When I was little and I read
stories for young readers, the stories frequently emphasized that their
characters were going on an adventure. This seemed very exciting, and I hoped
that I too would get to go on an adventure someday. When I got older, I did not
see any adventures around me, and I was disappointed. But when I got a little
older than that, I realized that having an adventure is a matter of
perspective. If you recognize what you’re doing as an adventure, you will tend
to find that life is all adventures.
I’d like to tell you about an
adventure along these lines that I wandered into last year. It’s been at the
back of my mind to tell it, and it involves extraordinary generosity on the
part of somebody else, so it needs telling. Here’s what happened.
Spring Street Studio is my
usual life drawing workshop. It’s a basement room in Soho with a model stand
surrounded by chairs and tables. The walls are lined with bookcases. Often
there are papers scattered about, abandoned sketches or photocopies of artwork.
One day I found such a sheet of paper, a color copy of a painting. Glancing at
it, I saw that it was a fabulous painting of Leah, my favorite model.
I love to see art that other
artists make working with models I know, and in this case, I felt a very
particular sting - the sting of seeing work better than yours based on your
model. But I didn’t recognize the hand. Whose was this? I picked up the
sheet and studied it - and realized that it was not a painting of Leah at all.
The model had a similar coloring and sense of pose. She had big breasts shaped
like Leah’s, and her belly folded when she sat the same way Leah’s folds. But
this model had a longer back and sharper features - she was somebody else. In
fact, the painting wasn’t even contemporary. It looked like an academic French
painting from the early to mid-19th century. Who painted this?
Like a magpie, I made off
with the sheet of paper. I didn’t know how to identify the work, but I did have
an even more magpie idea: why not make off with the painting itself? That is,
restage it. It was a Leah kind of a pose. The artist was most likely dead. Why
not steal his composition and paint my own version with Leah? I filed it under
next-few-ideas-to-execute - then suddenly I found out whose painting it was.
The Painter
Romanticizing the past is
nothing new. Rome has been the eternal city for a very long time. Between about
1800 and 1850, young French painters flocked to Italy to soak up classical art.
And not only classical art, but the landscapes which formed the backdrops of
its creation. Outside the city, painters made nearly mystical pilgrimages to
sketch hills and trees and ruins, blue skies and afternoon clouds. A genre of
French painting sprang up: beautiful Italian landscapes painted on little
canvases set up on folding travel-easels, painted in a few hours on day trips
to the countryside. Decades before the Impressionists arrived, students of the
Academy were already making swift records of the fleeting moods of weather, light,
and land.
Near the end of the previous
century, David had imposed a stern neoclassical ideal on French painting. A
single generation later, his student Ingres was already remodeling that ideal,
his painting slipping into a lifelong erotic reverie of proliferating nudes and
fluid, elongated lines. David’s sensibility was well suited to a national style
of painting. He survived the factionalism of his day, emerging as a favorite of
successive revolutionary forces and then of Napoleon. Ingres, so much more
idiosyncratic and personal in his work, was a more awkward fit with his
national role. He suffered a hot-and-cold relationship with the French art
world, acknowledged as a leading artist of the State, but never entirely
admired. In 1834, he retreated in a snit to Italy to direct the Académie de
France à Rome. The flow of young French painters with their classical
aspirations and portable easels washed up on the shores of his influence,
beholding the spectacle of his perpetually in-progress Venus Anadyomene
on their way out to take in the tumbled columns and the greenery.
She instructed them in the
director’s strangely retro vision for contemporary classicism - body
lengthened, contrapposto exaggerated - Greco-Roman to be sure, but with a
French sexiness: a daringly affectionate nod to the vanished entitlements of
the ancien régime, a recapitulation of the middle class fantasy of aristocrats
engaged in baroque sexual games.
In 1838, one of Ingres’s
students followed him from France to the Villa Medici, and in 1840, a second,
his best friend, followed. German-born Henri Lehmann was melancholy, even
depressive. His inclinations in his own art at the time were timid, his
ambition to become worthy of the tradition his training entrusted to him. His ami,
the French Théodore Chassériau, was more high-spirited, an adventurer who, as
Lehmann wrote to fellow intellectual (and probably also lover) the comtesse
d’Agoult, “on the third day after his arrival in Rome, drew the portrait of a
woman, whom in my heart I had coveted for years as the most desirable of
models.” Chassériau was that kind of a best friend.
The two of them were largely
inseparable during the late summer and autumn of 1840. During their time apart,
Lehmann did finally get that model to sit for him, describing her in another
letter to the comtesse as one of the “four most beautiful girls that you could
have as a model in Rome.” It’s not clear exactly who this model is, but his
description suggests she’s a professional model and famous among artists. By
resemblance to other work, this makes it as likely as not that she’s Marietta,
who sat for Danish artist Constantin Hansen in 1839, and for French art titan
Camille Corot in 1843:
I’d like to think it’s
Marietta, anyway. I think models get the short end of the stick, art
historically speaking, and I am always happy when the name and works of one can
be dragged back from the maw of forgetfulness and erasure.
Lehmann used his sessions
with this overpoweringly beautiful model, Marietta or not, to flesh out a
painting idea he was mulling over. The painting started with these lines from
Victor Hugo’s 1831 poem Les Feuilles d'automne:
There, pensive willows that
weep on the shore,
And, like an indolent and naive
bather,
Allow the ends of their
tresses to soak in the water.
Lehmann translated this image
into a group of nude women on the forested bank of a river - the central figure
taking her pose from the Venus Anadyomene, and the others grouped around
her, out-languiding each other. One of his first steps in producing the piece
was figuring out the right pose for each langorous nude river-lady. That’s what
the painting I saw at Spring Street was. It was a Lehmann study of maybe-Marietta
(clearly the Leah of Rome in the late 1830’s) in preparation for a bigger,
fancier painting.
The Painting
Usually Lehmann made
preparatory sketches until he reached a design that satisfied him. Then he
would transfer this design to the canvas using the precision techniques of
squaring or tracing. He didn’t just do this for the big paintings. He did it
for little paintings of the size and ambition of the Study of a Female Nude
as well. But infrared reflectography of this painting reveals no evidence of
such a method of preparation. This absence tells us something about the
painting. It was probably done in a single sitting, maybe three hours or five,
with the model present. It’s a live painting.
I am a careful and methodical
painter myself, and I use squaring to transfer designs to the canvas before I
begin. So I know what it means when you ditch this technique, because I’ve been
there. It means that your subject inspires you enough to give in to trust -
trust in your subject, trust in yourself - to work on the high wire, without a
net: the painting may fail, but if it does not, if it succeeds, then it will
pulse with life, the life of having been painted in a series of irreversible
choices, each choice awake, vivid, true. To regularly paint over a squared
design, and then to choose to paint like this, is to commit to inspiration or
death in the work, and nothing between. There is no more vivid testimony to
what maybe-Marietta inspired in Lehmann. She inspired him to be better than
himself. That’s what muses do.
There is lettering underneath
the tall, beautiful ass of maybe-Marietta. Like Marietta’s own presence in the
painting, it may or may not really be there. It seems to read “À Chas” - “To
Chas.” If that’s what it says, it would appear to be inscribed by Lehmann to his
best friend Chassériau. It would suggest Lehmann assigned the painting as a
gift, a gift recalling a moment in the friendship of two creative young men,
sharing an adventure together in a foreign land, both of them drunk on talent
and prone to intense emotions and sentiments, chasing after the same women - a
summertime gift.
But it never made it to
Chassériau.
When Lehmann had arrived in
Rome, he’d lined up a prestigious gig - a portrait of the wife of the French
ambassador to the Holy See. And he was working on securing another commission,
a portrait of the famously pious and controversial Abbé Lacordaire. At the time
he was painting his Study of a Female Nude, the Lacordaire job had
progressed to that stressful and ambiguous point where the client has indicated
that the answer is yes, but never in so many words. Nothing is in writing, no
money has changed hands, nobody has committed to anything. So you, the artist,
just have to smooth your way through a few more days, and if everyone keeps
having a good time at these afternoon get-togethers, soon enough a letter will
be sent round to establish dates for the sittings, and all concerned will act
as if of course it was always understood the commission would take
place…
Anyway, Chassériau stole both
jobs, the ambassador’s wife and the Abbé. End of friendship; gift rescinded.
Ingres had had about enough of Chassériau’s bullshit by then too, and cut him
off.
The Curator
How do I know all of this?
Because of the way I found out whose painting that was in the color copy at
Spring Street. I was flipping, as one does, through the Metropolitan Museum
of Art Bulletin, volume 70, no. 3, winter 2013, and, astonishingly, came
across a picture of the same obscure painting. It was part of an article on
those landscapes the French art students were busy painting in Italy - it
turned out the Met owned a lot of the landscapes, and also that mesmerizing Study
of a Female Nude that wasn’t Leah after all. Here’s the cover of the article:
I don’t know how you do
things, but here’s how I do things. If I find something interesting like this,
and I have more questions, and the writer isn’t dead, then I’ll try to get in
touch with him or her, and ask what I want to ask. In this instance, I wanted
to learn more about the history of the painting, so I emailed the Met and asked
if I could get in touch with the guy who wrote the article - one Asher Ethan
Miller, assistant research curator, European paintings department. Lo and
behold, he got back to me.
Over the phone, he sketched
out the story of the painting, setting it not only into its historical context,
but its personal context for him. He’s a little bit in love with this
particular painting, and its tiny little perch in the tumultuous emergence of
modern art. He’s in love with its subject, and its paint, and its canvas, and
the story it may or may not contain. He’s in love with the letters between
Lehmann and the comtesse. He wants that ambiguous inscription to read “À
Chas” - if it reads “À Chas,” then the copious correspondence of everyone
involved nails down the rest: which afternoon the model came by, which
afternoon Chassériau dropped in on Lacordaire and guiled away the portrait
commission, what day Lehmann meant to give his precious gift to his friend and
what day he found out the truth… and if the inscription does not read “À Chas,”
well, all these things happened, but they don’t make such a good story with a
little painting for a prize. Therefore Asher Ethan Miller has sat down, as
others have before him, with Study of a Female Nude or its infrared
reflectograms, under a magnifying glass or a microscope, puzzling out the tiny,
sloppily written letters that do or do not loop together to form “À Chas.”
Miller is the extraordinarily
generous individual I mentioned at the start. His generosity is the generosity
of the scholar-enthusiast, who wishes above all to share his excitement in his
subject. Such enthusiasts of esoteric, unknown, beautiful things can be found
everywhere, and wait only on the passerby who shows an interest, to offer
everything they have collected and safeguarded. Perhaps I am such an enthusiast
myself; if not, I ought to be. It is a good and pure way to love and to live.
Not long after our call, I
found myself at the Met, invited to go over the records of the painting.
Perhaps you’ve been to the Met, and strolled its majestic halls and rooms, in
awe at this or that part of the collection. It turns out that this nearly
universal mode of appreciating the Met is much like reading only the
even-numbered pages in a book. There is at least one more Met in the same
building as the public one. It is a network of offices, hallways, and rooms in
which the scholarly staff goes about its quiet business. This space is not
separate from the space you and I know. It is interleaved with it: it
constitutes the odd-numbered pages. It is right there in plain view, accessed
by subdued and handleless doors you will never notice if you are not looking,
and cannot open without official assistance.
A colleague of Miller’s
ushered me through the looking glass, and I found myself in a tall, simple room
dominated by a long wooden study table. Desks on the periphery held antiquated
computers, a bulletin board displayed several notices, and one side was devoted
to wire mesh racks, on which were hung for storage some minor, you know, masterpieces
of the Renaissance and the Baroque. A folder was pulled from a file cabinet for
me. Inside of this folder were hundreds of pages of information relating to Study
of a Female Nude. One such folder exists for every item in the Met’s vast
collection. I couldn’t photocopy any pages, but I could transcribe whatever I
liked onto my laptop. So I sat at the wooden table for some hours, grateful
once again for my desultory high school French, reading everything, from the
laments of Lehmann about his crappy finances (June 4, 1839: “What a misfortune
to be poor when one is an artist at heart.”)(true) down to the modern-day
logistics which led to Lehmann’s painting winding up at the Met, grouped with a
world-class collection of 19th century academic French landscape studies of Italy.
This nude is not really a 19th century academic French landscape study of
Italy, in any way at all, but it tends to get lumped in with them on account of
time, place, style, and some dabs of dark green paint in the background.
A few weeks later, I visited
the Met one last time in connection with this adventure, and walked the
galleries with Asher Ethan Miller himself. He is a shy and well-dressed man, on
the young side of middle age and sturdy of build, with spectacles and sandy
hair and a quiet voice. He is plainly uncomfortable discussing anything with a
stranger but the artwork itself. This he rhapsodizes about with great fervor,
and great fidelity to responsible scholarship - much more responsible, I’m
afraid, than the soap opera I am spinning here. He demonstrated a dimension of
appreciation of the Met which had generally occurred to me, but which I had
never contemplated in a clear and specific way. Starting with the Lehmann, he led
me from painting to painting, across dozens of paintings, tying elements of
each to the next, drawing a map of influence, of common sensibility, of
dialogue and progression, of analogy and accidental and purposeful similarity,
so that as he skillfully pulled the ropes, it was as if the great and complex
tent of the nineteenth century before Impressionism rose again from the ground
and took shape before my eyes. The awesome, globe-spanning virtue of the Met is
that the relevant paintings were all there, all within a few rooms of one
another, on display and ready to unfold their stories.
Magpie
I got down to work with Leah.
We were painting together each week anyway, and we took a break from our other
projects to paint this one. I started with a preparatory sketch; I wanted to
compare what Leah’s body naturally did, with what Lehmann depicted maybe-Marietta
doing. At this point, I realized something that should have been obvious: you
learn a masterwork from the inside by copying it.
Here’s my sketch alongside
the Lehmann painting:
right: Lehmann, Study of a
Female Nude
If you compare it with the
original, a few interesting points emerge. Leah’s head looks enormous compared
with maybe-Marietta’s, and her arm looks very long. I happen to know that I got
Leah’s proportions right, which means that Lehmann’s figure is something like
nine heads tall - unrealistic superhero proportions. Stated another way,
Lehmann’s figure’s head and limbs are normally sized, and her spine is
unnaturally long.
Another observation about the
spine: Leah’s lower spine curves backward when she sits in the Lehmann pose.
Maybe-Marietta’s does not. Leah’s back bows out and to the left, while maybe-Marietta’s
rises straight up. I pondered this difference at length, and ultimately
realized I was seeing the same curve, with one key difference: Lehmann rotated
his entire depiction clockwise. For whatever reason, the
straight rise of the spine was tremendously important to him. So in my squared
underdrawing for the painting, I made the same rotation. In doing that, I ran
into the same problem Lehmann ran into - I lost track of where the figure’s
foot belonged. You can see my erasure here:
And you can see it in
Lehmann. It turns out the foot is the one spot where you lose what you’re doing
when you rotate this pose. In a 2009 article about the painting, Miller wrote:
“The canvas was larger when
Lehmann first painted it: the left tacking edge is original, but the right and
bottom edges are fully painted, indicating that they were cut down, while the
top edge barely extends around the stretcher member. Other evidence that the
canvas was cut down is the model's truncated foot at lower right.”
- Asher Ethan Miller,
A Study by Henri Lehmann for
his Femmes près de l'eau, Master Drawings, Vol. 47, No. 4, 2009
It’s truncated because he
fucked it up. The uncertainty about where her artificially-rotated leg stops is
visible in the final painting in no fewer than four attempts at placing it, and
it was probably more of a mess before he trimmed a few inches off the right
side of the canvas. I’d wager he left the leg unpainted in his painting not
only because it worked, but because the waist was the last juncture on her body
where he could stop without awkwardly calling attention to the never-resolved
problem with the foot.
Following Miller’s note that the undercoat was sienna, I placed a
raw sienna undercoat on my canvas:
And I got to work with Leah, painting my own Lehmann. For the
painting, I asked Leah to hold the more difficult head position maybe-Marietta
held.
As I painted, I began to understand the strange distortions in
Lehmann’s figure. Consider another painting:
Notice the accentuated line
of the back, the simplified forms, the three-quarters light which glows upon
the figure, giving her strong, drawing-like outlines. Notice the pastoral
wooded scene which rounds out the composition. This is an 1807 painting, Half-figure
of a Bather, by Lehmann’s teacher, Ingres. It is under the strange hand of
Ingres that the female figure softens and becomes supple, lengthening to a
dream-like eternity of back; it is in Ingres that we find the calligraphic
stroke of the spine, the thick dark hair, the glowing skin, and the unending
show/don’t-show tease of the half-hidden face and breast, which makes the
slight rear view so natural in his work.
The oddities in the Lehmann
painting are nothing more than the adoption of the tics of the instructor in
the art of the pupil. Most pivotally so, perhaps, are the broad smooth cheek,
and the dark piercing eye. In their Ingrism, they tell us that Lehmann’s vision
at this early point in his development was so profoundly shaped by Ingres that when
he went looking for beauty, and found it, he saw it through his master’s eye.
Lehmann the Man
My adventure with Lehmann
started with a monofocal interest in the startling resemblance of the single
painting to Leah. But it expanded over time because things are usually very
interesting if you follow where they go. I hope I’ve shared the fascinations of
Lehmann the artist and Lehmann the melodrama character. But there is another
Lehmann who speaks most to me, Lehmann the man, and it is in relation to this
final Lehmann that I ultimately did my work on the painting. Why restage an old
painting? Well for one thing it was easy. But as an artist, it was this - the
implication of Lehmann the man I saw in the painting, and unfolded in the
research - this was the Lehmann I wanted to converse with. Art lets us speak to
the dead; or rather, it lends a kind of ongoing life to the voice of those who
passed away long ago.
Who is Lehmann the man, at
least as I understand him? Consider for a moment Lehmann’s portrait of the
comtesse d’Agoult’s primary lover, Franz Liszt (the comtesse was a famous
author and knew everybody).
This is quite different from
the Study of a Female Nude. It’s more hard-edged and glossy and
decisive. It is a paradoxically sharp expression of a soft thought; the soft
thought is Romantic melancholia. The sensitive hand, the hunched back, the
half-shadowed face, expressive mouth, heroically flared nostril, haunted eye,
and furrowed brow - all are marks of the torment of the awakened mind, as
conceived by the Romantics. Lehmann ascribes these markers to Liszt, playing up
Liszt’s artistic genius. But, of course, he is depicting himself, as artists
tend to do. In a letter dated September 19, 1840, he writes, “I absolutely
cannot take art seriously. I have read things about it so fictitious as to be
absurd… items of genuine human interest quickly lead me back down false paths.”
I find this very moving
because I share these same doubts. I wake up thinking about art, I think about
art all day long, and I go to bed thinking about art. But I often have trouble
taking it seriously. It seems insipid and futile - certainly beneath the
dignity of anyone with any self-respect. What does it amount to? We argue about
it, look at it, write big fancy words about it, and assign limitless depths to
its meaning. But in fact it is stupid pictures on cloth, boring and of little
use to anyone.
I understand that my flashes
of indifference to art are symptomatic of a deeper indifference, a sense of the
entire Earth as a stark and nasty theater-set, large enough to support the
illusion of weather as it turns around its single large stage lamp; and beyond
the Earth, the universe itself as a cold and listless region, unanswerable in
its lack of purpose, true motion, or hope.
These are not healthy
thoughts. They tend to tie a weight to the hand so heavy that the hand can
scarcely grasp the brush and make the mark. Therefore I do fight them. I have
fought them for years, and largely banished them. But they murmur beyond the
edge of things, and can sometimes be glimpsed through a gap in the drapes. I
have a, ha ha ha, series of paintings I am working on which confronts
the problem square. But I am also attracted to Lehmann’s sense of disgust with
art, a disgust which bleeds before he can stop it into a general contempt for
humanity.
What is so attractive about
this? For one thing I identify with it. And for another, he doesn’t let it stop
him. Suffering from his doubts, he goes on. He makes things. He wishes to croak
out a final “no,” but instead resolves to say “yes.” So when I paint my version
of his painting, I am saying back to him, “I hear the no, and I say yes too.”
Lehmann sometimes found
consolation, as many do, in favorite authors. In the same 1840 letter, he
writes, “Victor Hugo, with the strong conviction and beautiful eloquence of his
[writing], revives me a bit, and to him I owe that slight effervescence that
still raises my spirits.”
Let me refresh your memory of
Victor Hugo with an extended excerpt from a dream he transcribed on November
14, 1842. It is not the writing Lehmann was speaking about. But it makes the
point.
“I was at home, but in a home
which is not my own, and which I do not know. There were several large
reception-rooms, very handsome, and brilliantly lighted. It was evening - a
summer evening. I was in one of these rooms, near a table, with some friends,
who were my friends in the dream, but not one of whom I know in waking life. A
lively conversation was going on, accompanied by shouts of laughter. The
windows were all wide open. Suddenly I hear a noise behind me. I turn round,
and I see coming towards me, amid a group of strangers, the Duke of Orleans.
“…The prince and I sat down
near the window, which looked out upon a splendid prospect. It was the interior
of a city. In my dream I perfectly recognized this city, but in reality it was
a place I have never seen.
“Underneath the window
stretched for a long distance between two dark blocks of buildings a broad
stream, made resplendent in parts by the light of the moon. At the far end, in
the mist, towered the two pointed and enormous steeples of a strange sort of
cathedral; on the left, very near to the window, the eye looked in vain down a
little dark alley…
“The sky was of a tender blue
and a lovely softness. In one place some trees, barely visible, were wafted in
a genial wind. The stream rippled gently. The whole scene had an indescribable
air of calm. It seemed as though in this spot one could penetrate into the very
soul of things. I called the attention of the prince to the fineness of the
night, and I distinctly remember that I said these words to him: ‘You are a
prince; you will be taught to admire human politics; learn also to admire
Nature.’
“As I was speaking to the
Duke of Orleans I felt that my nose began to bleed… The blood which I felt
streaming down my mouth and cheeks was very dark and thick… At length I turned
to M. Blanqui and said, “You are a doctor; stop this bleeding, and tell me what
it means.” …I continued to converse with the prince, and the blood continued to
flow.”
- Victor Hugo,
pp. 49-51, Things Seen and
Essays, Wildside Press, The Works of Victor Hugo, Volume 14
This passage has a number of
qualities which bear upon the question of what Lehmann saw in Hugo. Note,
first, how full of life Hugo is, how he brims with it. This is not only a
detailed world finely observed, but one utterly invented inside the man. Being
a description of a dream, it consists more profoundly than other texts in his
own substance. One senses in it the larger-than-life quality which Hugo himself
had. He is a city and its surrounding countryside. The scale of his life is
greater than that of other men, his colors brighter, his thoughts more
insightful, his emotions nobler. And yet he never takes leave of a relaxed and
brotherly empathy. You understand in the passage that Hugo does not see himself
as larger than other men. He sees all men at his grand scale, and if they have
lost the knack for spotting it too - he can remind them, with a little helpful
advice.
But he is not without his
shadow. He so overflows with life that he cannot contain it. He bleeds
terribly, blood covering his face. No doctor can help him. He perseveres,
carrying on regardless, his mighty organism replenishing as swiftly as it
sloughs off.
It is this ferocious,
all-too-human vitality which revives Lehmann from his torpor, like an electric
shock to the sciatic nerve. Lehmann, in the depths of his melancholy, is only
the shadow. He is all nosebleed and no dream city. He is empty and dull; there
are no details in him. To become complete again, he turns to Hugo to be
reminded of the rest of life.
He writes “in my heart I had
coveted [maybe-Marietta] for years as the most desirable of models” - but from
shyness, from lassitude, from inertia, he did nothing. It took the bristling
initiative of a Chassériau, the wild acquisitiveness of a Hugo, to prompt
Lehmann into action.
For my part, I like
Chassériau very much. I think his awkwardly-drawn Toilet of Esther is a
sexier take on the Venus Anadyomene than either Ingres or Lehmann ever
produced.
But I also like Lehmann, and
I like Hugo. I am all of them, and none of them. I have Chassériau’s lust but I
lack his animal impulsiveness and will to dominance. I am afflicted with
Lehmann’s sense of the curse of mere being, but I am not eclipsed by it. I am
not so livid as Hugo. I can see what might save a stranger, or think I do, but
I would not any longer grab him by the shoulders and roar salvation in his
face. I tried that, and it didn’t work.
Each of these men had a will
to greatness, which he fulfilled or failed to fulfill in the measure of his own
capacity. I too have this will to greatness, but whether anything will come of
it, I can never know. Increasingly I measure it in terms of what I can give
away, and so the ambition consists in making fine things to pass along. This
may not be much of a measure, but it’s a work in progress, and has the virtue,
at long last, of making the process nearly as pleasing as the goal.
Here is how my restaging of Lehmann’s painting finished up.
I learned in it what I could from Lehmann, and from Ingres too, and
from maybe-Marietta, and from Leah; the eye of each of us stares back from the
painting, although only mine and Leah’s are living now.
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