Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was a bitter, boisterous, grotesquely misshapen mite of a man. He spent the best of his 37 years pattering up & down the steep streets of Montmartre, tippling in its gayest bistros and teetering on the edge of artistic fame. Half a century ago, liquor laid him by the heels. Last week, some of the work he managed between benders was on exhibition at two Paris galleries; a fictional biography of him, Moulin Rouge, was on U.S. bestseller lists; and the Baltimore Museum of Art had just staged a comprehensive show...
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