Photographer Extraordinaire
Photographer Extraordinaire
Although, he didn’t lose his head while on the job, Napoleon III was the last monarch to rule over France. During his reign, around the 1850’s, Number III turned what had once been 3,000 acres of fallow swampland into an elaborate system of private hunting parks. Open only to the wealthy this new playground, reserved for the elite, was known as the Sologne. In May of 1880, Julien Courtois was born in a French hamlet that bordered the Sologne.
Trophy deer from America, antelope from Africa and other four-legged creatures imported from around the world were stocked in the Sologne. The large sporting estates catered to European and American businessmen, Oriental money-changers and Arab royalty. By the time Julien was thirteen-years-old, he had hired on as a gun-toter. But Julien hated killing wildlife. Instead, the young Frenchman shot wild game with a second-hand camera.
One evening after dinner, Julien’s father looked at his son and grunted, “What’s going on wit’ you? Instead of bringing home paper money all you have are copper coins.”
Julian’s Mom broke into the conversation. “Our Julian is not a lazy boy, Father.”
“Bah,” Dad grunted. “All he does is play with that little black box.”
“Your father’s right, son,” his mother chirped. “You used to get such good tips.”
Julien looked at his long slender fingers that were resting on the table. He had used those digits that very morning to take a photograph of a young village girl. It was the first time he’d shot a human, at least one who stood still long enough for him to focus his camera.
Finally, he looked at his father. There wasn’t a trace of a smile on Julien’s lips when he said, “It’s not that I mind carrying a one-hundred-fifty-pound deer carcass out of the brush, nor the skinning, gutting and quartering of the beast. What I truly deplore is that the animal was killed in the first place. Hunting for survival, I understand. Shooting fish in a bucket—never.” He turned to look at his mother. “I’ve decided to leave the Sologne and go to America.”
“Oh, no, Son,” his mother wailed. “Please, no.”
Julien’s father grunted a couple of times, then said, “Fear not Mother. Our son has chosen a wise path in life. No more will he have to tote guns for insufferable English toadies, slimy Arabian sheiks and hairy-legged German women.” The father turned to the son, and in a Shakespearian tone of voice, he said, “Remember lad, to thine own self be true, and what goes around, comes around.” The father thought for a moment then continued. “And by the way, you might want to spell your first name J-u-l-i-a-n.”
“Why’s that, Father,” Julien asked.
“Julien with an e is a tad feminine, but Julian with an a brings to mind a Roman emperor.”
At the tender age of sixteen, with only a few francs and his grandmother’s gold wedding band in his pocket, Julian Courtois immigrated to America. Once he arrived in New York City, the newly minted U. S. citizen took the sage advice of Horace Greeley and aimed West.
It was while living in the bustling city of St. Louis, Missouri, that Julian happened to attend an exhibit at the St. Louis University School of Art. Standing in front of one of the black and white photographs on display, Julian seemed mesmerized. For a long time, he stared at the image of a short, stocky man dressed in a military uniform. The soldier was the sole occupant of the photo. With one hand placed on his hip, the subject was nonchalantly leaning against a pine tree.
“Hauntingly eerie, I’d say.”
Julian immediately snapped out of his self-imposed reverie. “What’s that?”
In a distinctive British accent, the man said, “Grant at Cold Harbor. That’s the chap in the photo. Taken during the knobby-headed conflict between the states.”
“Sorry,” Julian said, “I’m not very well versed on America’s Civil War.”
“You don’t have to be—by the way,” the man said, extending his hand, “the name’s Glenn, ‘Arry Glenn.”
Shaking Glenn’s hand, Julian replied, “Courtois, Julian Courtois.”
“As I was saying,” Harry said, pointing to the photo of Ulysses S. Grant, “I believe the photographer has captured the soldier’s internal struggle with life and death—don’t you?”
Julian read the name printed below the photograph. “Mathew Brady,” he muttered.
“That’s right, he’s the photographer extraordinaire who recorded the horrors of the Civil War for posterity. I say,” Harry said, licking his lips, “you wouldn’t happen to be interested in photography, what?”
Julian offered a small smile. “I’m here to get ideas for my new photography studio.”
When Harry saw Julian’s smile disappear, he asked, “What seems to be the matter? Getting new ideas should be a joyful occasion.” As if he were a street beggar, Julian silently held out his empty hand. It was Harry’s turn to smile. “So, that’s it? No money? Why, lad, that’s easily rectified. Let ol’ ‘Arry give you a loan.”
Julian learned that Harry Glenn had attended the exhibit because he owned a photography studio in England. Glenn was looking for a new Mathew Brady, someone young and malleable who could be transformed into a portrait photographer. With a minimal investment in used photographic equipment, Glenn would receive a ten percent royalty on every portrait in Julian Courtois’ portfolio for the next 10 years.
Julian’s first order of business was to purchase a Conley tripod camera with a Kodiak lens. Since there was no war available to photograph, Civil or otherwise, and the fact that St. Louis was already overpopulated with photography studios, Glenn suggested that Julian search for a lively town filled with interesting people who had discretionary income.
“You want to be located close to the corruption of a big city, yet far enough away from the smaller fundamentalist communities,” Glenn said. “The high and mighty? They frown on exhibitionism of any kind, including photographic portraits.”
Due the notoriety of those citizens who lived in Festus, Missouri, the ones who spent lavishly on alcoholic beverages, and had plenty of time to kill, plus the town’s close proximity to St. Louis, Julian eventually decided to settle in what used to be called Tanglefoot. By 1913 people from all over Jefferson County clamored to have their portraits taken at Model Studio, #214 Main St. Julian ordered the building's owner to cut a hole in the roof. While installing a skylight one of the workers asked why he wanted to ruin a perfectly good roof? Julian explained, “To take advantage of the natural light. The heavenly orb will illuminate the inner beauty of my patrons. I must preserve the shadow ere the essence fades.”
In short order, men, women and children were making a beeline to Model Studio. One day, Dr. Norvel W. Jarvis, a homespun middle-age medical-man who was tall, dark and handsome with brown wavy hair, knocked on the studio door.
When the heavy wooden portal opened, Dr. Jarvis took a step back. “Mr. Courtois?”
“Yes, yes. And you are, Dr. Jarvis, I presume?”
Dr. Jarvis silently nodded. He seemed to be taken aback by the gentleman standing in the doorway. On his head, Julian wore a red turban that complimented his floor-length-hooded black robe. When the photographer turned to lead the way inside, Dr. Jarvis came face to face with a fire breathing dragon elaborately embroidered on the back of the robe.
Julian changed into his work clothes, an artist’s white cotton smock with long roll-up puffy sleeves and black leotards. He then took Dr. Jarvis by the elbow escorting him into the portrait studio.
Dr. Jarvis stopped in the middle of the room, and whispered, “So, this is where the magic happens.”
“Where to sit, where to sit,” Julian mumbled. Then, “Ah-ha. Come Dr. Jarvis, have a seat right here.”
The doctor lowered his body onto a brown leather cushion that covered the seat of a high-back wooden chair. Behind Dr. Jarvis was an 8 ft. x 10 ft. hand-painted canvas screen portraying an ancient Roman villa. A throw-rug made of rabbit pelts lay on the floor in front of the chair. Julian backed across the room and stood next to one of his cameras. After removing the hood and lens cover, Julian aimed the camera at the doctor.
“Nice weather we’ve been having,” Dr. Jarvis offered.
Finally, Julian looked up from the camera and eyed his guest. “I’m aware of the fact that your deceased wife pestered you to sit for me, Doctor, but until now you never crossed my threshold.”
Dr. Jarvis took a deep breath, slowly let it out, then said, “I’m here to honor Alice’s wishes. And leave something for my children to remember me by.”
Julian chuckled. “I’m sure the substantial inheritance you leave behind will be more than adequate for your remembrance. But, since you’re here, I’ll do my best to immortalize you.”
Dr. Jarvis finally smiled. “I know you will put me in a good light, won’t you, Mr. Courtois?”
“Of course, Dr. Jarvis, of course. Every portrait I do is an art form. I promise to capture your true essence for posterity.”
Julian walked back over to where his subject sat. “Stiffen your spine, Doctor. That’s right. Now, turn your head to the right—a little more—that’s it. Please, keep your chin up.” Julian then went back to step behind his camera. He peered through the viewfinder. Adjusting the lens, Julian tried to focus on Dr. Jarvis, but eventually let out a sigh. “No, no. I’m afraid, Dr. Jarvis, that you’re not cooperating. I can’t seem to find you through the viewfinder.”
“Why, I’m right here,” Dr. Jarvis offered.
“It’s not your physical presence. It’s your demeanor. It’s flat, there’s no life. Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Courtois, that I’ve forgotten how to smile.”
Julian thought for a moment, then said, “I think I can help you.”
“But how?”
“Hypnotism. I’ve been in correspondence with Professor L. A. Harraden of Jackson, Michigan. Learning how to put someone under is like driving a Model T. Once you learn, you never forget.”
“But hypnotism,” Dr. Jarvis whispered. “Wouldn’t that be in league with the Devil?”
“Don’t be silly, Dr. Jarvis. The Devil resides in each one of us. Even the Hindu knows that.”
Sitting on a piano stool in front of the doctor, Julian used a crystal amulet suspended from a silver chain to put Dr. Jarvis into a deep sleep. After a couple of suggestions to make sure his subject was completely under a hypnotic spell, Julian said, “Dr. Jarvis, I want you to turn and look to your right.” The doctor slowly turned as requested. “Tell me, what do you see?”
“Why, it’s a bouquet of zinnias.”
“Your wife’s favorite flower, right?”
“Yes, yes. She called zinnias the mutts of the flower world. They grow anywhere.”
“If she were here, what would you say to Alice?”
There was a long silence, then Dr. Jarvis whispered, “That—that, I’m sorry. These days, I’m tempted to look at other women.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Julian asked.
There was another long silence. Dr. Jarvis shook his head.
Julian whispered, “It’s been over two years, Doctor. It’s time to move on. Do whatever makes you happy.” Slowly rising to his feet, Julian looked down at his hypnotized subject. “Now, Doctor, I want you to sit on the piano stool and face me.”
Once Doctor Jarvis was positioned on the stool, Julian went back behind the camera. Before looking through the viewfinder, he continued to give Dr. Jarvis instructions.
“Please, Doctor, sit up straight. That’s right. Now, look directly into the camera’s lens. Put your right elbow on the arm of the chair and let your hand support your chin. That’s it. With your elbow extended, place your left hand on your hip. Lean forward slightly. Just a tad more. Now, Dr. Jarvis, I want you to think of those beautiful zinnias and give Alice a big smile.”
When the Tri-City Independent Newspaper asked Julian how he’d describe his portraitures, the photographer remarked, "My portraits are part mystery and part art through photography."
As word spread, a St. Louis newspaper compared Julian Courtois to the prominent New York photographer, Alfred Steiglitz. But as fate would dictate, Julian's meteoric rise to fame was suddenly derailed in 1917 when America entered World War I. After bidding adieu to, Laura and Emma, his two spinster sisters who had followed him to America, Private First Class, Julian Courtois, U. S. M. C. went ‘over there’. He was determined to put an end to the war that U. S. President Wilson promised would end all wars.
Eventually, PFC Julian Courtois found himself stationed in the French commune of Chateau-Thierry. Situated in the north of the country, the rolling hills and farmland reminded Julian of his home in Sologne.
In the spring of 1918, Julian, along with other American fighting men had their first encounter with the Teutonic hordes. Julian’s outfit was led by Sargent Daniel Daly, one of only 19 men to have received the Medal of Honor twice. Daly was a fierce warrior who led his men by example. Bloodied, but not beaten, the American Expeditionary Force held Chateau-Thierry, even pushing the Hun back across the Marne River. Some said it was Sargent Daly’s battle-cry that led his troops to victory and saved the day.
Once the hostilities in Europe ended, Sergeant Julian Courtois, along with the other veterans, returned home to Festus. The whole town turned out for a big welcoming parade. But once the hoopla wore off and the beer kegs drained dry, it was back to business as usual at Model Studio. Much to Julian and his customers dismay, the intense desire to create works of art had evaporated. The great photographer's brief dance with the light seemed to have been extinguished.
It was in the wee hours of an August morning, shortly before Prohibition became the law of the land, that Julian Courtois staggered down Festus Main St. He carried a half-pint of whiskey in each pocket of his jacket and a lighted 'coal oil' heater on his shoulder. When asked why he was acting in such a peculiar manner, Julian replied, "I own the damn heater, so why not use it?"
Mumbling incoherently to his dead comrades-in-arms that had been left six-feet under ‘over there’, Julian lurched to a stop at the corner of Main and Mill. Just as he brought a bottle up to his lips for a nip, the tipsy photographer was surrounded by a swarm of needy drunks seeking to warm their cockles by his fire while quenching their parched throats with his liquor.
The next night while at #2 Main St., Julian was knocking back a few pints in Haefner's Saloon. That’s when he noticed a Festus newcomer, Dr. Harry Yoskit. Always interested in a different point of view, Julian stuck up a conversation with the dark-haired doctor.
When asked what he did during the Great War, Dr. Yoskit replied, “I served as an Army surgeon.”
“And now?”
“I’m setting up my practice in Festus. Only one problem, my wife insists I treat my patients in an office and not at home.” Yoskit grunted and sipped his beer.
Julian smiled and patted the shorter man’s shoulder. “There’s an empty space at #116 Main Street. The building’s owner owes me a favor. I made his homely daughter look downright fetching.”
“Yes, that’s very good,” Dr. Yoskit said. “In the meantime, Mr. Courtois, why don’t you come visit my home-office on north Mill Street?”
“No need for that, Doctor Yoskit. You see, I’m healthy as a horse.”
Dr. Yoskit smiled and pointed to Julian’s head “Of course you are, on the outside, but what about up there?”
The next evening, inside the home office of Doctor Yoskit, Julian, who was clad in purple silk pajamas, was lounging on an overstuffed sofa. Sitting on a straight-back chair, the doctor, with his favorite briar pipe in hand, leaned toward his guest. The pair had been together for about an hour, Julian giving Doctor Yoskit a brief tour of his battlefield experiences, when the doctor, asked, “In the trenches, that’s where your friend was killed?”
Julian examined his long slender fingers, and replied, “He died in my arms. There wasn’t a mark on him. The explosion must’ve scrambled his brains.”
“Terrible thing, war,” Dr. Yoskit said, thumping the pipe’s dead ashes into the palm of his hand. “I lost a brother.”
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Julian said, “My friend was my partner. We loved each other. At first, I didn’t think I could live without him. I took terrible chances with my life running headfirst into danger. I wanted to end it all, right there and then.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Nope. At heart, I’m a coward. I’m drinking myself to death, now. Maybe that’s why I keep having that stupid dream.”
“Would you like to share it?” Dr. Yoskit asked, lighting the fresh tobacco in the bowl of his pipe.
Julian settled into the sofa and closed his eyes. “In the dream, I’m back in the trenches. The Hun is hitting us with everything he’s got, even the German kaiser’s medals. Just as the bombardment reaches a crescendo, Sargent Daly climbs to the top of the trench, and hollers, “Come on, you sons of a bitches, do you want to live forever?” That’s when I wake up. Crazy, right?”
Doctor Yoskit gave Julian a small smile. “No, not crazy, Mr. Courtois. You don’t mind if I try to explain the significance of the dream, do you?”
“Heavens no. I’m glad to get it out of my brain into somebody else’s head.”
Dr. Yoskit grunted, “Good, good. For the past several years, I’ve been a distant student of the great psychoanalyst, Dr. Sigmund Freud. Your dream, Julian, is a picture-puzzle. Although it appears unreal, your Sargent putting his life in grave danger to inspire the troops, the dream has great meaning. As Dr. Freud writes in Interpretation of Dreams, “Dreams form a poetical phrase of the greatest beauty and significance”. Tell me, Julian, when you were a child, what was your biggest fear?”
Julian chuckled. “Being a Freudian, I suppose you already know the answer to that one, Doc.” Dr. Yoskit silently watched as Julian rose to a sitting position. When he was eyeball-to-eyeball with the doctor, Julian continued. “But you’d be wrong. My mother was a sweet, gentle soul. Ever since I was a small lad, I’ve been terrified of being shot. I assume it was because of my gun-toting job for amateur hunters.”
“But, in your dream, when Sargent Daly gave that challenge, even though your biggest fear is being shot, you go over the top, right?”
Julian nodded and whispered, “Not in the dream, but I did in real life.”
“So did your partner. But you came back, and he didn’t. I think, Julian, you are having pangs of survivor’s guilt. Some call this sort of problem shellshock. Thousands of men have come back wounded, not in any physical way, but from what they saw and experienced.”
“So, what do I do? How to I cope with what’s going on inside my head?”
“You throw yourself into what you love and don’t look back. Even though we both lost someone we held dear, life goes on.”
Julian continued his talking visits with Doctor Yoskit’s and took the sage man’s advice. He reopened Model Studio with a newfound vigor. In the late 1940’s a teenager by the name of David Witte joined Julian at Model Studio. Witte graduated from Festus High School in 1950 and by 1957 he was taking portraits in his home at #218 So. 2nd St.
Julian Courtois, who took his last photograph in 1958, will always be known as the Photographer Extraordinaire of Festus, Missouri.