I am still hungry for the presence of my father

I suffered greatly from his long absence in Italy. I have this wonderful memory of our family gatherings…he taught us to listen carefully to other people, not to interrupt the speaker even if you disagreed with him, not to say things that wounded, at meals only to say what helped to encourage the general conviviality and to behave virtuously. My father radiated love. He was a very tender man, he held the family together. When he was a boy he had been deprived of maternal affection, and so he was tender, extremely tender, to all of us.

Both proud and modest, satisfied but not vain, careful of himself but attentive to other people’s problems, he lived in harmony with all the elements of his nature. I am sure that it was the exceptional devotion of my mother that enabled him to live for his painting. Without her he would never have found time to paint. My mother painted with him, without brushes, by creating an atmosphere of peace and serenity at home. He was entirely taken up with his art and left her the authority; it was she who looked after our education, our schooling, our trips, and everything we needed – our mother, father, sister and friend. The family was like an enterprise directed in the most remarkable way by my mother. She spiritually complemented my father. My father used to say, ‘When I’m painting, I don’t want anyone to disturb me.’

My father was extremely popular in La Marsa, where the young boys and girls poured out their affectionate gratitude for the artistic training he gave them. He knew how to be pleasant and to find words which went straight to the heart. Whatever he looked at with his poetic vision became beautiful. He liked everybody and was fond of saying, ‘There’s room in my heart for everyone.’
When he shut himself up in his studio for hours, we weren’t unhappy, we respected his work. Sometimes I would dare to open the door quietly, seeking his affection. He never got angry, but would take me into his arms and shower me with tender affection, and this enriched his inspiration. He had confidence in my judgement. That’s probably because I was his eldest daughter and we had this deep, wonderful relationship. He liked my drawings and encouraged me to go further.

My father was a man of principle. A man of honour. He took care of his person, was very elegant, looked like a Hollywood star. He paid great attention to the way we spoke, making sure we did not let our education down. He was just as considerate to humble people as to those who were important.

He wanted to produce a successful picture and a successful family. And he wanted to depict Tunisia’s history in his work.

My mother was extremely fond of my father. She was his counterpart, his memory, his extension, his alter ego.

My father got great pleasure from reading and listening to music. He was a very cultured man. His determination to continue studying in Rome resulted from his wish to prove that he was capable of succeeding and to honour the memory of his own father, who wanted him to go on to higher studies. To get the brilliant results he did, he worked hard and with determination. His thesis, on Titian, constitutes the proof.

He would start several paintings at once and work on them simultaneously over a very long period, gradually discovering the inner soul of each of them; this kind of many-faceted work enabled him to look freshly at each one. When he painted the Beys of Tunis he tried to highlight each sovereign’s personality by setting him in a suitable environment.

For the poet and musician King Mohamed er-Rachid Bey (1756-1759), for example, he painted a restful, artistic background; for a tyrant like Ali Pasha 1 (1735-1756) he suggested an atmosphere of war and violence. He painted the rulers of Tunisia not as an artist but as an historian.

My father saw people as they were and seemed to get to the heart of everyone he met. He had an extraordinary perception of human nature. He would say, ‘I put people onto canvas…I paint them…It’s like capturing a moment of their lives in paint forever.’ Was it the painting of portraits which brought him the gift of delving into people’s characters or was it rather his perfect grasp of human nature which gave him the power to paint such portraits? Perhaps both. Probably the conjunction of the two elements gave him this deep knowledge of both the mysteries of art and those of human nature.
With his brushes he conjured up the Tunis of yesteryear. He took the time to live, to talk and to paint…he wasn’t in a hurry, or anguished, he was calm, thoughtful and level-headed. He never spoke of his problems; even his nearest and dearest did not know him perfectly. What he wanted to say about himself went into his art. Every aspect of his character appeared in his paintings. He was most careful of detail and left nothing to chance. A painting never left the easel definitively because he was always searching for total perfection. He was looking for harmony in himself, his family, his circle of friends and his painting.He couldn’t bear to see anyone break his word. He couldn’t bear anyone showing him disrespect. He hated vulgar talk, hypocrisy, unkindness and violence.

He was so happy watching us doing our revision; often we used to be on the look-out and when we saw him coming we would all take up books and start reading. When he came home he had in his mind a vision of happiness and his eyes shone with an unforgettable light. Although he painted from life the picture emerged from the depths of his being. Like all artists he was afraid of the time passing and that is why he devoted himself to his work. To be an artist one has to be himself. And my father was himself, completely. He controlled himself and controlled his work. The call of the canvas echoed a call deep within himself. He would go into his studio as if he was going back into his mother’s womb, true to himself, where authenticity is the only key to deserving that gleam of light which illuminates our existence.