What a Fool Believes

Magritte

No one ever told René Magritte the Rule of “Love” in Art—that once you include the word “love”, in any language, in the title of a piece, the image becomes the artist’s fetish. Had he not thought Picasso a little asshole, his contemporary could have warned him how he could only be aroused by rippling, soot- and ash-covered women after his Couple Making Love. If he were still alive, Rubens would have told him, after painting The Garden of Love, “Buxom beauties lounging, my boy. That’s the business!” But no one ever told Magritte and he never thought to ask.

It was immediately after The Lovers I and II that Magritte knew what he had done. He walked through the streets of Paris. Beautiful women were all around him. When he pictured them in the raw, all of the exquisite nude forms had cloth wrapped around their heads, the phantom faces haunting him.

Magritte was driven mad in days. He tried to keep it from his wife, to protect her, but she could sense it, could feel the heat of it on his hide. After nearly a week, the delirium beginning to poison her, as well, Magritte’s wife cornered him and demanded an explanation. He was too weak to try and keep her from it any longer. He confessed.

The Magrittes celebrated Christmas. It had been two days since the confession. Magritte was stable. After dinner, Magritte was drinking a class of sherry and smoking his pipe. His wife called to him from their bedroom. She had another present for him, she said. Magritte went to the bedroom. There he found his wife, nude but for a moon-white shroud wrapped loosely around her head.