustained examples of Lydis’s writing from this period and we cannot fail to be struck by her appreciation of a young woman described in androgynous terms as a young ‘éphèbe’ (a young Greek warrior) and as an epitome of modernity. The artist would have been 46 or 47 when she drew this young woman, and we have been unable to make any positive identification of Basia in Lydis sources or elsewhere. It reads:
Basia, jeune femme longue et souple, rieuse et très prête aux larmes, toute d’aujourd’hui, toute clarté ― abandon ― franchise.
Elle inonde la chambre dans laquelle elle entre d’un rayonnement ingénu, d’une tendresse tremblante des ses douces folies féminines. A la fois jeune pâtre, mère louve, paysanne solide qui ne craint pas le froid mais les fantômes, Basia transplantée dans n’importe quelle situation sera toujours à sa place.
La maison de Basia donne sur un vieux jardin. Inutile de sommer, la porte est toujours ouverte. C’est une maison adorable, une des rares maisons où je me sente à mon aise ; et ce n’est pas à cause des deux Mariette Lydis accrochés aux murs ; c’est que j’aime respirer l’air de ces pièces : j’aime la cage ronde habité par une rangée de ces tout petits oiseaux frileux qui meurent constamment sans qu’on puisse les pleurer, l’aquarium plein des gros poissons chinois et ventru, l’ecran de papillons de toute taille et multicolores.
Voicie le fond sur lequel se détache Basia. Un irish terrier et un chat vaguement persan complètent l’ameublement.
Basia a deux enfants qu’elle a faits toute seule et qu’on lui reproche.
Son apparence de jeune éphèbe aux seins irréprochables est toute neuve ; elle est neuve dans ce qu’elle dit, qu’elle fait, sans pose, sans artifice.
D’une simplicité vibrante, d’une spontanéité violent, elles est prête à l’attaque, à la défense, à l’émotion ― toujours. Même habillée, elle est nue, d’une nudité d’enfant ou d’animal, ingénuement, sans affectation.
Elle pose de grands pieds aux orteils bien séparés sur un tapis gris clair.
Toute impulsion ― oui, non ― sans réflexion aucune (et c’est bien ainsi), toute instinct, elle est faite d’élans, d’enthousiasmes, d’un bel égoïsme dans le sens grec du mot : ELLE ― ce qu’elle aime et peu d’autre chose.
Voìla Basia.
The portrait on vellum seems to have been something of an experiment for Mariette Lydis (in keeping with the modernity of her appreciation for Basia). It is set within a paper frame with clear a cellophane guard (which has subsequently rippled, perhaps encouraging the vellum below to do the same (to a lesser extent). Lydis had recently completed a commission for the Nonesuch Press in London, illustrating The Greek Portrait (1934). The publisher experimented with encasing the plates in clear cellophane, a material largely untested in book production, which later shrank in most copies, leaving the plates slightly cockled. It is interesting to see Lydis use the same here in this one-off production.