Camille Claudel Page #6

---

create this type of inner sculpture.

Critics have often

compared her art...

...to that of another,

whose name I detest...

In fact, there is no similarity

whatever...

between the two.

The art of that sculptor

is the heaviest there is.

Some of his figures can't even

get free of the clay...

...in which they are petrified.

When they aren't crawling...

--hugging the mud

in a kind of erotic furor--

...then each, clasping another

body, seeks to recreate...

...the primitive mass.

Impenetrable, they repel

the light...like a thick wall.

She's frightening!

How embarrassing for her brother.

You're a wonderful poet,

Monsieur Claudel.

You've seen "The Gossips"?

It's so small...

...it fits in your hand,

like a secret.

Eugene Blot, thank you!

It's a triumph!

She doesn't have a style...

Ofcourse she's eccentric...

It's from Camille.

She made that dress

especially for the occasion.

A circus!

Nothing ever comes

out ofa whirlwind...

...except trash.

Still, Camille's work isn't at all

like Rodin's sleazy pawing.

Getting over Rodin has been

hard on her, you know.

She staked everything on Rodin,

and she lost everything.

My sister.

My sister...

...is a mystery in full light.

There's a way to approach

a mystery...gently...

I'm leaving, Blot!

Without saying good-bye to her?

The reviews were mostly good.

They only panned your "Perseus."

They found it too disturbing.

Some felt you portrayed yourself...

as having a severed head.

They've no right

to criticize my statue.

You've struggled alone.

You're the most

authentic sculptor I know.

Just disregard

the salon clique.

I sold nothing...

...but I will.

I'm not discouraged.

Your work can't help but touch

collectors in the end, because...

...it tears my heart out.

They scoff at you because

they can't destroy you.

Genius always terrifies people.

I should have bought

dresses, hats, instead of...

...indulging my passion

for dubious edifices.

Your art is so great,

nobody understands it anymore.

I love you, Blot.

Just send back

the works in plaster.

Keep the marble pieces.

Keep the bronzes, too.

You go, Robert, talk to her.

It's Robert!

Open up!

You! Open up!

A shame, using a child.

Robert, where's your dad?

All they do is sleep!

I am a sculptor, sir!

I get my ideas at night.

That's it! Good-bye, Robert.

MARCH 3, 1913

When I think of

how he suffered...

...when he learned the truth

about her and Rodin!

Such arrogance! Living

with him like a kept woman!

I don't even dare say

what I think!

She abused us!

Still,

I can't abandon my daughter.

Something must be done quickly.

"I, the undersigned,

doctor of medicine..."

MARCH 8, 1913

"...certify that Camille Claudel..."

"...suffers from

severe mental problems."

"That she wears rags...

certainly never washes herself.."

"That she has sold

almost all her furniture..."

"...although she receives from her

family--who also pay for her rent--"

"...200 francs per month...

"with which she could live

comfortably..."

"That she lives in isolation,

in a locked room, without air...

"...having sealed the windows

several months ago."

She amounted to nothing.

I amounted to something.

She didn't.

"She evidently is still

terrified of Rodin's gang."

All the gifts Nature gave her...

brought only unhappiness.

It's a total catastrophe.

My sister is swallowed up.

"...and a danger to her neighbor

necessitates her confinement..."

"...to a mental hospital."

MARCH 10, 1913

All these ordeals in one week.

The death of my husband...

my daughter...

It's horrible.

When she's better,

you can take her home...

My little Paul...

You came to see me in May...

...and I made you promise...

not to neglect me so terribly.

Madhouses are made

to inflict suffering.

It can't be helped...

...especially if

you never see anyone.

They try to force me

to sculpt here.

They don't succeed,

so they make trouble for me.

Don't forget, Paul...

your sister is in prison

with madwomen.

Mama wrote the doctor...

that I mean to harm you.

That I detest you and

am out to hurt you.

It's not true.

I wish she would take me

to Villeneuve with her.

Do you think I enjoy spending

months, years...

like this, without any news,

or hope?

Where does such ferocity

come from?

How did they manage

to change you so?

I'd really like to know.

You might as well

send me to Siberia.

Did you take care of my things?

Are they in Villeneuve?

Be careful they don't fall

into Rodin's hands.

He's so afraid

I might come back.

That's why he's keeping me here,

isn't it, Paul?

I would so like to go home

and close the door tightly.

I don't know if I'll be able

to realize this dream--

...to be home.

Oh, God,

I wish I were in Villeneuve.

Your sister in exile.

Because of the war...

...Camille Claudel was transferred

to the asylum at Montdevergues...

...on September 9, 1914.

She died there on October 19, 1943,

after thirty years of confinement.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes