Meeting Valentino Molina: Lifting the Veil on the Incredible Life of a Savannah Artist

By Patricia Carson

Valentino Molina was born in Savannah, Georgia, in 1879. He was a talented and insecure young man whose life took a positive turn when his nude painting Cleopatra caught the attention of two elegant ladies who became his mentors. It then became a colorful roller coaster of events during the volatile late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Valentino became successful as a portraitist and lived in Canada, Spain, aristocratic London, Gay Paris, and southern France. He was affiliated with royalty, John Singer Sargent, Rudolph Valentino, and other rich and famous notables of the era. His paintings can be found in galleries in Canada, Spain, England, and in private collections here and abroad, as well as at the Telfair Museum in Savannah.

This is also the story of Molina's art, music, sexuality, the mystery of naked Cleopatras, and a home renovation that led to the discovery of his past as well as his surprising affiliation with the Gignilliat family of Savannah.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662408182

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Meeting Valentino Molina

Lifting the Veil on the Incredible Life of a Savannah Artist

Patricia Carson

Copyright © 2022 Patricia Carson

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6274-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-0819-9 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-0818-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Two

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Part Three

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Part One

Chapter 1

Our Introduction

I tripped and flung just-collected attic trash from my arms into the air. As I fell, I knocked down what I thought was an old window shade stored in the rafters just above my head.

Damn! I said. It cascaded alongside me, and I glimpsed blues, greens, and yellows as we both came crashing to the attic floor. I lay there for a second, making sure I hadn't broken any bones. Everything became quiet as decades of dust rose up around me. Still dazed, I turned and pushed myself up on all fours and crawled into the dust cloud. More curious than injured, I felt around, grasping for the item with its varied colors and smudged paint and started to unroll it. Inside, I found a painting of young male nudes surrounded by pastel-colored rocks, splashing in a river in a beautiful blend of rainbow colors. My sharp intake of breath came not so much because of the gorgeous painting itself, but what its discovery would mean. I sensed an instantaneous course change coming, one where I would be reconstructing an artist's life rather than renovating the home where I had found it.

*****

It was an autumn day in this excitingly new twenty-first century when I found myself on an old, dusty joist in a dark, dreary attic of a house built in 1823. It was purchased in the 1880s by Thomas Porcher Ravenel, my husband Heyward's widowed grandfather, who reared his three daughters here: Biddie, Emily, and Mary Wallace Ravenel, Heyward's mother. Mary married Tom Gignilliat and became the next generation to reside in this house with their three children: Peggy, Polly, and Heyward. Now Heyward and I were the present and third-generation occupants.

So why was I in that attic? Well, about three weeks earlier, I encountered my husband in the hallway as he was leaving to go to his office. I had innocently and, perhaps foolishly, remarked to my childhood friend and now husband of three months, about my desire to do a bit of renovation in his family home, where he had been the sole occupant for the past decade.

Heyward, wait a minute. I want to tell you something.

What's that? he asked as he leaned over and kissed my forehead.

Hon, this house is marvelous, but I would enjoy making a few changes to express my personal taste.

Hmm, he muttered as he glanced at his cell phone, sure, do it.

Of course, I will blend mine with the wonderful, existing family aesthetic that is here.

Okay, he said, I've got to go. See you later.

But wait, I do want you involved or, at least, excited about the prospect of this project.

This conversation explained why, instead of strolling among the moss-draped oak trees in the lovely Savannah squares, I found myself in the attic of this house, exploring its ancient contents and deciding how to proceed with this project.

When he returned home that evening, I was ready. I had prepared a seafood dinner, had a good bottle of wine chilled, and most importantly, had a projected cost analysis. This did get his attention. We discussed it at great length over wine and dinner, and I was delighted to see that his enthusiasm soon matched my own. Thus this surreal experience started.

Now as I leaned back against an uncomfortable wooden attic beam, I sighed and thought about what had transpired since my naive request. My first endeavor started after a pleasant, early fall weekend at Tybee Island. I came back relaxed yet energized and couldn't wait to start. The plan was for me to downsize the amount of furniture and accessories that were in the house and then ascertain what changes and repairs must be made to the structure to accommodate the new interior design.

Entering the crowded parlor that morning was daunting. I looked at the confusion and beauty all around me and felt overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. My first thought was What have I committed myself to? My enthusiasm started to wane as I stood there, wondering where to begin. I had lived in three foreign countries and gone through various home decors from German and Scandinavian to Middle Eastern exotica, and yet the enormity of this task was starting to dawn on me just as the sun had that morning. Collapsing in a beautiful but shabby maroon Victorian chair, my thoughts swirled, Why did I want to take on such a gargantuan task when we've only just married?

I huddled there thinking how the green Biedermeier sofa looked forlorn amid the jumble of multiperiod chairs: a lovely Queen Anne with its graceful curved legs, a pair of Duncan Phyfe latticed-backed chairs, one with a broken lyre-shaped splat. The spent shotgun shells heaped in two-hundred-year-old Amari bowls did not add to the feng shui, and neither did the comfortable Shaker rocker with a copy of the Columbia magazine resting on its cane seat. The rustic, down-home painting of Heyward in full hunting gear did not mesh with the portraits of family members and ancestors in formal attire. The German beer mugs among the Waterford crystal caused me to wince when I glanced at the credenza, as did the confusion of Wedgwood and Spode china mixed with red-and-white plastic plates. I was facing a huge renovation dilemma. I got up, walked around, and surveyed this labor of love that I had volunteered myself for—and felt dejected.

My mood was altered from excitement over the project to irritability that I had to do it. This was visual cacophony. I was a musician, not an interior decorator. What had I started? My footloose and carefree husband had been busy in his bachelor days with building and enjoying the beach house with his myriad playful friends. Suffice it to say, he had not been concerned with the decor of the old family homestead.

I knew this, I thought, so why am I so upset? Mentally answering my own question, I realized it was because I wanted to restore this home, and frankly, I wanted to do most of it by myself. I was startled out of my thoughts by the sound of the front door opening.

Heyward? I called out.

He strode into the room with a big smile. Hi there, finished here yet?

Hi, love. No, I am not finished here yet. I haven't decided what to do with ten of the sixteen chairs. I sighed.

He stopped, looked directly at me, and shot back, But you knew my mother and I had been in the antique business at different times, and we both liked chairs. Sensing this conversation could become a morass of emotional triggers, I quickly changed the subject.

Are you home for an early lunch? I chirped. I was going to prepare shrimp salad.

Oh no, just wanted to let you know that I found a workman to help you with moving things or whatever else you may need, he said, while you're doing all this unnecessary stuff. He smiled.

What could I say to that? I returned his smile, walked over, and gave him a hug.

After he left, I felt better, though still somewhat overwhelmed. I had never factored in just how much three generations of collectors in our families, and no discarders, could add up to. I had always intentionally avoided the parlor because it overwhelmed me with its busyness and beautiful clutter. Now I forced myself to stand in the center of this crowded room and gravely contemplate this desolation. My eye landed on a painting hanging by the mantle, one that had been lost in the noisy room. The brilliance of the blues, whites, and greens were like bolts of lightning catapulting me out of this gloom of ungenerous self-pity. I felt pulled by some magnetic current toward the painting. It was a lovely post-Impressionistic female sitting on a rock in the middle of a river. This central figure was not depicted as a water nymph or mermaid, but rather a self-possessed woman in deep thought. She exuded calm, quiet, and beauty. The radiance of her pale skin, the breathtaking colors, and sheen on the blue-green waters seemed to glow and beckon to me. I was puzzled by my feeling of connectedness and allegiance as if I were responding to destiny.

I sensed the artist trying to convey a message I desperately wanted to receive and to fully understand. In my heart, I knew I had met a new and fascinating friend, and it was decidedly not the lady in the painting. The small signature in the lower corner captured my attention. It was signed by the artist, Valentino Molina. My new adventure had begun. Inspired, I went with lifted mood back to my task. Little did I know at the time that the artist of the painting had occupied this very room on many occasions, enjoying the company of two generations of Gignilliats whose friendships had greatly influenced his life. I also did not know that I would become almost obsessed with that life as I would find more and more bits and pieces of his history scattered throughout the house. I knew there was a reason that I had been, somehow, chosen and honored, to put those pieces together, but why?

Chapter 2

My Confession

The next morning, my mind was completely absorbed with my new goal. Of course, our renovation was my top priority, but my interest now was split between these two objectives: first, this work on our home; and second, learning about Valentino Molina. Before going down to the kitchen, I quickly rummaged through an unexplored old linen press for some much-needed kitchen towels. My effort was rewarded with old, yet usable ones. As I started to close the doors, I noticed a wooden object on a higher shelf. Torn between my desire for my morning coffee and satisfying my curiosity, I grabbed a step stool, stood on it, and reached for the object. I was thrilled when I pulled out a small, wooden-framed painting—another treasure, hidden under a stack of linen tablecloths. It was a scene of a European village, located on a hill with houses of varying sizes and colors spilling down its graceful incline. It could have been in Italy or a number of European countries, but I doubted it was anywhere in America. It was signed by Valentino Molina. I flushed with success and felt my new quest was now sanctioned by fate. Stepping off the stool, I stood gazing at my prize. The buzz it gave me woke me up better than any cup of coffee I could make.

Patty? Heyward called, you okay? I thought you were on your way downstairs.

I am, Heyward! I'm coming down right now, and yes, I am fine. Things are already going well for me, I answered with a smug smile. I really believed I was starting on my predestined journey, and I was exhilarated. From the downstairs hallway, I walked through the living room, stopping to glance at the impressionist figure again. Something about the painting, or the artist, had bewitched me. He had to have been a charismatic person, or why would I feel this force drawing me to learn more about his life?

I was always so drawn to unusual, artistic, or eccentric people. Did being reared in Savannah have anything to do with it? The city certainly had more than its fair share of characters.

One character with whom I grew up should have been born with a cape, top hat, and cane to suit his personality. His family was genteel and lovely. He was joyful, mischievous, and lovable; however, his parents tried to infuse some discipline into his happy spirit by sending him to a military prep school. They did succeed somewhat. He became disciplined as a star athlete, was offered two college scholarships for these abilities, but had his sights set on a different college, Georgia Tech, where several of his friends had decided to go. He reveled in the social life there, at least for his first five years—then his father had a meeting with the dean of students and declared that he had sent his son there for an academic, not a social education. A few months later, he left with degree in hand and six long years of fond memories.

I had proven my proclivity to be attracted to these characters by marrying this playboy Georgia Tech graduate. As if on cue, he broke my reverie as I entered the kitchen.

Morning, sunshine, you look mighty serious for this time of day. He paused, not commenting on what I was holding. He didn't seem to notice my unusual silence either. I was nervous. My silence spread out longer.

Okay, it's too early for me to have done anything wrong. What's up? He smiled at me, then reopened the morning newspaper to the sports section.

I sat down, the artwork in my hands. Finally, I said, Honey, I need to talk with you about something.

Another silence, this one was my husband's. He gave me a brief glance, and then he nodded, looked back at the paper, and said, Umm, go ahead.

No, seriously, I do. I winced at the slight whine in my voice.

Yes, he answered, his eyes never veering from the newsprint.

Heyward! I barked.

Hmm.

I flung my hand outward and dramatically announced, Heyward, I'm falling in love with another man!

There was no immediate reaction to my statement as he continued to peruse his newspaper. However, a mischievous grin then started to spread across his face as he looked at the pages of the paper. He seemed amused.

Better be careful about that. He might turn out to be a rascal or worse, he said, the newspaper finally closing. Okay. What's on your mind? he sighed.

Well, I found some more artworks by the artist who painted the beautiful nude in the living room.

You mean Valentino Molina? I'm not surprised. I knew we had several of his works. He was a good friend of my family.

That's fabulous! I want to know more about him. No, I've got to know more about him. Something is pushing or forcing me to delve into his life…to understand some of his mystique and his…raison d'être.

Raison d'être? inquired Heyward with raised eyebrows.

Yes, oh you know, the purpose of his life. His artwork moves me so. I can't explain. Somehow he intrigues me beyond normal limits.

Heyward leaned forward, obviously amused by my enthusiasm. Hmm, from what I've heard, he wasn't too normal anyway.

Why? I asked, a question which he summarily ignored. Tell me what you know about him, I said quickly, my voice rising a pitch above normal.

He sat back. Hey, slow down. You're really into this, right?

Yes, I am, I said, somewhat defensively.

Heyward threw his hands apart in a gesture of resignation and spoke as if to an errant, hurt child. So was my father. He wrote a paper about him to present to the Madeira Club once. He started to rise from his chair. Honey, you can go and find it at the Georgia Historical Society. This was said with finality as he pushed his chair back under the table and turned to leave.

The Madeira Club? I know of it, but I really don't know its purpose. I pushed just a little further.

He stopped, sighed, and turned back toward me. Well, my father, Tom Gignilliat, and four of his friends started it back in the fifties. It was an intellectual eat-and-drink club, like a gentleman's salon.

You mean a social evening of good conversation, food, and obviously, Madeira wine? I inquired.

Yes, but it was more than that. Each member would present a talk on an interesting topic, and then they would discuss it. Like I said, Dad presented a talk and paper on Valentino Molina. He patted my shoulder and started to walk toward the door. Any more questions before I go to the office?

Wait, I do have another question.

A hint of impatience passed over his face, but his voice did not give it away. Yes? What is it?

Why Madeira wines? Why that Portuguese wine when, surely, they all drank different kinds. Of course, your father did show a preference for it, considering all the bottles I have seen in this house.

Now he smiled at me. He did enjoy fine things in life, as his son does, and as you did when you came back to Savannah for the Century Club dance, he said with a wink.

Well, I appreciated my ‘celebratory return to Savannah,' which included our consuming a bottle of 1867 Madeira, I returned with a warm smile.

I'm glad you remember that, he responded.

Of course, I do. I have never before had any wine of that vintage. Now answer my question. Why was it named for Madeira wine?

My father told me one of the family members of the Habershams, you know, one of the founding families of Georgia, had created a certain blend of Rainwater Madeira, so to honor that connection, they called their group the Madeira Club.

Well, that certainly fits with the interests of the members.

How so?

They were all interested in history, proud of the heritage of our region, and loved good wines. Typical Savannah, don't you think?

Do I detect criticism in your analysis?

Certainly not. It's just part of our city's character.

Oh, come on, Patty.

No, it's true. In some places, they inquire about your profession first. Here, we simply ask ‘What do you drink?'

What's wrong with that?

Nothing—we're hospitable, that's all. I want to know more about Molina.

Again, he sighed.

Do you remember him? What was he like? What did he look like? My questions came out in a jumble.

Whoa! Remember, hon, I was off at school when he returned to Savannah.

No, I don't remember. I have no idea when he lived or returned here. That's the sort of thing I want to know.

Okay, as I said, go over to the Georgia Historical Society and look it all up. He started toward the door.

I'm glad you're happy with another new project, but don't forget about the renovation, okay? Heyward walked out the door and blew me a kiss over his shoulder. You and Valentino Molina have a great afternoon. I'll call you later.

I watched his retreating back and reflected on my unique childhood friend who had beckoned me back to this city, our lovely wedding on Spring Island, and now our settling into his family home. I was only just getting started on our new life together and this renovation.

And now, I was feeling pulled into untangling the threads of some stranger's life. This was not on my agenda. And yet, there it was.

Chapter 3

The Cave

It turned out that it was not necessary for me to go to the Georgia Historical Society for his father's paper because I came upon it in a most unusual way. That same day, one of the workers and I were putting some furniture in the dark storage area in the basement. The worker, Daniel, had just gone down with a chair while I followed with the cushions. As we opened the door to the storage area, the smell of alcohol wafted by my keen olfactory sense, and Daniel and I looked at each other in surprise.

Daniel, did you smell that? I asked as I placed the cushions on the chair.

Sure did, he answered, looking wide-eyed and expectant.

What do you think it was?

Maybe some real expensive booze?

I agreed with his assessment. We must have a ghost who tipples down here because no human lives in this basement! I teased.

Oh no, don't tell me that!

Laughing, I assured him, Daniel, I'm just joking. Don't worry about it, and we both turned toward the stairs and quickly departed the basement. It was easy for me to say that to him, though it did give me pause. I wondered where on earth that smell was coming from.

That evening, when Heyward returned home, I greeted him with my mystery and ghost story. Actually, I had been hoping to come across some paranormal phenomena here but didn't really believe I would. The setting just seemed so right.

Patty, said my husband in an amused but somewhat condescending manner, follow me and let me show you something.

We went down to the basement and into the original kitchen of the house. It had an enormous brick fireplace and irons that served as the stove, the only cooking facility in the home between 1823 until 1939. Next to it was a door that I'd never noticed because the wide heart of pine planks faded into the wall, constructed from the same wood. On the door was a very small latch. He opened it and revealed a wine cellar and storage area. The now familiar scent was overwhelming as one of the bottles lay broken on the floor with the remains spilling out.

Another wonderful closet, or cave as it were, to explore, I thought. And I was right.

*****

The next day as I prepared my coffee, I felt a bubbling anticipation. I couldn't wait to go down into the basement and explore the wine cellar. I poured myself a steaming mug, grabbed it and my reading glasses, and headed for the basement stairs. I briefly lingered at the top of the stairs, hoping my expectations would not be broken like the bottle that drew me there. I descended and followed the faint aroma to the closet.

Upon entering, I switched on the dim overhead light and was greeted by the dust-encrusted bottles, which lined the shelves of the back wall. I realized it was too dark to read the labels, so I left the closet, placed my coffee mug on a nearby table, and went to the garage to get a flashlight. I crept back into the musty space and shined the light on the shelf and immediately was dismayed because I saw two bottles of white 1955 Rhingau and knew they were now very expensive vinegar. However, there were several promising selections left such as a 1969 Chateau Houissant, Saint-Estephe; a 1956 Chateau, Rheingau, Cabinet Schloss Vollrads; and a vintage 1961 French Ginestet, Haut-Medoc. The earlier collection of Madeira had been happily consumed by my husband and friends. I suddenly realized what a special gift Heyward had given me when he had opened the last nineteenth-century Madeira to celebrate my homecoming. With that warm thought, I proceeded to dust, cull, and rearrange the collection in a very contented state of mind.

When I turned my attention to the shelf behind me, I realized it wasn't filled with just storage boxes of ornaments or old fishing tackle. They were old, fragile cardboard boxes that overflowed with family scrapbooks, letters, and other memorabilia. I was astounded and tantalized by all this history at my fingertips.

Intuitively, I knew which I would explore first. Gingerly, I eased the box out of its resting place, concerned it might split apart after years of sitting untouched. It was heavier than expected, but I was too curious to wait for help. I struggled with it but managed to get it to the table where I had put my coffee, now cold, and where there was a reading lamp.

Under the lid of the first box, I found a jumble of smaller ones, as well as framed and loose photos, letters, and scrapbooks. I chose a small box and started to explore its contents.

The first batch of papers included interesting lectures that Tom Gignilliat, my husband's father, had presented to the aforementioned Madeira Club. I selected a couple of those and happily sat and sipped while I read them. Although they were well-written, they did not hold my attention. The first one was about the politics of the sixties, not far enough removed from my own history to be a riveting read, and not new enough to relate to my present life. It was like eating stale bread.

I put it aside and reached for a large, overstuffed manila envelope instead. The contents of this did hold my attention. They were old letters to Tom Gignilliat from former girlfriends during his bachelor days in New York City in the 1920s, a far more promising read. The