He lived in a garret before the war - the sort of place of legend and fiction. Three
windows overlooking the city, and heat! (The benefits of a wealthy father.) He painted like a Fauve
who had been trapped in the same room as Kandinsky for far too long. When the war came, he fled the
city on a bicycle, eighteen of his paintings rolled up behind him. He burned the rest, so that
boche would not get to them. He spent the war in London, painting the fires like Turner painted
his haze, and when the armistice was called, he put down his brush and joined the family business.