I doubt there’s a word, or words, which can do justice to the astonishments below. This, ladies and gentlemen and fabulous gradations betwixt, is Mathilde de Morny. Born 150 years ago today, she was the pinnacle of hard butch Belle Époque amazon trans-aristo realness. Having completely abandoned the trappings of her assigned gender as the 19th century drew to a close, she withdrew from society a few short years into the 20th. Thereafter she pulled a mantle of mystery about her noble shoulders, living in melancholic seclusion until her death in 1944.
This is the first time I’ve seen evidence of Mathilde in later years. Here she is, in the hot glare of the flash, not quite ready for her close-up, some time in the 1930s. The man seen with her is photographer Willy Michel, who installed Paris’s first photo booth in his studio in 1928, where these candid shots, in a familiar strip format, were taken. Mathilde seems scarcely to relish the occasion, mostly avoiding the camera’s impertinent scrutiny and imperiously withstanding Michel’s attempts to get a smile out of her.
If however you’re unfamiliar with Mathilde – Monsieur le Marquis, Missy, la Marquise de Belbeuf, Méphistophela, la Marquise de Sade, Uncle Max – well, frankly I envy the discovery you are about to make. You can start your own sesquicentennial exploration among Strange Flowers’ back pages and read up on her life, her literary legacy, her bête noire, her wardrobe. Oh, also if you are unfamiliar with her, I should point out that she’s on the right in these shots:
