If I could climb into a time machine, I’d set the dials for Paris—1920, give or take. Woody Allen has already taken us there, which maybe cheapens my fantasy a bit, but who cares? I’d find a small place on the Left Bank, live on baguettes and wine, and spend my days wandering without much purpose—a true man of leisure. Le flâneur. I’d drift from place to place: into La Closerie des Lilas or Le Dôme, hoping to bump into the Fitzgeralds or Hem; over to 31 bis Rue Campagne-Première to sit for Man Ray; treat Joyce to an omelet at Restaurant Polidor and tell him stories from the future; gossip with Gerty and Alice over tea. Coffee? Both? I don’t know. I do know I’d like to call her Gerty. And I know that’s the world The Book of Montparnasse—Kiki’s Memoirs was made in.
Kiki didn’t sit down one day and decide to become an author. I imagine it had been swimming around in her head for a while, though. Isn’t that the way it works? By the time her memoirs were put together, she was the center of Montparnasse—a model, a performer, a presence people orbited. And a sex worker. Her book comes out of that world, like memories do—wanting to be told.
Souvenirs de Kiki was first published in Paris in 1929 by Henri Broca, who not only helped shape the text but issued it himself in what appears to have been a small limitation of 250. The book was produced in simple brown paper wraps, with a portrait of Kiki by Moïse Kisling affixed to the front cover, and illustrated throughout with photographs, including images by Man Ray with a preface by Foujita. This is the source text—the version closest to Kiki’s own voice before it was translated, introduced, and reframed for an English audience. Copies are scarce today, inconsistently cataloged, and often turn up under slight variations of the title, which makes them harder to track down. I found two copies in boards offered by significant booksellers, though these are likely later rebindings rather than a separate issue. In its original state, Souvenirs de Kiki looks like a book meant to circulate locally—handled, read, passed from one set of hands to another within the Montparnasse circle it came from.
Man Ray is there—not just photographing her, but, more importantly, her partner. Hemingway steps up later with an introduction, giving the English edition a kind of literary street cred. And then there’s Edward Titus, who I really didn’t know until now: expat, collector, publisher, bookseller. He sounds like someone I know. He ran a shop on the Left Bank called At the Sign of the Black Manikin. An old spelling—manikin for mannequin. Something staged. Something displayed. The artist’s model. The muse? Of course he’d name his press after the human form, set out for view. (I’d love to ask him, “Why black, Ed?”) And of course it would be a place turning out books like Kiki’s, a Paris edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and other sexually frank material—the kind of books that didn’t travel easily.
Kiki’s Memoirs was published a year later by Titus’s Black Manikin Press. It was translated by Samuel Putnam and introduced by Ernest Hemingway. It was issued in printed wraps with a fragile glassine jacket and a red wraparound band—the kind of elements that rarely survive intact. The kind of stuff collectors go nuts for. The print run is commonly cited at 1,000 copies. No limited or special copies were issued. Distribution was limited. The book was sold in Paris, sometimes directly by Kiki herself, who was known to sign copies. Story goes she charged 30 francs, which also included a fresh kiss next to her signature. The book was considered obscene in the United States, and with distribution costs factored in, most copies probably stayed in Paris.
The Fitzgeralds, Jimmy Joyce and Hem, Gerty Stein and Alice…Kiki’s the one I’d want to meet most. Maybe second only to Zelda. I should mention—in this version of my time-traveling tale, I speak French fluently. No translator. No English. Just Kiki telling it the way it was meant to be told. Straight from the source. So be honest, Kiki—did Picasso make for a better lover or better pictures? Between Man Ray and the painters—who knew what they were doing? And if she had a copy of her memoirs on the table, I wouldn’t hesitate.
Thirty francs for a signature sealed with Kiki’s kiss on the title page? That, my friends, is a bargain.
