HIGH KICKS & FINE LACE

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 of his posters. Keeping step with the fast-growing U.S. interest in the Frenchman's work, such Manhattan firms as Esther Gentle Reproductions and the Paris Book Center Inc. are now putting out good copies for home consumption.

Much of Toulouse-Lautrec's popularity stems from his frothy subject matter. He pictured a devil-may-care world of generous bosoms and high kicks, a world that is gone but kindly remembered. The man was a genius besides. His line had all the energy of a high kick, his wit surpassed his exuberance, his knowledge of the human figure equaled his delight in it, and his touch was light as lace. He designed as well as the Japanese woodcut artists whom he most admired, and for their warm-milk sentimentality he substituted an absinthe bite.

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