jeudi 26 novembre 2009

Marcel Khill et Jean Cocteau

A La Seyne-sur-Mer, chez le peintre orientaliste homosexuel et opiomane Maurice Tranchant de Lunel (1869-1944), Jean Cocteau fait à l'été 1932 la connaissance de Marcel Khill (Mustapha Marcel Belkacem à l’état civil). Tranchant de Lunel, ami "intime" de Lyautey, fut inculpé en 1925 dans deux affaires différentes, l'une pour incitation de mineurs à la débauche, l'autre pour infraction aux lois sur les stupéfiants. Il "organisait des dîners où des matelots rencontraient des officiers de marine et civils connus pour se livrer à des pratiques contre nature". Marcel Khill (1912-1940) avait seize 16 ans lorsque Tranchant le prit à son service pour en faire son "complice". Cocteau engage un peu plus tard comme secrétaire particulier ce beau ténébreux, fils d’un kabyle et d’une normande. "Marcel est arrivé au moment où je ne prévoyais que le suicide [...]. [Son] amitié me paraissait un rêve. Son amour m'a bouleversé de fond en comble [...], l'acceptation et l'échange d'un amour entre hommes, amour n'ayant rien à voir avec la pédérastie [...]", écrit-il en avril 1933. Il se targue d'avoir une influence bénéfique sur la vie dissolue du jeune homme. "Marcel ne mènera plus jamais le vie de gigolo. Je lui apprendrai le travail, les exercices qui bronzent et qui musclent l'âme et le cœur. Ne craignez rien. Lorsqu'il n'y a pas de bassesse, tout s'arrange ; on se retrouve et on est heureux."


Bisexuel, il est doué d’une énergie vitale débridée. Cocteau avait, au cours d’un voyage en terre marocaine, découvert et vanté jadis "le bel avantage arabe", si bien fait à ses yeux pour les "combats d’amour". Les combats prendront un autre tour semble-t-il, Khill ne dédaignant pas de briser à l’occasion trois côtes à son aîné... En octobre 1933, Marcel est sous les drapeaux, où il sombre dans la boisson - "c'est en essayant de substituer ce qui se mange à ce qui se fume qu'il s'est pris au piège", écrit Cocteau qui intervient auprès d'un médecin militaire afin de sauver son protégé "d'un monstre de sergent" qui martyrise celui qu'il appelle un "bicot"... Cocteau introduit Marcel dans la distribution de La Machine infernale qui est créée en avril 1934 à la Comédie des Champs-Elysées. Pour fêter le centenaire de Jules Verne, les deux hommes partent sur les traces de Philéas Fogg. Le périple débute le 28 mars 1936 à 22 heures 20, gare de Lyon en montant dans l’express à destination de Rome. C'est la première étape d’un pari fait avec le directeur du journal Paris-Soir, qui publiera leur reportage : faire le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours par voies terrestre et maritime. Le pari est gagné lorsque le 17 juin de la même année, Jean/Philéas et Marcel/Passe-partout débarquent au Havre, reconnaissant que le défi n'a rien perdu de sa difficulté soixante-trois ans plus tard... même s'ils ont eu recours à l’avion aux Etats-Unis. L'été suivant, Jean Cocteau découvre Jean Marais, dont il ne va pas tarder à s'enticher. En décembre, le poète effectue un voyage avec Marcel Khill, à Marseille et dans l’Italie du Nord. Les liens se distendent même s'ils se retrouveront à plusieurs reprises, souvent en compagnie de Jean Marais. Puis c'est la "Drôle de guerre", Cocteau et Marais prennent la route de l'exode tandis que Marcel Khill trouve la mort dans les combats de 1940... Une page est définitivement tournée.

samedi 21 novembre 2009

Gay Paris in the 1780s

On 10 October 1783 Jacques François Pascal, a defrocked monk who had assaulted an errand boy and stabbed him seventeen times, was broken on the wheel and burned alive in the place de Grève before a large crowd. The Memoires secrets, the most voluminous collection of news and gossip about the court and the capital in the last decades of the Ancien Regime, reported, wrongly, that no "sodomist" had been executed since Benjamin Deschauffours in 1726 and suggested, rightly, that the authorities did not want "to make the sin against nature more common by making it known" through exemplary public retribution. It explained that they generally exiled, imprisoned, or simply chastised men arrested in flagrante delicto, "depending on personalities or circumstances." It also noted that this vice, previously associated only with "aristocrats, wits, and Adonises," now infected the populace as a whole. "Commissioner Foucault, recently deceased, was responsible for this matter and showed his friends a big book in which were written all the names of pederasts known to the police. He claimed that there were almost as many of them as prostitutes in Paris, that is to say about forty thousand." The crime was already so widespread, the Memoires secrets concluded, that the authorities not only had no need to worry about acknowledging that fact but also had good reason to make a "striking example" of the monstrous Pascal. This case was not typical, to be sure, because of the identity of the man, the age of the boy, the use of violence, the involvement of neighbors, and the severity of punishment. The authorities knew that they could not eliminate what they called pederasty, any more than prostitution, by making examples of the most transgressive individuals. With the means at their disposal, they attempted less to enforce sexual morality from day to day than to contain urban problems in the long run.

As indicated by recent publications, scholars investigating the intellectual, cultural, and social history of same-sex sexual relations in eighteenth-century France, and in early modern Europe more generally, have a variety of printed and manuscript sources available to them. In studying prescriptive works written by theologians and magistrates, and by critics of the religious assumptions incorporated into traditional jurisprudence, they have realized that the laws were not enforced systematically and recognized that the critics had mixed feelings about this subject. In analyzing literary and polemical texts, which expressed social and political messages by connecting private and public order and disorder, they have contextualized perennial sexual themes in specific historical circumstances. In exploring criminal records, they have not only described the geography, chronology, and sociology of sexual relations between men (these records contain little information about sexual relations between women) but also discussed the ways in which deviance was experienced, regulated, and represented. They have asked what the men arrested by the police thought about themselves, as well as what others thought about them, and related their research to ongoing debates about the development of sexual identities. Three series of Parisian criminal records, composed of different materials and located in different archives, provide a considerable amount of information about the sodomitical subculture of the capital in the eighteenth century. Two of them, from the first half of the century, have been examined systematically, but the third, from the 1780s, has not. This series does not, unfortunately, include commissioner Foucault's "big book," but it does include his official papers, which document the cases of hundreds of men who did not make it into the pages of the Memoires secrets and other published sources.

Like the other commissioners of the Chatelet, the royal court with jurisdiction over Paris, Pierre Louis Foucault performed a variety of judicial and administrative functions within his district. Some of the commissioners were responsible for one category of problems throughout the city. Foucault, who had acquired his office in 1775, routinely handled cases involving sexual relations between men, almost always in collaboration with inspector of police Louis Henri Noel, who had acquired his office in 1778. It was Noel who was formally "responsible for the division of pederasty," to use the language used in Foucault's papers. The papers contain a number of references to and names of agents who assisted Noel with the work of surveillance and investigation, not to mention entrapment: Antoine, Brisset, Robinet, Saint-Andre. At least one of them, and probably others as well, had been recruited from the ranks of men arrested by the police: Germain Brisset was dismissed for unspecified misconduct and later imprisoned for soliciting, procuring, and pretending that he was still employed by the police in order to practice extortion (6 February 1781). Foucault's papers do not explain why arrests proliferated during these years, in response to instructions from the government or activities in the streets, but they demonstrate that the pederasts of Paris kept Noel and his agents busy between the fall of 1780 and the spring of 1783. The papers include more than 200 documents that provide evidence about sexual relations between men: 111 reports of arrests concentrated in several locations, 75 reports of nocturnal "pederasty patrols," 23 reports of detailed interrogations, 18 reports of residential searches for incriminating evidence, and 2 reports of denunciations by relatives and neighbors. The pederasty patrols, which provided much of the information included and produced many of the arrests recorded in the "big book," require a few words of explanation. The very first patrol documented in Foucault's papers, summarized in just two sentences, left him emptyhanded. "In the year 1780, on 10 November, at 6 P. M., we [formal use of first person plural instead of singular], Pierre Louis Foucault, conseiller du roi, commissioner of the Chatelet of Paris, at the demand of Louis Henri Noel, conseiller du roi, inspector of police, went with him on pederasty patrol for the purpose of looking after what might [missing word: concern] public order. In the course of which we visited the southern boulevards and various other quarters of this city, where nothing was found contrary to good order, which patrol was continued until the hour of midnight, and of everything above we have had the present report drawn up..." (10 November 1780).

Most of the later patrols were more successful, in the sense that the police usually encountered, arrested, and questioned men engaged in disorderly or at least suspicious conduct. On 31 May, 25 June, and 4 July 1781, for example, they apprehended six, seven, and eight individuals, respectively. The reports repeated the same formulaic language, but they registered variations in the frequency and itinerary of these manhunts, which often continued past midnight and sometimes concluded after dawn. Foucault and Noel patrolled the city at least once a month, with two exceptions (March 1781 and March 1783), and as many as five times in one month (July 1782). They walked the northern and southern boulevards more regularly than the quais, but they also checked what they described as "various streets and quarters of Paris where these sorts of profligates take refuge" (7 June 1781), in order to avoid arrest, or "various places where these kinds of profligates gather" (1 March 1782), as if they had nothing to hide.

As Noel prowled the city, by day and by night, with or more commonly without Foucault, he arrested men already listed in the "big book" or previously "unknown" to the police, to use his language, because he recognized them by name or found them in suspicious places, at suspicious times, with suspicious persons, sometimes dressed in suspicious clothes. Many of these individuals had already been taken into custody, sometimes more than once, and chastised, imprisoned (and subsequently released), or exiled. To cite just one colorful example, the haberdasher Charles Rassant, arrested for sticking his hand into the pants of a tiler's assistant in a billiard room, had been arrested just six weeks before for sticking his hand into the pants of a wigmaker's assistant during an execution in the place de Grève (8 February 1781). Others did not have records, but they did have reputations. The journeyman saddler Louis Ducros had been "known for a long time as a pederast" (10 September 1781), and the wigmaker's assistant Emmanuel Loyer had been "listed in the register as a pederast" (21 November 1780) before either one of them was apprehended. Noel observed such men strolling back and forth, on the boulevards and in the parks, and watched some of them make connections with other men. With the help of his agents, he caught a number of pederasts in the act, including a carpenter arrested in a stoneyard on the banks of the Seine (19 June 1781) and a silkworker arrested under the trees in the Champs-Elysees (5 September 1782), both with their pants unbuttoned. Two dozen individuals were betrayed not by their pants in particular but by their outfits in general, which generally included some combination of frock coat, large tie, round hat, small chignon, and bows on the shoes. After spelling out the sartorial details a few times (11 and 23 April 1781), the police resorted to shorthand. The gilder Core was "attired in such a way as to be recognized by everyone as a pederast" (15 October 1781), and the hairdresser Calman was "clothed with all the distinctive marks of pederasty" (6 November 1781). Others, like the unemployed Joubert, who was caught "in a suspicious posture," were simply "dressed like a pederast" (25 August 1782). The men who donned the "pederastical uniform" (4 February 1782) undoubtedly did so in order to make themselves visible not to the police but to other pederasts. Most of them, and most of the individuals named in Foucault's papers, would not have dressed in this stylish manner from one day to the next.

The papers specify the status of more than 250 men: 50 servants, 20 clerks, 10 soldiers, 10 shopkeepers, and dozens of workingmen, including more than a few cooks, hairdressers, wigmakers, jewelers, shoemakers, painters, sculptors, and glaziers. The servant Duclos identified himself to the police as a bourgeois de Paris, a man of means, but they were not deceived (20 November 1780). Several workingmen disguised themselves in bourgeois attire, presumably to avoid trouble with the authorities, with no more success. The police arrested half a dozen individuals who turned out to have the status claimed by Duclos and captured three aristocrats during pederasty patrols in the Champs-Elysees. The intoxicated baron de Lunas shook hands with one of Noel's agents and followed him (22 April 1781). Count Despaulx, dressed in a frock and tie, with bows on his shoes, asked a Swiss guard to take a stroll with him (23 April 1781). The marquis de Saint-Clement was walking and talking with an unemployed eighteen-year-old whom he had already picked up in the same location several nights before (16 August 1781). The police also took several members of the clergy into custody, including one priest, Mathurin Dupuy, apprehended in ecclesiastical costume in the Luxembourg gardens after dark (30 July 1781), and another, thirty-year old Francois Deleobardy, arrested, along with a twenty-year-old leadworker, in his own apartment (10 July 1781).

The reports specify the age of almost 250 men, including 37 between 15 and 19, 59 between 20 and 24, 43 between 25 and 29, 49 between 30 and 34, 21 between 35 and 39, 15 between 40 and 44, 6 between 45 and 49, and 8 over 50. A disproportionate number of them, some 80 percent, were between 15 and 35 years old. Many, though by no means all, of the men apprehended together turned out to be separated by five or ten or fifteen years. Noel saw a thirty-three year-old door-keeper accost an eighteen-year-old apprentice (25 May 1782). He charged one twenty-year-old with "taking advantage of the youth" of a thirteen-and-a-half-year-old (13 December 1780) and described another twenty-year-old as the intended "victim" of a thirty-two-year-old (6 February 1781). It would be imprudent to make generalizations about differences in age and patterns of solicitation based on these kinds of cases, since more than a few individuals in their teens and twenties propositioned or allowed themselves to be propositioned by males older than themselves, more often than not to make money. Foucault released the fifteen-year-old Prudhomme the first time he was taken into custody, "on account of his age," but had no more illusions about his innocence and no more doubts about his culpability the second time around, less than two months later (4 July 1781). He concluded that the sixteen-year-old Mostelin, who had already been warned not to frequent the public promenades, was "more knowledgeable about the reasons for his arrest than he wanted to admit" (23 October 1780). It is significant, nonetheless, that the commissioner and the inspector assumed that many of the men they arrested were involved in corrupting what they routinely called "young folk," who could evidently be turned into pederasts and therefore needed to be rescued from or at least protected against older sodomitical predators. It should be noted that the police did make distinctions between adolescent and prepubescent boys. They charged more than half a dozen men specifically with abusing boys, including one aged six (13 July 1781).

The police apparently assumed that pederasts were interested mostly in younger males and only in the male sex. They almost never bothered to ask if the individuals they arrested were married. Many of them were too young to be married, according to the demographic patterns of the time, but it seems noteworthy that only eight reports mentioned wives. Three of the men did and three others did not live with their wives. The reports, as a matter of fact, located as many pederasts in the disorderly world of harlotry as in the domestic world of matrimony. Three men lived with their mothers, who allegedly ran brothels, and three others cohabited with prostitutes, who supposedly procured sexual partners for them. Several more socialized with such women, including a "disreputable subject"named Vallier, who was arrested, disguised as a woman, along with a prostitute named Dumesnil, disguised as a man, in a tavern. When asked if she had really called him a "flucker or perhaps fucked] in the a[ss]," she replied that her words were nothing more than a "joke" (12 February 1781), typical or not in the demimonde? Several others were apprehended, like Vallier, in women's clothes, including a servant nicknamed La Petite Bergamotte (12 February 1782), and a fruitseller who lived with a man nicknamed La Petite Troteuse (15 December 1780). Judging from the reports, the police did not ask these individuals about their clothes and did not ask two others about the rouge on their cheeks (25 April and 29 September 1781). Perhaps they regarded these unusual accoutrements as conclusive evidence of deviant conduct and felt no need to ask questions. Many of those arrested or mentioned by the commissioner and the inspector had nicknames. More than half of those nicknames, like those just mentioned, involved female persons or feminine objects, but relatively few dossiers contain additional evidence of effeminacy.

Several nicknames, like Le Breton and La Picarde, indicate that the individuals in question had immigrated from the provinces. Some 150 men, like so many other residents of the capital, were not born there. They came from obscure villages, populous cities, and, in a dozen instances, foreign countries. Like the nineteen-year-old tailor from Orleans taken into custody after only one week in Paris (11 April 1782), they leared where to go to meet others who shared their inclinations. Men with addresses throughout Paris ended up in the same locations: the boulevards, the Palais-Royal, the Tuileries, the Champs- Elysees, the fairs, and the quais, including the quai des Tuileries, "known as le Canape among persons of this kind" (30 October 1780). The reports described one house in the rue Saint-Denis as an "abode of pederasts" (8 January 1782), but they connected one type of address with sodomitical sociability and sexuality more frequently than others: taverns, which they regarded as sites and sources of disorder. Taverns provided shelter from rain and cold, refuge from relatives and neighbors, release from responsibilities and problems, and, of course, some degree of privacy. Several individuals claimed that they went to taverns to meet friends or acknowledged that they went to taverns to make friends. When Noel captured two men dressed in women's clothes who had attacked some of his agents outside the Image Saint-Pierre, in the rue de Clichy, one mentioned that he had been going there every day for ten years, and the other mentioned that the two of them had met there and subsequently moved in together (23 February 1781). During one pederasty patrol the police apprehended four men, who had spent the preceding night in the same room, at the Cadran blanc, and a fifth individual, in the company of someone "dressed from head to toe in the most extravagant costume," in another tavern in the neighborhood of Vaugirard (15 October 1781). Pederasts reportedly held orgies at the nearby Lune eclatante (16 August 1781) and at a tavern in the neighborhood of La Courtille, where "various young folk" rented a room for that purpose (16 September 1781). Noel and his agents visited the Grand Salon, in the neighborhood of Les Porcherons, with some regularity and apprehended at least a dozen men there, including several members of what they labeled "cliques" (12 January and 12 February 1781). The "big book" listed the names of individuals, mostly unmarried workingmen aged 15 to 35, but the police recognized the existence of networks among them.

Some of the men arrested together already knew each other, because they came from the same province or lived in the same neighborhood, or because they had met through work or friends, but most did not. Some of them identified themselves to others through clothes, but most made their intentions known through words and gestures. One gregarious individual accosted several men at the opera (10 February 1781), but most of the pederasts in Foucault's papers looked for partners in the streets and parks. After one man accosted another, they typically walked and talked for a while. Sometimes they engaged in sexual relations on the spot, especially in the Champs-Elysees, since they could conceal themselves in the vegetation there. More often than not they went elsewhere, "holding each other by the hand" in one case (4 December 1781), "arm in arm" in another (27 December 1781). One night in the Palais-Royal, for example, a cook named Berger (a known pederast) said good evening to a servant named Less (previously "unknown" to Noel) and invited him to sit down. After Berger suggested that they share a bottle of wine, they walked out into the street and were taken into custody on their way to a tavern (8 October 1780). Innocent or not, Less represented himself as innocent, and the police believed him, as well as several other men who provided evidence about solicitation strategies. A servant named Perrier complained that a tailor's assistant named Brunet sat down next to him in the Champs-Elysees and, without saying a word, grabbed his thighs. Perrier got up at once and sat down elsewhere, but Brunet followed him and grabbed his hands (18 July 1782). A soldier named Maison reported that a servant named Sivars spoke to him in the shadow of the porte Saint-Martin, on the pretext that he needed help finding something he had lost, then offered to buy him a drink at a nearby tavern. The soldier accepted, he assured the police, with the intention of having the servant arrested. When they left the tavern, Sivars put his hand on Maison's pants, told him that "they would have a lot of pleasure together," and offered him twelve sols. Sivars claimed, in his own defense, that he had met Maison in a cafe a year or so before and that it was the soldier who had accosted him on this occasion and suggested that they might "have a good time" together. He insisted that he had not understood what these words meant, but Foucault sent him to prison (3 October 1781).

Noel assumed that many of the men he arrested had, to use his language, solicited each other. These men, anxious to exculpate themselves, did not reveal much about what they did together. Witnesses saw two journeymen carpenters hugging and kissing, but the one who ended up in custody naturally denied it (19 June 1781). The police obtained the most detailed information about sexual activities from the most unrepresentative sources, the boys molested by the thirty-three-year-old jeweler Joseph Lafosse. Pierre Varin, a twelve-year-old found in his apartment, testified that Lafosse accosted him in the Palais-Royal, led him into an alley, undid his pants, felt his buttocks, set the boy on his knees, and "manipulated himself," that is to say masturbated. Later in the day the jeweler took the boy home with him, slept with him, and caressed him again as in the alley. Varin reported that three other "children" and a wigmaker shared Lafosse's room that night and that "they said they were shooting" [qu'ils déchargaient], that is to say ejaculating (9 July 1781). The stories of the other boys interrogated by the police followed the same pattern in many ways, but fourteen-year-old Jean Baptiste Dauthier added more details. He stated that the jeweler had sucked his penis [verge] (Dauthier's word) several times and suggested more than once that he put his "bowels" [entrailles] (Lafosse's word?) into the boy's body, the only explicit references to oral and anal sex in Foucault's papers. Lafosse warned him not to let anyone else do likewise because of the danger of disease and specifically told him to avoid the Tuileries because it was frequented by "many vile men." He also instructed Dauthier not to say anything to his mother or his confessor, since there was nothing wrong with what they did and since his confessor undoubtedly did the same thing (14 July 1781). Lafosse forestalled objections by distinguishing himself from unknown persons he assumed the boy would dislike and identifying himself with a known individual he assumed the boy would respect. If Foucault wondered why Varin and Dauthier returned to the jeweler's apartment after their first nights there, he did not ask.

Lafosse gave Varin two sols and Dauthier twelve sols, perhaps in order to encourage them to come back. Several men who offered money to soldiers evidently assumed that men in uniform could be bought. A soldier named Jean Claude Clarard told someone who suggested six livres "that he could not be paid like a slut" (6 October 1780). Under interrogation he admitted that one Robinet had offered him money in the name of the comte de Buterlin and taken him to the Palais-Royal to meet the count, who put his hand on the soldier's pants, told him to return the next day, and gave him a louis d'or (7 October 1780). Few reports mentioned coins of any denomination, but many cases involved money, because many of the men arrested by the police solicited not (only) in order to satisfy their sexual desires but (also) in order to make money by prostituting themselves or selling the services of the "young folk" they debauched. Given their good looks and loose talk, not to mention their outfits, Foucault suspected that five "young folk" aged sixteen through twenty-one, arrested together in a billiard room, prostituted themselves to pederasts "in order to make money" (9 March 1781). He knew that a wigmaker's assistant named Callet procured for the chevalier Eklin and the marquis de M... and that this Callet had debauched another wigmaker's assistant named Lambert (12 January 1781), but apparently not the same Lambert, identified as a wigmaker's son, who spent a year in the service of the marquis de Marigny. Marigny did not hire a man interrogated by Foucault, but he did ask this man if he had any friends "with a presentable face" (7 March 1781). Pierre Paul procured for his master, the marquis de Thibouville, and some of the other servants arrested by the police undoubtedly did likewise (15 March 1781).

It seems likely that men of wealth and rank, underrepresented in Foucault's papers, employed the services of such intermediaries instead of soliciting for themselves in public places. Noel knew that the twenty-nine-year-old Villeneuve, arrested on his way out of the Tuileries with a nineteen-year-old who had arrived in the capital only five or six months before, procured for the farmer general De la R... fils (9 March 1781) and that Pujol procured for the abbé V... (15 December 1780). Other reports mentioned two abbés whose last names began with the letter V : Vineron and Viennet. When Foucault asked Pierre Cluzel, who was introduced to Vineron by an individual who had been raised and was currently employed by him, if the abbé wore ecclesiastical attire, Cluzel remembered that he wore his hair in a small chignon (25 April 1782), one of the marks of the "pederastical uniform." When the commissioner asked Jean Etienne Dessard, who supposedly procured for Viennet, if he had not taken a "young man" to one of the abbé's "parties," Dessard insisted that he did not know what the police were talking about (20 February 1782). A number of other dossiers mentioned sexual activities involving groups of males but, unfortunately, provided no details about who did what with whom at these private events. When Noel searched Clarard, who would not sell his services for six livres, he found the addresses of some persons "known for holding parties of men" (6 October 1780). The "good-looking" Lemenager, an unemployed nineteen-year-old, did not know if some of the individuals named by Foucault "procure themselves to men" because he had never been "in a party" with them, although he had, evidently, attended other such gatherings (14 April 1780). Fontaine organized "orgies" along with four other men, and Laurent invited wigmakers' assistants to "orgies" on Sundays and holidays (11 February 1781).

The police did not explain what went on during parties and orgies, and they did not, for the most part, define sexual roles and relationships in so many words. They probably assumed that younger males played the passive role and that older males played the active role, but they rarely alluded to such matters. They claimed that some men "prostituted" or "procured" themselves but identified only one individual, a twenty-three-year-old, married clerk nicknamed La Belle Parfumeuse, as a "passive" (20 November 1780). They described four others as gitons and thereby suggested that these four played the same role, without adding any pejorative words about that role: the eighteen-year-old soldier Clarard, "known as a giton of pederasts," observed in the Palais-Royal with others "known to practice the trade of giton" (6 October 1780); an unemployed nineteen-year-old named Dufresnoy, "dressed in the most suspicious manner," known to be the giton of a "famous pederast" named Chateau (1 December 1781); the twenty-two-year-old surgery student Lesec, the subject of several complaints to the police, known to be the giton of the surgeon Philippe (12 March 1782); and the twenty-year-old soldier Cabrol, who had enlisted in order to avoid punishment, known to be the giton of the forty-two-year-old shopkeeper Courville (24 November 1780). They knew that Cabrol lived with Courville and that more than a dozen of the pederasts, like many Parisian workingmen, shared living quarters. They used several different words to describe these arrangements: demeurer, habiter, loger, vivre, all of which mean "to live," chez [in the residence of], avec [with], ensemble [together]. When they were sure that the men were more than just roommates, they said so. Berger, who frequented the Palais Royal, lived "in pederasty" with Ferriere (8 October 1780). The twenty-eight-year-old Lange and the twenty-three-year-old Coffin, who were "continually together," slept "in the same bed." Lange had not only debauched Coffin, who continued to prostitute himself, but also staged a "sham marriage" with one Beaupre, "with all the usual formalities," conducted by the abbé de S.... Lange insisted that he did not remember the "scandalous scene," so the dossier, unfortunately, contains no other information about it (15 March 1781). The police recorded evidence of consensual and affective relationships, sometimes between men of more or less the same age, but they generally assumed that pederasts were promiscuous and that most of them bought or sold sexual services.

The commissioner and the inspector obviously did not expect pederasts to acknowledge their profligacy, let alone identify themselves as predators or prostitutes. They certainly did not want to enlighten any innocent men who had been arrested by mistake about sodomitical practices they might have known nothing about. For these reasons they did not ask questions about sexual activities in every case and did not always ask such questions in explicit language. They asked the twenty-two-year-old Leclerc, who was apprehended in the company and, as a matter of fact, in the room of the twenty-three-year-old Cotelle, "if something had not happened between them," and he replied that he did not know what they were talking about (8 January 1782). They asked the aged knife-grinder Jouvet, who had reportedly seduced "young folk" (5 February 1782), and the married merchant Mion, who had reportedly seduced soldiers (22 February 1782), if they did not have some cause to reproach themselves for misconduct, and both men answered negatively. In at least a dozen cases Foucault or Noel questioned men more much more bluntly, and most of them responded no less negatively. Asked "if he has never had relations or slept with men who served him as gitons," Jean Baptiste Amauderie responded "no" (6 October 1781). Asked "if he has never had the weakness to surrender himself to the passion for men," Jean Antoine d'Etignard declared that "never in his life has he had a weakness of that nature" (10 February 1781). Asked "if he has never allowed himself to touch men inappropriately," Pierre Cluzel affimed "before God that he has never allowed himself or even thought about allowing himself to touch men in the slightest way and that it is quite contrary to his manner of thinking and his tastes" (25 April 1782). In response to a simple question about sexual acts, he made a striking comment about sexual "tastes."

Fleurot denied that another man had made him any propositions "tending to sodomy" (27 June 1781), and Pruneau stated that he knew nothing about sodomy "through practice" (26 July 1781), but several others, like Cluzel, revealed much in few words. Belaire maintained that he had never allowed himself to have "complaisances" for men but acknowledged that he had been asked (by whom?) if his employer, the baron de Fenelon, had made him any propositions. He recalled that he had replied that the baron was not "of that caliber," that is to say that he did not have those tastes, since he lived with a female singer or dancer (7 March 1781). Clarard insisted that he had never lent himself to satisfying the "passion" of men but admitted that "he has been solicited to do so many times." He claimed that he had contemplated caning two individuals who made him "offensive propositions," no doubt because he wanted the police to believe that he did not share those tastes (7 October 1780). Jacques Courtois acknowledged, without any prodding, that he had just returned from Versailles, where he had spent four days procuring himself. In the gardens of the royal palace he had encountered someone who identified himself as the hairdresser of the comtesse de Provence, the king's sister-in-law. This person took him home but supposedly did not make him any propositions. Courtois declared that he had never committed the "crime of sodomy" but admitted that he had let men whom he did not know touch him and explained that he had been led into this "error" by "bad acquaintances" from the taverns he frequented, most notably the Lune eclatante. One of these men had bought him dinner three times and made him "various propositions" (19 July 1781). Asked if he had never noticed the "depraved taste" of many of his friends and if he had never succombed to the same "depravation," Jean Baptiste Cotelle confessed not only that he knew about their their taste but also that he had in fact surrendered to it himself in their company (28 January 1781).

Few men taken into custody incriminated themselves in this way. Some refused to talk, and one fainted during interrogation. Most answered the simple questions about name, age, origin, residence, and work straightforwardly and the sensitive questions about costume, nickname, friends, activities, and arrests evasively. Most of them acted as if they did not know why they had been arrested and, when they had a chance to do so, challenged the conclusions drawn from the circumstantial evidence by the commissioner and the inspector. When Foucault and Noel wondered what they were doing in suspicious places, at suspicious times, with suspicious persons, they maintained that they were just walking and talking "like everyone else" (15 December 1780). Durand insisted that the Palais-Royal was not out of his way (18 August 1781), Jeannal declared that 10:45 P. M. could not be considered an "unseemly" hour for a stroll (23 August 1781), and Desestre denied that there was anything "suspicious" about the fact that another man followed him into the rue Basse to see the construction in progress there (13 December 1782). Nicolas Bailleul, arrested on the way out of the Tuileries with a man he had accosted there, pretended that he did know know that "saying good evening to someone he does not know" was a "decent way of soliciting him" (4 October 1781). Claude Borin, arrested on the way out of the Palais-Royal with a man who turned out to be the agent Saint-Andre, explained that he had taken him by the hand because he thought he was one of his neighbors (6 October 1780). Francois Troyzer, arrested with his pants unbuttoned in the Champs-Elysees, along with another individual who managed to escape, insisted that he was just satisfying a "need," by which, of course, he meant nothing more than urinating or defecating (11 April 1782).

Men could not deny that they were wearing the clothes they had on when they were arrested or that they were carrying addresses written on pieces of paper found in their pockets by the police, but they could and did deny that they deliberately wore those clothes for some reason or that they actually knew the people who lived at those addresses. If they acknowledged that they had any nicknames, they belittled the significance of the sobriquets. Courtois admitted that friends called him La Belle Jardiniere in the taverns but nothing more (19 July 1781). If they acknowledged that they had been arrested or imprisoned in the past, they downplayed the gravity of the offenses. Hue admitted, in lively but loose language, that he had been arrested for "being found in a bacchanalian state" (10 November 1781). Beaufils admitted, after he had been asked about it for the second time, that he had been imprisoned, but for something so trivial that he could not even remember what it was (21 June 1781). As a last resort, when they could not think of anything to say or did not want to say anything else, pederasts could always claim, as more than a few of them did, that they knew nothing about the matter in question or did not understand what the police were talking about. Now and then Foucault expressed impatience when men did not answer his questions straightforwardly. When he asked Feydeau if he knew someone named Saint-Louis, Feydeau replied evasively that he knew many people with that name. Foucault retorted that he must know one more "intimately" than the others, since he had slept with him and stolen some shirts from him! Feydeau responded that he was not a thief. He thereby admitted that he was a pederast or perhaps simply acknowledged that he regarded, or believed that the commissioner regarded, robbery as a more serious offense than sodomy (23 February 1781).

The police assumed or at least suspected that a number of the men they arrested were guilty of other crimes in addition to pederasty, most commonly theft and extortion. They accused the shoemaker Berthier, for example, of stealing buckles from "someone he slept with in the rue des Petits Champs" (21 June 1781). They believed that Lemaire, in collaboration with two other "disreputable subjects," supplemented his income by selling clothes and articles that the three of them had extorted from individuals who did not dare to demand the return of the objects they had lost, no doubt because of the circumstances under which they had surrendered them (15 June 1781). The reports never spelled out the details in this type of case, but it sounds like such men solicited or allowed themselves to be solicited by prospective victims, then threatened them with violence and robbed them of valuables. An unnamed chevalier de Saint-Louis was victimized, presumably in this way, by the twenty-four-old Buquet, nicknamed Chiffon, and the twenty-year-old Lemarchand, nicknamed Griffon, who shared an apartment in the rue Saint-Jacques and prostituted themselves in the parks (6 and 7 October 1780). Foucault and Noel did not discover any incriminating evidence when they searched the apartment, but they must have suspected that this criminal couple had many accomplices, because they questioned at least eight individuals about them before and after their arrest. After their release from prison Chiffon loyally assured the police that Griffon had changed his ways (23 December 1782). Some pederasts provided the police with a considerable amount of information, about themselves and others, but most admitted no more than what they thought they could not deny and volunteered no more than what they thought they needed to say in order to exculpate themselves.

The commissioner and the inspector asked questions about acquaintances in order to collect evidence not only against the individuals they had arrested but also against other pederasts listed in the "big book" or still "unknown" to the authorities. When they captured two or three suspects at once, they inevitably required them to explain just how they knew each other and just what they were doing together in that place at that time. If these individuals did not tell the same story, the police concluded that they were not really acquainted and had actually "solicited each other" (27 December 1781). They obviously believed that someone like the priest Dupuy had no business consorting with the characters he first described as "friends" but later recognized as "disreputable subjects" (30 July 1781), and they evidently assumed that strangers had no business walking and talking with each other in the streets and parks. The police wanted to locate the men taken into custody within the network of sexual and social relations documented in their reports, and these men, at the same time, wanted to avoid guilt by association. They defended themselves, on the one hand, by claiming that they knew the men apprehended with them in public places and, on the other hand, by denying that they knew the men mentioned during interrogation or at least by insisting that they knew such men no more than casually. Valoux, for example, stated that he had met Lefevre through friends and admitted that he had "lodged" with him for several days but stated that he had moved out when Lefevre was arrested for a "scandalous affair" in the Palais-Royal. When Foucault asked if this affair involved a (female) prostitute, he prudently distanced himself from Lefevre by replying, the "opposite" (10 February 1781).

When the police found the address of the jeweler Lafosse in the pocket of the buttonmaker Amauderie, they asked him if he knew Lafosse, and he said no. They wondered why he had the address in his pocket, and he replied that he knew nothing about it. They remarked that it seemed strange to carry the address of an unknown person in one's pocket, and he recalled that the jeweler had visited him for some reason related to work. He acknowledged that he knew that Lafosse lived in the rue Saint-Christophe but added, somewhat defensively, that he had never visited him there. These exchanges persuaded Foucault that the buttonmaker, who reportedly debauched and procured "young folk," was "associated" with the jeweler, who reportedly propositioned apprentices and corrupted "children" with money (20 January 1781). After capturing Lafosse six months later, at his new address in the rue de la Juiverie, and recording the testimony of the four boys against him, they questioned several other men about him. Noel arrested two of his "friends," actually former apprentices, aged twenty and fifteen, when they walked out of the Palais-Royal after seeking to solicit and allow themselves to be solicited. Foucault asked them if they had noticed that Lafosse was involved with "young folk" and in "disreputable relations." When they responded negatively, he retorted that they were lying and that they knew about the jeweler's "indecencies." When he suggested that they must remember "what they did" the night Lafosse slept with the twelve-year-old Varin, they remained silent (18 August 1781). Noel described Fraigniere, who was apprehended a month later, as a "friend"of these "apprentices and gitons" of Lafosse and suggested that he, too, was implicated in the jeweler's sexual escapades (24 September 1781).

Lafosse, in his own defense, protested that "one can make children say whatever one likes" (9 July 1781), and another man accused of molesting boys blamed the charges against him on "women's chatter" (13 July 1781). The police reported that "all the inhabitants of the neighborhood" suspected that Courville was responsible for the "loss" of two "young" men (25 November 1781), and they mentioned "complaints" about predatory behavior in a dozen other cases. They recorded depositions from five witnesses against the married, thirty-nine-year-old cook Percheron. The three adults, all of whom described him as a dangerous character, testified that he had bragged about keeping a "young man," attempted to seduce a servant with gifts and drink, and lured a boy into his house. A fifteen-year-old reported that Percheron had made him "various propositions," caressed him, and unbuttoned his own pants in front of him. A sixteen-year-old reported that the cook had thrown him onto a bed, undone his pants, fondled him, and encouraged him to do likewise. Both adolescents, unlike the children molested by Lafosse, testified that they had not only resisted his advances but also struggled with him (29 March 1783). An apprentice cook named Jean Marie Paris, also fifteen or sixteen years old, could not defend himself against the unknown individual who raped him. When he returned to an address where he had made a delivery, in order to retrieve the dishes, this man caressed him "a lot" and suggested that they "have a good time together." When he refused, the man locked the door and knocked him down, then picked him up, beat him, threw him onto a bed, undid his pants, and had his way with him. Having satisfied his "passion," he gave Paris some money and sent him away. According to his brother, who made the deposition against the unnamed assailant, the victim told his confessor about the "crime he had committed in spite of himself" and used the money to have several masses said (25 January 1781).

His brother and his father did their best to console him, presumably by assuring him that he was not responsible for what had happened to him, but the dejected Paris felt "guilty in the eyes of God," presumably because he had been taught, or at least thought he had been taught, that sodomy, voluntary or involuntary, constituted a serious violation of divine commandments. None of the adults taken into custody who stated that they had rejected the advances of other men expressed such feelings, and none of the other reports alluded to the religious condemnation of sexual relations between members of the same sex. Foucault's papers contain some documentation about popular hostility, most notably in cases of predatory conduct and violent acts, but scanty evidence about collective attitudes more generally. When the police arrested Amauderie, his pockets contained not only the addresses of Lafosse and some soldiers but also two letters from his parish priest back home in Gascony, which indicated that his mother had complained about his behavior, but in what terms (20 January 1781)? Cluzel told the police that he had stopped visiting the abbé Vineron because of "public suspicions" but did not tell them just what people were saying about the abbe behind his back (25 April 1782). The "populace" pursued two individuals, one of them dressed like a pederast, through the Champs-Elysees and called them "rebels" (11 April 1781). The "populace" also chased and jeered seventeen-year-old Joseph Prainguet on the boulevards, not once but twice, "because of his indecent and distinctive costume" (11 October 1781). It was clear to Noel that the unidentified Parisians who constituted the "populace" recognized the "pederastical uniform," but it is not altogether clear, in retrospect, why they reacted in this way on these occasions.

Foucault knew that the "public" had already "judged" Prainguet but simply warned him, the first time, not to wear the conspicuous outfit anymore and then released him "out of consideration for his master," who combined the titles of commissaire des guerres and intendant de l'armée. The adolescent, who was (sexually) "employed," as it turned out, by the "most crapulous pederasts," disregarded the warning, so the commissioner had him locked up the next time. When he sentenced pederasts, Foucault considered many variables (including rank, record, reputation, and responsibility) and several options (not including indefinite incarceration). He let many of them go the first time they were arrested, including some already listed in the "big book," because he did not have enough information about them. He routinely instructed such individuals to avoid suspicious places, at suspicious times, with suspicious persons and occasionally advised inattentive parents to discipline their adolescent sons more carefully (9 March 1781 and 20 February 1783). In less indulgent moods he imprisoned men on the basis of nothing more than circumstantial evidence, especially if they were known to be "disreputable subjects" and especially if they had been arrested before, because he knew very well that that many individuals who had already been warned, incarcerated, or exiled were still "inclined to the same vice" (15 May 1781). Some cases, because of the identity of the individuals involved, were handled differently from the beginning or in the end. Noel released two of the aristocrats arrested during pederasty patrols on the spot. Foucault referred the third to Jean Charles Lenoir, lieutenant-general of police from 1775 to 1785, who agreed that the inspector's "suspicions" were "well founded" but released the marquis as well as the eighteen-year-old apprehended with him (16 August 1781). Lenoir later declared that "pederasty, in the long run, can only be a vice of great nobles," but he knew, as the police under his command and the populace under his jurisdiction knew, that this stereotype was anachronistic in the 1780s.

Like the executions of the Protestant Calas and the profane La Barre, which provoked the wrath of Voltaire and his brethren, the execution of the defrocked Pascal was not representative of French jurisprudence at the time when his ashes were scattered in the place de Grève. The authorities did not routinely enforce the letter of the laws against sabbathbreaking, blasphemy, sacrilege, heresy, gambling, usury, dueling, suicide, abortion, infanticide, prostitution, adultery, bigamy, sodomy, or bestiality in the last decades of the Ancien Regime. The principles of the philosophes, who had more ambivalent feelings about relations between men than they did about relations between church and state, undoubtedly influenced the legislators who drafted the criminal code of 1791, which did not even mention many of these issues, but decriminalization, in and of itself, did not revolutionize the repression of what the commissioner and the inspector called pederasty. This matter was already handled before the Revolution in the way that it was generally handled after the Revolution, not by the courts but by the police. The police did not describe it as ungodly, in the language of religion, or, for that matter, as unnatural, in the language of Enlightenment. They sometimes used emphatic adjectives to characterize notorious offenders, but, judging from Foucault's papers, they were not shocked, outraged, or disgusted by the offense, which, in most cases, constituted nothing more than routine business. It was not their job, of course, to moralize in their reports, but it was also not their objective to eliminate immorality from the capital. They knew that they could do little or nothing about sodomitical assignations and recreations behind the closed doors of private residences throughout the city. They also knew that the Parisian magistrates would not execute the men they could arrest in the streets and parks and that the available punishments would not rehabilitate most of these individuals.

The police used the word pederasty rather than sodomy, presumably because they were concerned about controlling disorder rather than eradicating sin and because they assumed that sexual relations between males usually involved corruption of "young folk" by predatory adults. Some cases involved such age differences, but others did not, and more than a few cases demonstrated the limitations of their assumptions about victimization. The sixteen-year-old Lormant, for example, confessed that he and another adolescent novice had fondled each other and "even lent themselves to each other to consummate the crime" before he had sexual relations with two of the Carmelite brothers, aged twenty-one and twenty-two. Arrested a week after his departure from the monastery, he complained that the two abbés he had encountered and "amused" in the Champs- Elysees had not given him anything (7 April 1783). As indicated by this one pederast's progress, from sexual gratification to public prostitution, "young folk" were capable of taking the initiative in making connections with others of their own age as well as males older and younger than themselves. The police may have standardized the cases somewhat, by describing them in certain words and in certain ways, but their reports illustrate the diversity of the sexual subculture. Populated largely but not exclusively by working-class men, connected with the worlds of both notables and criminals, this subculture provided pederasts with places to meet, gestures to make, lines to speak, names to use. They satisfied their sexual desires with or without spending money, with or without employing intermediaries. Some of them dressed in distinctive attire or put on women's clothing, had sex in public, attended parties or orgies, seduced boys, formed couples, used violence, but most of them did not.

Foucault's papers confirm many of the late Michel Rey's conclusions about the geography, chronology, and sociology of sexual relations between males in the French capital, based largely on the depositions of undercover agents involved in entrapment between 1723 and 1747. They also suggest that fewer notables looked for sex in public places, that more men were exclusively interested in their own sex, and that more adults had sex with other adults in the second half of the century. They provide limited support for Randolph Trumbach's argument about the emergence of the adult, effeminate, passive homosexual role in the eighteenth century, but this fact undoubtedly has something to do with the nature of the sources. The reports from the 1780s include a large number of examples of feminine nicknames but only a modest number of dossiers containing additional evidence of effeminacy. They do not provide much information about what pederasts did in the relatively private space of taverns, where Rey located striking cases of effeminate gestures and behavior. And they do not reveal what pederasts said to each other or to agents who engaged them in conversation before having them arrested. The men were not usually apprehended under circumstances that might have encouraged them to express a desire to be penetrated by other males, and the police were not especially interested in who played what role. Whatever their limitations, the Parisian police records, along with those from London and various Dutch cities provide important evidence about the development of sexual identities. The papers of the eighteenth-century Foucault suggest, contrary to the pronouncements of some disciples of the twentieth-century Foucault, that it is not inappropriate to speak of sodomitical identities before the development of the medicalized conception of homosexuality in the nineteenth century.

The commissioner and the inspector did not spell out their assumptions in so many words, but they did not seem to think that all men were likely to be sexually attracted to and sexually involved with other men. They thought that some men, most of whom evidently had no interest in women, not only performed certain kinds of sexual acts but also displayed certain kinds of sexual inclinations that could be acquired much more easily than they could be abandoned. The police did not know, or at least did not explain, what made some men "determined" (7 October 1780) or "decided" (23 August 1781) pederasts, but they did know, as they had known for decades, that it was usually difficult and frequently impossible to make pederasts renounce or even control their inclinations. The jeweler Lafosse, who was imprisoned in Bicetre for several months and then exiled from Paris, ended up in custody again because he returned to the capital and continued his "infamous debauchery" (3 June 1782). Jacques François Bernard, nicknamed La Petite Perruquiere, was apprehended just three or four days after his release from the Petit Chatelet, under circumstances that confirmed his "infamous taste" (8 October 1781). Foucault and Noel arrested such men not only because of their individual acts but also because of the shared tastes that distinguished them from other men, not only because of what they had already done but also because of what they might still do, not only to punish them for offending society but also to keep them from debauching others. They tried to prevent men whose tastes they could not change by punishing them from changing the tastes of "young folk" by corrupting them. They were concerned about nobles who corrupted servants, clergy who corrupted students, and masters who corrupted apprentices, but they were even more concerned about the multitude of pederasts who spread corruption throughout urban society by locating victims outside structures that had traditionally helped to contain the problem.

Some pederasts escaped the police by running or, in one case, swimming away, and a few even attacked them with stones or fists, but most resisted in less demonstrative ways, by refusing to answer questions, confess transgressions, identify accomplices, implicate friends, acknowledge guilt, or discontinue the acts and repudiate the tastes that earned so many of them a place in the "big book." It is difficult to describe their consciousness, in the end, because Foucault's papers reveal more about what the police thought about these men than they do about what these men thought about themselves. Asked about his behavior on the boulevards, one individual confessed that he "had unfortunately remembered the inclinations that are only too common in the secondary schools" without, of course, explaining what he knew about these inclinations and how he knew it (13 December 1782). Asked about his acquaintances in the capital, another replied that "he sees very well that he was arrested on account of la Manchette" and assured the police that they were mistaken without, of course, explaining what he knew about men "of the cuff," another name for sodomites, and how he knew it (22 September 1781). The pederasts played cat and mouse with the inspector who followed them and the commissioner who interrogated them. None of them, to be sure, justified pederasty, but several of them made remarks that implied that they claimed for themselves some degree of liberty to do what they liked, when, where, and with whom they liked. When asked about his distinctive outfit, Beaufils asserted that everyone "dresses as he sees fit" (21 June 1781). When asked why they frequented the public promenades and the Grand Salon, respectively, Dufresnoy and Souchet declared that "everyone is free" (1 December 1781) and that "everyone takes his pleasure where he finds it" (12 February 1781). Several men insisted that they had no intention of doing anything "wrong" or denied that they had caused any "harm," and these words, if they constituted anything more than automatic excuses, suggested some second thoughts about conventional notions of wrong and harm (4 and 25 December 1781 and 10 July 1782). Foucault and Noel, naturally but regrettably, did not take such remarks seriously and did not bother to question these relatively talkative men about their sense of themselves before letting them go or locking them up.

Jeffrey Merrick, Commissioner Foucault, Inspector Noel, and the "Pederasts" of Paris, 1780-1783 from Journal of Social History, Winter 1998.

Jess past-ups

Jess Burgess Collins (1923-2004) began his career as a high security nuclear chemist, including a stint producing plutonium for the Manhattan Project. In 1949 the young man had a a nightmare about the world destroying itself, which disillusioned him with science and convinced him to spend his time doing what he really wanted : creating art. Given impetus by a sense of world-wide danger, his artistic calling was to explore his own inner truth and give it visible form. Two months after the dream, Jess moved to San Francisco and studied painting at the California School of Fine Arts. During this time, he met Robert Duncan (1919-1918), a bohemian poet who was a center of energy in literary and artistic circles. Jess found himself surrounded by gay occult esoterica and Dionysian nature rite (duly psychotropic, one presumes), in addition to High Modernist poetics, both literary and visual. Living together as a permanent couple, Jess and Robert became life-long artistic collaborators and explored common artistic themes of myth and psychological insight.



Jess "paste-ups," date from the 1950s. Tricky Cad, a serie of twelve collages from Dick Tracy comics, rearrange the words as well as the images so that the characters speak nonsense. The lyricism of the early abstract paintings combines with the irony and surreal fantasy of these collages in the later work. Untitled (Konrad Lorenz), from 1955, features a portly, gray-haired swimmer - wearing two eggs sunny-side up for goggles - emerging from a pond surrounded by ducklings. Various personages reaping a harvest in the foreground seem spliced together from different sources, but the effect isn’t disjointed; this is one of the few paste-ups to which a linear, if nonsensical, cause and effect could be applied. Untitled (With Jean Cocteau) figures as a loose collection of pictures of men, drawn from Michelangelo sketches, Cocteau film stills and television.



This last is significant: Jess began making work in the late ’40s; by 1955, half of all households in the U.S. had a set. While he made overt references to Surrealism, it’s clear that his vision anticipated much of what we’ve come to know as postmodern culture. Early collages used advertising images, art reproduction, pictures from countless magazines and slogans to present a satirical, absurdist view of sexuality and politics. Later, more intricate works juxtaposed layers of jigsaw puzzle pieces and cutout images to create protean narrative landscapes, displaying sensitive balances in color, lighting, and design. Jess has expressed a particular indebtedness to Surrealist Max Ernst (1891-1976). He transposes existing black and white images into full-color, expressionistic paintings. The artist has paired each "translation" with a written text from a literary source, often written on the back of the painting.




Many of Jess's images evoke more than one emotion. If all the World Were Paper and All Water Sink (1962) may appear joyous or somber, mirroring the viewer's thoughts. Glowing oranges, yellows, and beiges give life to the pervasive browns and olive-greens. Little rectangles fall like confetti or snow near a circle of children. A man and an eagle, depicted larger, gaze at each other from either side, framing the children. Particularly fascinating, here and elsewhere in the show, is the motion that appears when relationships between the larger figures are noticed. The children literally seem to move, bringing the viewer into a living dream experience. The Lament for Icarus is based on an 1898 illustration. Seen positively, it affirms the beauty of the spirit, beyond all ordinary existence. Yet the impact of the raw colors can shift, to evoke tragic images of death and a sense of a delusive preoccupation. The juxtaposed quotation from a letter by Rainer Maria Rilke expresses a mystical view, which can either support or complement the painting's impact : Icarus didn't exactly die ; he just subsumed himself in the infinite.



A Cryogenic Consideration; Or Sounding One Horn of the Dilema (Winter) - one of a series on the four seasons - conveys a lyrical transcendence with its sky-blue lighting and ephemeral blue-white masses; at the same time, its dark and light contrasts evoke drama. When viewed from a distance, the numerous fragments become part of a sweeping movement up the central mountain. Seen close up, the individual details form their own spaces and create their own stories; yet each vignette merges subtly with those around it. A Cubist figure with sunglasses stands behind a canister of colored pencils (lower right). Nearby, blue-white water and snow separate leaping dolphins from a dripping ice who staggers under the weight of a heavy vase (right). Fish emerge from space in front of a rock (left); one overlaps a ferris wheel. Circles of dancers (right and center) repeat a recurring theme . The vignettes are meticulously crafted, so that any part of the collage becomes a sensitive composition. The titles, like the images, invite open-ended exploration. A dictionary definition of cryogenics is "low temperature research" (which itself suggests ironic multiple meanings). Cryogenics have been used for nuclear research and for life-support in space, as well as in making and transforming frozen foods, in preparing nitrogen for fertilizers, and in performing medical surgery. Horns of a "Dilema" are alternatives, often disagreeable, between which one must choose. "Sounding One Horn," however, is a word-play that evokes music and suggests the affirmation of making a choice.




Jess's pivotal piece, Narkissos, combines themes of mysticism, irony, and romance found throughout his work. Jess began the drawing/paste-up in 1976 and worked on it until 1991, when he dropped the idea of the accompanying painting, the imagery having become too intricate to paint. Narcissus, in Greek mythology, is the overwhelmingly beautiful boy being able to love only himself. Unable to unite with the extraordinarily beautiful image he sees reflected in the water, he pines away until he dies, becoming, in the end, a beautiful flower. Neoplatonist writings, examined by Jess, interpret Narcissus' reflection as both an image of the true soul and the misleading enchantment of the sensual world. These ideas parallel Buddhist and Hindu conceptualizations of both our limited self-identifications and our fleeting sense experiences as illusions (maya). Jess's symbolism, however, is as much erotic as mystical. In his notebooks, he quotes a poem, by French troubadour poet Bernart de Ventadorn (c.1150-1180), about the eyes of the woman he loves:

Mirror, since I beheld myself in you,
the sighs from my depths have slain me,
and I have lost myself, as fair Narcissus
lost himself in the fountain.

In the context of another notebook entry saying he was "seeking finally to portray homoeros unprofaned, sensuous, joyful-fearful," the selection again universalizes erotic love. The idea of a male/female psyche is also suggested by another version of the myth, discovered by Jess, in which Narcissus, grieving for his deceased twin sister, gazes at his own reflection to console himself. Androgyny and twinning have been pointed out in the drawing's portrayal of Narkissos, the hermaphrodite prophet Tiresias (the figure with hounds over Jess's right shoulder), and a Gaudi sketch of Gemini (upper left). Bipolarity is echoed in the Escher-like drawing (upper right), where birds fly against dark and light backgrounds. Escher surfaces again (right of Narkissos's wand) in a circular procession of reptiles, who pass through a two-dimensional drawing to become real again. The quiet pool mirrors its own mysticism. Symmetry appears on its surface in a Chinese hexagram from the I Ching (above Narkissos' reflection), and two six-pointed stars (right and left of the hexagram), the smaller of which contains a central inscription meaning "blessing" in Arabic. Lotus flowers in the pool add to its poetry. In Hindu and Buddhist symbolism, the lotus represents the world's unfolding and transcendence.
While the Greek myth (in its best-known version) warns against the pitfalls of self-love or excessive pride, Jess removes himself from the story's moralism through spoof and surreal fantasy. In a little circle near the top, Nemesis, the spirit of retribution, peddles an old-fashioned tricycle - a stand-in for the spinning wheel used by the Fates. A rather stuffy-looking Eros is standing behind Narkissos, about to do her bidding. Below Eros, Echo is reclining on a hillside like a sunbather, while a mole with a shovel, a snail, and a frog (lower left) gaze up at Narkissos. Narkissos carries in his right hand a group of Krazy Kat cartoons: in one, Krazy Kat, with a question mark over his head, peers at his reflection in a large glass. To the left, a monkey examines his own image in a mirror.




Incorporating ironic details, the drawing as a whole emanates lyricism. The fact that Jess decided to leave the project unfinished seems fortuitous. It is only in a state of incomplete becoming that Narkissos can exist; the story's completion is his end. The tentativeness of a dream-in-the-making suits the theme of reflection. The entire drawing has the delicacy of a mirror image, shimmering on the surface of the water. Jess has commented that the Narkissos project and his other works are really the same. They all present continuing searches and open questions rather than answers - and invite viewers to add to the process of discovery. A central focus is a sense of spirituality, which incorporates male-female integration - both within the psyche and in a full range of personal relationships. Contradictions in life are addressed with an irony and humor that transcends them. While ambivalences and multiple emotions appear in much of the art, its ultimate effect is affirmative. When Jess chose to become an artist, he was inspired by a dream warning of universal disaster. In a world threatening to tear itself apart, he had found an artistic way to create wholeness.

sources :
http://ndgwriting.blogspot.com/2007_08_01_archive.html
http://www.sfai.edu/People/Person.aspx?id=147&navID=6&sectionID=2&typeID=1

lundi 16 novembre 2009

Les musiciens vus par les cinéastes

Les musiciens célèbres ont eu en général une vie difficile, quelquefois misérables. Cela est fort plaisant pour le vulgum pecus et s'est facilement établi en tradition qu'il serait dangereux de bousculer. En comparaison de tous les artistes célèbres, ce sont les grands musiciens sur lesquels les cinéastes se sont penchés avec le plus de tendresse pour les "voir" et les "entendre". Chose curieuse, en tête de figure l'inoffensif Franz Schubert, suivi de près par le romantique Frédéric Chopin.



En général, le scénario présente le compositeur amoureux d'une grande dame ou noble demoiselle. Celle-ci - comme de bien entendu - repousse avec mépris et sarcasme le pur sentiment de l'artiste, en lui préférant un monsieur riche ou encore un militaire rutilant. Le coeur brisé, notre amoureux se retire et s'empresse de confectionner une symphonie dans laquelle il laisse libre cours à l'expression de son désespoir. A l'audition de l'oeuvre qui (nous sommes au cinéma) a lieu peu de temps après, "l'objet aimé" (comme dit Toepfer), entendant une entrée de trombone particulièrement sentie, devine à la fois le génie et l'amour du musicien. Mais hélas! il est trop tard, elle est déjà mariée et peut-être mère de quelques enfants.Il peut se présenter des variantes, mais presque toujours cela finit mal pour notre artiste. La postérité a la charge de le récompenser.



Maintes fois, nous avons vu la grande cantatrice, idole des foules, prenant des mains du jeune compositeur, tremblant d'espoir et de confusion, le manuscrit de la mélodie qu'elle déchiffre instantanément au cours d'une grande soirée mondaine et qui obtient un succès délirant devant une assemblée d'élite, lui assurant du même coup gloire et fortune. Dans un film récent, une valse, exécutée dans une brasserie de province, parvient au même résultat. L'acteur qui joue le rôle du violoniste manie son instrument avec à peu près autant de dextérité qu'un débardeur procédant à l'opération de la cataracte. Il est vrai qu'il accompagne sa gesticulation d'un sourire fernandélique [...]. Dans un autre film, un autre acteur gratte un violon comme on épluche une betterave : miracle, on entend la Chaconne de Bach.

Ces messieurs les metteurs en scène ont, il faut bien l'avouer, des idées absolument erronées en ce qui concerne la composition musicale, et il ne serait peut-être pas inutile de leur donner quelques précisions. Ainsi, il est assez rare, sinon inadmissible, qu'un compositeur inspiré écrive le thème de son opéra sur le sable, du bout de sa canne. Dernièrement, j'ai vu aussi Georges Bizet notant une mélodie sur la glace embuée de la diligence. Un peu avant, il composait sa Cantate de Rome avec accompagnement d'un métronome qui bat un rythme manifestement inconciliable avec la musique qu'il est censé écrire et dont on nous montre le manuscrit en gros plan.



Enfin, je me souviens d'un Beethoven inconfortablement accroupi sur le bord de sa fenêtre et notant à l'aide d'un morceau de charbon le second thème de l'Ouverture de Coriolan sur sa persienne. Je connais bon nombre de compositeurs et aucun, à ma connaissance, ne procède de cette façon lorsque l'inspiration le visite. D'ordinaire, il prend un bout de papier rayé et un crayon et note ainsi ce que son génie lui dicte. C'est certainement moins spectaculaire, j'en conviens, mais c'est plus rationnel.

Autre erreur déplorablement répandue : la rapidité avec laquelle éclosent les chefs-d'oeuvre musicaux, selon les conceptions cinématographiques. Exemple : Dans une calèche, Fernand Gravey - Johann Strauss - se promène par les bois. Il entend le cor d'un postillon lointain : ré, ré, fa, la, la, auquel les merles, pinsons et autres rossignols répondent à l'octave aiguë : la, la, fa, fa. Il inscrit avec nonchalance ces sons sans quitter de l'autre main la taille de sa compagne et... deux heures plus tard, au dîner, un orchestre de dames joue le produit de cette promenade, Le Beau Danube bleu. Et voilà!




Et bien! non. Je trouve cela d'un exemple déplorable pour les jeunes gens qui ont des velléités musicales irrésistibles. Cela peut dangereusement les encourager à se lancer dans une carrière qui n'a que de lointains rapports avec ce que les cinéastes présentent. Même une valse ne se fait pas aussi facilement, et messieurs les cinéastes pourront s'en rendre compte s'ils consentent à jeter un coup d'oeil sur ce qu'on appelle une partition d'orchestre. Ils verront que, génie et inspiration mis à part, il reste à faire un long et pénible travail de calligraphie qui nécessite du temps et une certaine application ; et j'ajouterai même un certain savoir-faire qui ne s'acquiert qu'après d'assez longues études. Il est possible que cette révélation, sans amoindrir l'éclat de leurs conceptions visuelles, puisse atténuer le condescendant dédain qu'il leur arrive parfois de témoigner au pauvre musicien chargé d'écrire la partition de leur film.

Arthur Honegger, Incantations aux fossiles, 1948.

vendredi 13 novembre 2009

Mike Miksche aka Steve Masters

"[Michael Miksche] was a giant Paul Bunyan type, very strong, with a magnificent physique", wrote Glenway Wescott (1901-1987). "He had gone to war at about twenty, and within a year he was in command of four or five jet bombers, and he went on two flights a night over Berlin [...]. At that age he hadn't had homosexual inclinations and didn't have much experiences with women. One of the men in his flight crew was in love with him and confessed it. And Michael just said, 'This is all nonsense. I'm not going to report you. We'll be friends but we're not going to talk about in anymore'. He had this tyrannous, psychological sadism. [...] He wanted to dominate everybody, by his very nature. He took this boy and told him to calm down, that it was an idealistic thing, and they were having a love affair without sex. Two or three nights after this, the young man opened the door of the plane and threw himself out over the Rhine. And Michael almost went mad. I think he came back from the war with a sense of guilt and a sense of frustration, because by that time he wanted to go to bed with that boy."



After the war, Miksche drifted from California to New York. Having originally studied medicine, he did so well on his anatomical drawings that he switched his major to art. "He was a very successfull amateur artist and made twenty thousand dollars a year, way back then, doing windows for Bloomingdale's and trashy advertising of all sorts." Sam Steward confessed : "For relaxation and fun, he produced many pen-and-ink drawings of heavily tattoed men doing erotic and cruel things to each other; there he signed with his pen name of Steve Masters (note the S.M.)". His muscular leather men in painterly drawings, flat graphics, bright colors and faceted surfaces epitomized the "pop" look of Sixties commercial art.



Wescott recommended him for Alfred Kinsey's sexual films : "He did a lot of films with Miksche, one or two I looked at but most of which I didn't want to see! Michael was a terrific performer, [...] he was such a showoff." Deliberately, Kinsey had matched the aggresive Miksche with the masochistic Sam Steward (1909-1993) for two days of filming. In Chapters from an Autobiography, Sam Steward remembered his two-day sex session : "Mike was quite a ham actor. Aided by the gin, every time he heard Bill Dellenbeck's camera start to whir, he renewed his vigor and youth like the green bay tree ; his whackings took an enthusiasm that brought small exclamations of astonishiment and joyful shock from the few favored souls who were in attendance. At the end of the second afternoon I was exhausted, marked and marred, all muscles weakened... "




Wescott recalled "an exhibition piece for Kinsey [...]. Stark naked with an electric pencil, [Miksche] drew pornographic pictures, fornication, dancing and so on, in the air, and they were photographed in the movie. I must say it's one of the most extraordinary things you can see on earth." Kinsey was impressed but he warned Wescott that Miksche could be dangerous. In a long letter, Wescott conceded " A good many of the young masochists express fear of him. They fancy he will murder someone someday." Kinsey's instinct would prove correct. A married man, guilt overwhelmed him, leading to a nervous breakdown. In 1962 or 1963, remembered Wescott, "he'd thrown himself in the Hudson River and got fished out and put in a nut house." After seven months in Bellevue Hospital, he had been released and Wescott saw him one last time nearly a year later : standing large, calm and tragic in the night.



Two weeks later he was dead. It was in 1965. This underground artist and sexual athlete took his life with pills on a Manhattan rooftop. Wescott could not miss the irony of such an end for an exhibitionnist. "Imagine that : him going alone", he said. Miksche's wife found the studio where he worked on his erotica and had S/M scenes with other men. Then she destroyed all his works. It only remains those that the artist had gifted to others and the printed ones (in BIG magazine for example). Fortunately he had donated much work to Kinsey. With only six drawings (including a big collage), The Leather Archives and Museum holds the second largest collection of Miksche's works.

mercredi 11 novembre 2009

Lewis Payne, l'horreur d'un futur antérieur

"Ce que j’éprouve pour [des] photos relève d’un affect moyen [...]. Je ne voyais pas, en français, de mot qui exprimât simplement cette sorte d’intérêt humain ; mais en latin, ce mot, je crois, existe : c’est le studium, qui ne veut pas dire du moins tout de suite, l’étude, mais l’application à une chose, le goût pour quelqu’un, une sorte d’investissement général, empressé, certes, mais sans acuité particulière. [...] [Un] second élément vient casser (ou scander) le studium. Cette fois, ce n’est pas moi qui vais le chercher (comme j’investis de ma conscience souveraine le champ du studium), c’est lui qui part de la scène, comme une flèche, et vient me percer. Un mot existe en latin pour désigner cette blessure, cette piqûre, cette marque faite par un instrument pointu ; ce mot m’irait d’autant mieux qu’il renvoie aussi à l’idée de ponctuation et que les photos dont je parle sont en effet comme ponctuées, parfois même mouchetées, de ces points sensibles ; précisément, ces marques, ces blessures sont des points. Ce second élément qui vient déranger le studium, je l’appellerai donc le punctum ; car punctum, c’est aussi : piqûre, petit trou, petite tache, petite coupure – et aussi coup de dés. Le punctum d’une photo, c’est ce hasard qui, en elle, me point (mais aussi me meurtrit, me poigne).



[...] En 1865, le jeune Lewis Payne [il avait vingt et un ans] tenta d’assassiner le secrétaire d’État américain, W. H. Seward. Alexander Gardner l’a photographié dans sa cellule ; il attend sa pendaison. La photo est belle, le garçon aussi : c’est le studium. Mais le punctum, c’est : il va mourir. Je lis en même temps : cela sera et cela a été ; j’observe avec horreur un futur antérieur dont la mort est l’enjeu. En me donnant le passé absolu de la pose, la photographie me dit la mort au futur. Ce qui me point c’est la découverte de cette équivalence. [...] je frémis, tel le psychotique de Winnicot, d’une catastrophe qui a déjà eu lieu. Que le sujet en soit la mort ou non, toute photographie est cette catastrophe."

Roland Barthes, La chambre claire : Note sur la photographie, 1980.



mardi 27 octobre 2009

Alfred Courmes, le cantique de la réclame



Surnommé "l'ange du mauvais goût", le peintre Alfred Courmes (1898-1993) se passionne pour le détournement humoristique et généralement sexuel. Il emprunte une partie de ses sujets à la à l'imagerie populaire (la bicyclette est un "révélateur" de chair musclée et prélude à d'autres chevauchées) et "sensationnelle" - une manière de "cantique de la racaille": le bel Etrangleur à la casquette rose devant laquelle la victime tire la langue côtoie un Homme blessé cousin de certain Dormeur célébré avec non moins d'ambiguïté par Rimbaud.



D'autres personnages sont empruntés à la mythologie : Holopherne "perdant la tête" pour Judith, le Minotaure terrassé par Thésée (où l'homme hésite à anéantir la bête qui sommeille en lui), et surtout Oedipe - en tenue d'Adam ou de scout - face à la Sphinge - toute poitrine dehors, image de la femme dévoreuse d'hommes. Il met en scène de savoureux anachronismes, illustre des préoccupations politiques animées par un esprit plutôt virulent, et joue presque partout sur les mots ou les slogans, ayant alors valeur de rébus, et qu'il inscrit parfois à l'intérieur de la toile.




Son pinceau emprunte ainsi à l'imaginaire des musées et des églises, mais aussi à celui des journaux, des paquets de lessives, des étiquettes de camembert et des affiches, ces "tableaux" modernes qui tapissent les murs : décliné à l'envi, de dos ou de face, Saint Sébastien porte un costume de matelot et exhibe son anatomie et ses fixe-chaussettes, ailleurs il est "soigné" par une Sainte Irène à la main baladeuse qu'incarne la petite fille du Chocolat Menier (dont on reconnaît également le parapluie).




On retrouve la fillette dans la même posture entrain de tâter les parties génitales du Rédempteur. L'évocation de Saint Antoine est prétexte à un strip tease d'un "genre" particulier tandis que la Vierge Marie est flanquée du Bébé Cadum ou du Bibendum Michelin. Si l'association d'idées entre l'Enfant Jésus et le poupon à la peau douce est assez évidente, l'irruption du héros pneumatique dans une toile ayant pour thème l'Annonciation l'est peut être moins de prime abord.



Et pourtant tout dans la composition du tableau, intitulé La Pneumatique Salutation d’Angélique, fait sens : le "souffle divin" (pneuma en grec) y est matérialisé par un pneu géant, l'effigie publicitaire de Michelin prêtant ses traits à l'Archange Gabriel. La Vierge est incarnée par une pin-up impassible... Derrière sa tête, les pages du Livre d'Isaïe sont... blanches, attendant d'être écrites, l'ensemble étant une publicité non pour Schweeps, mais pour Ave Maria, une autre boisson gazeuse. Bref : l'artiste considère l'histoire de la naissance miraculeuse du Christ comme « gonflante ».



Apparaît également dans ce décorum la figure de Saint Roch touché par la peste, à moins qu'il s'agisse chez Courmes d'une maladie vénérienne. Cette représentation symbolique devient alors le corollaire d'une autre toile intitulée Ulysse ou - et c'est là où nous voulons en venir - J'ai mal occu... j'ai mal occupé ma jeunesse. On retrouve la sphinge mangeuse d'hommes, comme l'oiseau-rebelle-sirène-roucouleuse distrayant sur une plage (où rôdent de vieux messieursbien élégants) un adolescent en culottes courtes...

samedi 24 octobre 2009

L. Frank Baum, the wizard of Oz

For decades, there has been considerable speculation about Lyman Frank Baum (1856-1919)'s sexual tastes, for his marvelous land of Oz is full of gay innuendo. He was born in New York and grew up on an estate called Rose Lawn. Life was idyllic until he was sent to military school, which he loathed. He missed the green lushness of Rose Lawn, which may have inspired the Emerald City. The two years at Peekskill Military Academy resulted in a traumatic seizure. Baum dislike for the army is more than evident : as an author, he would onsistently ridicule military men in his books. His own father was a stern disciplinarian responsible for sending him to Peekskill. As a protest, the land of Oz is definitely a matriarchy : ruled by women like Glinda the Good and Princess Ozma, and by wicked witches in its eastern and western quarters, and "discovered" by Dorothy, a plucky and practical girl totally atypical of the more passive heroines of the era. L. Frank - he never explained why he disliked his first name of Lyman (was it the "lie" or the "man"?) - was interested in theater, writing plays and yearning to be an actor. He also wanted to write books, and his first was neither a fairy tale book no for children. It was an 1886 tome entitled The Book of the Hamburgs, and was all about chickens. In time, he became secretary of the New York State Poultry Association, and one of his most famous Oz characters was a hen named Bill - but nicknamed Billina.

But prior to the chicken book, Baum was pressured into the expected heterosexual lifestyle, and wed. The bride was a hatchet-faced gal named Maud Gage (1861-1953). She was the daughter of Matilda Gage (1826-1898), one of America's three leading suffragists, along with Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. This was of course Baum's only marriage, and Maud - whom he called "sister" - the sole woman in his life. In Oz and elsewhere, Baum eschewed married characters and romantic love, and when he dedicated The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (the "Wonderful" was dropped a few years after publication), it was to "my good friend and comrade." Frank and Maud had four sons, but though he never expressed disappointment in fathering boys, Frank was entirely female oriented. The main character in his books were almost always girls, and as critics have pointed out, his boys - including the boy characters in Oz - are girl's boys, very unlike Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer. (For instance, the character of Button-Bright is a boy from Philadelphia, who is quite helpless - unlike the resourceful Dorothy.) Sci-fi novelist Ray Bradbury has described Baum as "that faintly old-maidish man" and "a spirited man with a nice old grandma's soul." Besides the Oz series of books, Baum penned the Aunt Jane's Nieces series and the Mary Louise series, writing under the pseudonym Edith van Dyne.

Within the Baum-Gage household, Frank was nurturer and comforter, and Maud the punisher when the boys went astray. Also, most all the men in The Wizard of Oz and its sequels were not real or complete men : a Scarecrow, a Tin Woodsman, a wizard who turns out to be a fraud living a lie ; Jack Pumpkinhead, the Tik-Tok Man... and the Cowardly Lion. This King of the Forest is, like the wizard, not what his image suggests. In the immortal 1939 movie with Judy Garland, the Lion explains in song "I'm just a dandy-lion" and moans "Oh it's sad believe me, Missy, when you're born to be a sissy". Though Baum didn't enjoy real success, or even financial security, until the 1900 phenomenon of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and its subsequent stage play, he was a clotheshorse. Biographers note that he always dressed in the height of fashion. While his wife dressed serviceably and apparently took no interest in beautification. (One wonders : was it one those marriages? With a gay husband and lesbian wife?) Also, Frank referred to a child of unknown gender not as "he" but as "it". He appears to have had no interest in writing books featuring boy heroes - the type typical sons could read. When he did feature a boy protagonist, he was usually hald of a brother-sister duo.

The super-success of Oz was a mixed blessing for Baum. It brought fame and fortune, but also a sort of artistic enslavement. None of his other books attained even a fraction of the phenomenal sales. Finally, in 1904 he reluctantly published a second Oz, The Marvelous Land of Oz. Although it did no feature Dorothy, for he'd never intended a sequel. This time, the child protagonist was a boy named Tip. He was a boy with a difference : he was born a girl, then bewitched into a boy's body! At the end of the book - in a move that traumatized many of young male readers - Tip is transformed into Princess Ozma and given rulership over Oz. This may be one reason why librarians were, for decades, averse to stocking the Oz books. Gender roles were not strictly adhered to, The land of Oz was vaguely communistic, the heroines and rulers were all female, and it was decided that such books weren't proper for boys to read or dote on. Furthermore, Tip/Ozma wasn't the only "sex-change" in the Baum canon. In the non-Oz book The Enchanted Island of Yew, a fairy heroine is transformed into a knight. American critics and educators, more than European ones, are insistent upon keeping their sexes stable, even in fantasy tales.

Baum was profeminist (and got on well with his feminist mother-in-law) ; however, the author was not entirely free of the sexism of his era. The first sentence of The Wizard of Oz introduces thus the book's two parent-substitutes : "...Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife" - although she is the stronger willed of the two. In The Land of Oz he plots a temporary overthrow of King Scarecrow by General Jinjur (Ginger) and her all-girl army. When they take over, the men are forced to do the housework, and this makes the poor things very upset and very tired. Someone asks "How did the women manage [the housework] so easily?" " I do not know", replies a man, with a deep sigh. "Perhaps the women are made of cast-iron". Elsewhere a characted named Ann Soforth (!) tries to conquer the world with an army of sixteen generals and one private. Indeed, the females of Oz are not a sedentary bunch! But it was the 1960 TV adaptation of The Land of Oz which caused a national controversy. It starred Shirley Temple as Tip. By the fade-out of the high-rated special, Tip has become Princess Ozma. In a 1977 essay, Gore Vidal wrote that this denouement had critics, teachers, librarians and the PTA in all fifty states, in crisis over the undermining of a sex role in a children's classic.

Ruth Plumly Thompson (1891-1976), a 20 year old writer of children's books, was chosen by Maud Baum to continue the Oz stories after her husband died in 1919. She explained : "By the mid- to late-1950s there had been a gradual move to reevaluate the Oz books and bring them into more libraries. Unfortunately, Shirley Temple's TV special confirmed the prejudices of many educators and moralists who felt that he Oz characters were a negative influence on impressionable young minds." The next 18 books were written by Thompson, who penned her last Oz book in 1939, the year of the most famous - but not the first - filming of The Wizard of Oz. John R. Niell, who illustrated all but the first book, took a turn at writing. There were two more written by Jack Snow, one by Rachel Cosgrove, and the 40th book, Merry Go Round in Oz, by Eloise Jarvis McGraw and Lauren McGraw Wagner was published in 1963. Asked about Baum's private life and intimate habits, Thompson once replied "Mr Baum was an extremely private man, very unorthodox... But wholesome. Whatever were his private inclinations, he was also a husband and father, and he wrote beautiful, positive books still beloved by children everywhere. If Mr Baum had any deep, dark secrets, he took them with him to the grave." Screenwriter Edgar Allan Woold opined "Baum was not an average man, sexually speaking. Whether he was a sexual invert is open to debate. I like to think he was not a frustrated individual, but I am grateful for the literary output he left behind."

Ironically, this very popularity of Oz - this "Ozmania" - troubled and even angered Baum. In 1907 his public and publishers compelled him to write a third Oz book. Ozma of Oz, in which Dorothy returned to Oz and became bosom buddies with Ozma. (In fact, Dorothy became an honorary princess, and in a later book moved Auntie Em and Unle Henry to Oz, where they could live all live royally and in un-Kansas-like fashion!) In 1908, 1909 and 1910, Baum wrote three more Oz books, and in the sixth one (The Emerald City of Oz) he cut off Oz from the rest of the world with a "Barrier of Invisibility". This was his way of saying there would be no more Oz books ; he'd aborted the possibility of any sequel. Of course, it didn't end there. His other non-Oz books were relative failures, and by now Baum was used to living well (he and maud eventually moved to Hollywood). So, three years later, he returned to Oz, crossing that barrier via radio. For the rest of his life, Baum authored one Oz book a year, finally resigned to the fact that he had become, and would remain, known as the creator of Oz.

As previously mentioned, a stage version The Wizard of Oz was a big hit, touring the country for years. A silent movie version was far less successful and Oz remained on the printed page - via the Baum and then the Thompson books - until 1938 when MGM brought the film rights and planned to star Shirley Temple as Dorothy. But the movie planned as a musical and little Shirley didn't have much of a singing voice, while newcomer Judy Garland (née Frances Gumm) did. Garland was championed by gay composer and arranger Roger Edens, who became Judy's musical coach and her closest associate for decades to come. An Englishman named Noel Langley was hired to write the script. He was a very private chap who was evidently gay or bisexual. His script was in turn amended by the team of Florence Ryerson and Edgar Allan Woolf. The latter - named after Kinky horror writer Edgar Allan Poe - was described as "a redheaded homosexual" by Hollywood insider and author Samuel Marx. Other writers helped "polish" the screenplay, but Langley Ryerson and Woolf received official screen credit. Likewise, there were a number of directors. One was gay, George Cukor, who changed his predecessor's conceptualization of Dorothy as a blonde nymphet. He ordered Garland to doff the yellow wig and the grownup eye makeup and "Be yourself, remember, you're a little girl from Kansas." Happily, the following director brought aboard didn't alter Dorothy's look. That director - the one to get official credit - was macho man Victor Fleming (who didn't complete The Wizard of Oz).

As for the Oz cast, Margaret Hamilton, who played the Wicked Witch of the West, was generally believed to be a closet lesbian in real life ; and the Scarecrow, Ray Bolger, was, according to many, bisexual although right-wing and publicly anti-gay. Interestingly, of the major human cast members, the one who was paid the least was Garland. Only Toto, played by Terry, earned less - and though Toto was a boy, Terry was a girl! The movie's art director was gay Cedric Gibbons, who at one point was married to bi beauty Dolores del Rio. Cedric's gay brother was studio-chosen as the husband for lesbian costume designer Irene, who took her life in the 1960s (as did Dolores' first gay husband in the 1920s). The Oz costume designer - who got to create Glinda's gown and crown, and all those Munchkin uniforms - was a closet queer named Adrian, who also hid the fact he was jewish (last name Rosenberg). The studio "engineered" Adrian's marriage to lesbian star Janet Glaynor, the first actress to ever win an Oscar. Set decorations were by gay Edwin B. Willis who said "even some of the Munchkins, the little actors who played them, were homosexuals!" Notable among the citizens of Munchkinland was the Lollipop Guild : a trio of tough, cute little men who welcome Dorothy to their city. One of the three was Harry Doll, a German midget who never married and lived all his life with his sisters. Harry revealed "The stories taht got printed up were all about men midgets trying to pester lady midgets or Judy Garland. But there was some queer midgets in the crowd and most of them had never been to Hollywood and they ran pretty wild off the set!" Another of the adorable trio died of AIDS. And Edwin B. Willis concludes : "Looking back, I now realize that the movie The Wizard of Oz could not have been made without the input of what we now call 'gay' people. I think it's the most colourful and magical movie ever made."

from "The Lavender Wizard of Oz" by Milton Rexford in Torso, march 1994.

mardi 20 octobre 2009

Mark Nixon

The look expressed by the young soldier Mark Nixon (1936-1998) was not exactly what Uncle Sam was putting on his recruiting posters at the time. But this "young man, talented, handsome - radiant with personality" did sport a uniform in all seriousness during the days when his picture first appeared in Tomorrow's Man magazine. It was in 1955. Mark was a student at Culver Military Academy in Indiana, and a photographer-classmate had submitted a contest-winning shot of Mark to the publication. "Posing was an art to me", Mark said. "I took it seriously." It's somewhat ironic that Mark's artistic instincts first surfaced while he was at Culver. But he remembered striving for attention as a boy, trying to be different, even exhibitionistic.

Mark's father, who had attended Culver and sent both his sons there from their home in Atlanta promised Mark a car for his graduation if he accomplished three things : a position in the upper half of his class, a varsity letter in sports, and an officer's rank. Mark had no trouble with the first two of theses conditions. "But the military competition did not attract me", he said. He excelled instead in other areas. He was a soloist in the choir, and as costume and set designer for school productions, he was the first Culver student to win honors in art. Alas, he didn't get the car.
Lack of transportation was hardly enough to discourage him from his creative pursuits, however. After years of wearing the compulsory uniform and dreaming of clothes, he went to Washington University and majored in fashion design. Still athletic, he broke a backstroke swimming record there, and continued with posing as a sideline.




He has been photographed by most of the leading photographers including Bob Mizer (AMG), Bruce Bellas (Bruce of L.A.), Don Whitman (Western Photography Guild), Chuck Renslow (Kris of Chicago). He appeared on the covers such magazines as Young Physique, Adonis, Body Beautiful and Vim. After four years, armed with his B.F.A. degree, Mark moved to Los Angeles, found work designing sportswear, and was soon offered a position in New York with McGregor, the world's largest sportswear manufacturer. Despite his success, he eventually became dissatisfied. "My creative designs were going into the wastebasket." The only clothes he found interesting were the ones he made for himself. So he left McGregor and went back to the coast.

He began to read up on architecture and taught himself to draw plans. Designing homes soon became a full-time job, and Mark even drifted away from posing for the physique magazines, which had begun to give away to porno publications. Working on houses gave him the satisfaction and notoriety he began striving for during that "exhibitionistic" youth. William Markly Nixon III had a reputation as "architect to the stars" in Beverly Hills, California, before moving in south of Mexico city in the 1980s. There he turned a ruined hacienda into the renowned El Rancho Cuernavaca, a hotel that became backdrop to several Hollywood movies and photo shoots. The setting was often billed in magazines as Under the Volcano, a reference to the novel written by Malcolm Lowry in and around this town. He was found dead in his home, with tens of stab wounds to his body.

samedi 17 octobre 2009

Michiel Sweerts

Unlike Vermeer, who scarcely set foot beyond Delft, Michiel Sweerts (1618-1664) saw a lot of the world. Born in Flanders, he spent several years in Rome, internalizing the example of Caravaggio. As to Sweerts's final days, we still remain largely in the dark. He joined a missionary expedition to the Far East, developed erratic behavior and died in Goa, on the Indian subcontinent, in 1664. His works exhibit an inner balance and harmony which imbue the peasant figures with classical form and dignity : Roman wrestlers (presented with the heroic gravity of heroes from the Iliad), dressy pageboys killing time at checkers and youths bathing in a river (seven nude guys hanging out are visited by two fully dressed men)...




In spite of his penchant for lowlife street scenes, he also painted interior genre scenes, single figures, and formal portraits, and was an accomplished etcher. He was also interested throughout his life in art education, many of his paintings have studios with students as their subject : love for antiquities, male nude forms... Several works in Sweerts' corpus suggest homoerotic theme.




Even Clothing the Naked (ca 1661) could be viewed as scenes of carnal attraction: the bodily and facial mirroring of the figures, the interplay between dominant and submissive elements, and the transitional situation of dress/undress. What do the naked man's parted lips signify? a meek voicing of thanks? a sotto voce oath of contempt? a breathless, voiceless expression of desire?


mardi 13 octobre 2009

Diaghilev's hopes and desires

"I am firstly a great charlatan, though with brio; secondly, a great charmeur; thirdly, I have any amount of cheek", Serge Diaghilev (1872-1929) wrote to his stepmother in 1895. If his connections with creative people are widely known, yet largely ignored has been the benefit of personal affection from Diaghilev. Amid such ornamental friendships (Picasso, Cocteau, Matisse, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, Ravel...), there were a core of young men and these few special friends were the most fortunate. Nevertheless, it appeared that - for Serge - to be unlucky at love was the price of luck at his profession. During his abbreviated life, he had few affairs. His relationships featured commitment and concern. He spent his personal energies totally on his friends and his repertory company ; and that may account for the few serious attachments in his life. The duty fell to cousin Dmitri Filosov (1872-1940) - called Dima - to educate his provincial cousin. Sharing a room together in the Filosofov house in St. Petersburg, Serge and Dima were striking contrasts : Dima was slender and delicate, blond and pale, an aesthete with a sang froid wit. At times Dima could be vicious with his tongue. Serge was larger, sensitive, emotional but intellectually thirsty. Dima and he toured the continent, looking at all the great works of art in France and Italy. They even met Oscar Wilde. All this time Dima taught Serge about painting and sculpture. Slowly but surely, Serge's intelligence shone through. Soon he knew more than his teacher. In fact, he became more of a dandy than Dima. This teacher/student relationship provided Serge with a conception of male-to-male bonding that the maestro would use effectively in later years.

By 1897, Serge found his calling in the arts - not as a singer, pianist or but as an editor or organizer of exhibitions. By 1899, with Dima, Serge began his well-respected magazine Mir Iskusstva (World of Art). For six years the magazine's influence on contemporary oart was strong. In the meantime Serge was force behind exhibitions of Russian art touring Europe. Dima had been his financial adviser during these years, and the closeness of the friendship was about to end simultaneously with Serge's foray into Paris art circle. Arranging opera and ballet in paris in the 1907-1908 seasons, Diaghilev put into effect the operations of a major arts repertory that would attract the greatest artists of the century. His lover at this time was a handsome young man named Alexis Mavrine. (An attraction to slender, artistic men, aged about nineteen, became his personal motif. With these young men - who would all be closely associated with the ballet - Serge would be the instructor and spiritual mentor. For two years Diaghilev was close to Mavrine. Their liason ended formally, when Mavrine ran off with one of the ballerinas and married her ! Both were immediately discharged from his employ. His angry reaction might have been worse - except that he, too, had found a new

Of all the gay twosomes, not even the Wilde/Douglas affair has been documented as the grande passion between Diaghilev and his dieu de la danse, Vaslav Nijinsky (1890-1950). What potential the eighteen-year-old boy had, Serge believed, would in the proper showcase grow to legend. Later, critics would charge Serge with manipulating and using Nijinsky - but without Diaghilev, the voy with the mysterious smile would never have been discovered. Following his pattern, Diaghilev sought to educate and give Vaslav every oppotunity to grow creatively. Luncheons were planned with stimulating minds - for instance, Rodin and Isadora Duncan. The maestro led Vaslav to all the great European museums and explained schools and themes of art to him. The two men were seen together, but their "marriage" did not occur until a year later. After suffering typhoid, nursed personally by Serge, Vaslav recovered slowly; he was weak and tired from a rigorous dance schedule. Diaghilev was so moved as to propose their cohabitation. This was an important step : gay men still felt the trauma of Wilde's imprisonment. Nijinsky and Diaghilev courageously agreed to live together openly. Primarly, Serge gave his lover the opportunity to stretch his creativity; the education was to lead to choreography. In some ways, of course, Nijinsky would mirror Diaghilev's latest belief in what "avant-garde" might be. Sometimes, the maestro even commissioned music especially for Vaslav. The result were always startling.



For instance, Spectre de la Rose featured the dancer in a green-and-rose costume so he could portray a flower scent who dances around a sleeping girl. Later, Vaslav played Pan - complete with reed pipes and purple grapes lusciously hung over his crotch. The ballet ended with a scandalous masturbatory gesture. Diaghilev wanted to be shocking; Nijinsky said that traditional beauty was dead. The schism between Diaghilev and Nijinsky, now, seems inevitable - yet far worse than it should have been. Diaghilev certainly was confident that Nijinsky would be his faithful lover and dancer for the rest of their lives. Perhaps arrogance was typified by the ballet Petroushka wherein Serge cast Nijinsky as a hapless puppet who must obey a demonic master. Afterward, Nijinsky began cutting his own strings to Diaghilev. He insisted on doing choreography without the maestro's approval. Uncharacteristically, Serge did not complain.



Their central conflict arose, soon, over the nature of the ballet Jeux. Since Diaghilev had often spoken of his fantasy - making love to two boys at once, Nijinsky devised a homosexual ballet, using a tennis metaphor. Diaghilev was horrified and he was sure that such a ballet would lose his financial endowments from homophobic patrons. He refused to allow the ballet in homosexual form. The schism between the two never healed. Shortly, on a tour in South America, separated by choice from Serge, Nijinsky impulsively married a woman whom he hardly knew and with whom he had not even a common language. Most observers believed it was a kind of revenge on Diaghilev; it was also an extreme way of proving his independence from Serge.

At 42 years of age in 1914, Serge found himself abandoned by the one person he deeply loved most; his reaction was strong. Igor Stravinsky was with Serge when the maestro received a telegram telling him of Nijinsky's marriage. Stravinsky reported how he feared Diaghilev would kill himself if left alone. Tearing his hotel suite to pieces, Serge fell onto his bed whimpering. Next day he set out for Capri, to bury himself in the sexual talents of the local boys. As an afterthought, he fired Nijinsky. Three months later, the maestro found a replacement for Vaslav, his choice was a seventeen-year-old Russian boy with dark, sensitive eyes and a desire to quit ballet for acting. Serge immediately talked Leonide Massine (1896-1979) into joining the Diaghilev troup, and Massine was given the lead role in Legend of Joseph, a new showpiece dance. Serge re-designed Massine's costume, making it more revealing (Critics dubbed the ballet the Legs of Joseph). As for the young man, Serge confessed he found the lad provincial - but he'd correct that quickly. Massine was bright, apparently far more intelligent than Nijinsky. And he was Serge's adept pupil. "Massine is the most brilliant mind I have ever met in dancer", said the maestro.



Of the advantages offered him, Massine wasted none. Serge needed a choreographer - and Leonide received a crash-course in the art from the best mind Diaghilev could find. Before long, the boy was creating brilliant, original works like Las Meninas, Les Contes russes, and Parade. He accompanied Diaghilev everywhere during the troublesome war years from 1915-1918. Few places to dance were available; thus, the troupe found itself spending much time in Spain. Further, Diaghilev was preoccupied with personal problems : Nijinsky was under house arrest in Hungary, unable to dance, languishing helplessy. Serge used all his influence and considerable time to have his former lover released. After two years of negociating with the political powers, he succeeded. But already the seeds of insanity were rooted in Nijinsky's mind. Before long he would be totally mad. With Massine, there grew difficulties.



The boy Serge had coodled, developped, and loved was, by 1920, a man whose artistic maturity demanded freedom. Serge and Leonide began to disagree more and more frequently over artistic matters. Whether the professional breach led to problems in their personal relationship, or vice versa, is unclear. Probably each was a factor. The problem was seriously compounded by Massine's interest in one of the ballerinas. As expected, Serge was jealous of any woman who gave his premier danseur too much attention. Indeed, shortly after the break between Diaghilev and Massine in january of 1921, Leonide married one of the troupe's ballerinas. She was fired. Distraught and at the nadir of his professional life, Diaghilev was alone again. With Massine he'd cast all hopes. Suddenly, his ballet company was without a choreographer and star.

In 1921 with Massine gone and Nijinsky totally mad and institutionalized, the maestro hired Nijinsky's sister - Bronia - to be his new choreographer. The move was stroke of genius. Bronislava Nijinska (1890-1972) proved to be a godsend. And, Serge was visited at this time by a young man not associated with ballet. Wary now of dancers, the maestro was intrigued by the guileless boy of 17 who delivered a message to him one cold day in february 1921, days after Massine had left. Boris Kochno (1904-1990) was not prepared for the probing personal questions that Serge asked ; he was somewhat apprehensive, being a sensitive young poet and native Russian. Diaghilev promised him that they would meet again. Within a month Boris was Serge's secretary, traveling with him and serving as a new confidante. Again, Serge trained a callow youth in the culture and history of ballet. Within a few years Kochno would be producing libretti for the troupe. He would also form a shield around Diaghilev, taking on the roles of palace guard. No other young man would as easily reach the maestro thereafter.

Because Serge had always been enchanted by dancers, he could not long forego giving his attention to one. In mid 1923, a young Englishman named Patrick Kay (1904-1983) auditioned for Serge. He was to be a new focus for the maestro. Kay's name was changed to Anton Dolin. Later, Serge wrote: "What truly delights me is Patrick's dancing. He dances in a truly adorable way." As with all new proteges, Dolin found himself the object of a grand rush! Serge took him everywhere. Further, Diaghilev commissioned an athletic ballad (Le Train bleu), tailored to Anton's particular talents. Overnight, he became a great sensation. Nonetheless, within a year Dolin would grow apart from the maestro. Choreography did not appeal to Dolin at this time. And Serge sensed that their cultural backgrounds did not mesh well. As Dolin prepared to quit the ballet, another young man arrived. He combined the dark beauty of Massine with the innocent pixiness of Nijinsky. He caught Diaghilev's eye. And like the traditional moth the maestro was fascinated by this flame whose name was Serge Lifar (1905-1986).

Young Lifar - only eighteen - was well aware of his own charms. Knowing that whenever Diaghilev came to rehearsals, his rapt attention was diverted to this novice, Lifar coyly remained "hard to get". Lifar almost never talked to the maestro when comments were directed his way. Once, upon leaving the theatre at Paris, he ran into the maestro who adminished him : "If I stopped you, young man, and I want to speak to you, it is not in my own interest, believe me, but in yours... I want to help you to develop that talent, but you won't recognize this and you shy away from me like a wild animal. Do you imagine I am going to implore you?" Lifar was afraid on one hand, pleased on the other. Occasionally, he planned to bump into Diaghilev; once this happened at a local museum where the maestro had brought Dolin and Kochno. Serge noted well how the young dancer came to the museum on his own volition. After some months of this coy playing, Lifar went to have tea with the maestro and to announce his intention to quit the Ballets russes. This test proved the perfect chessmove. Serge grew scarlet in fury, tipped over the little table near them, and raged : "You're nineteen years old. You are just beginning to live. I have told you that you have it in you to become a premier danseur." Diaghilev went on to say that if it were not for his interest in Lifar, the maestro would have disbanded the troupe. He then - flamboyantly - promised to make Lifar into another Nijinsky.

Diaghilev's hand had been forced. Immediately, he proposed that the two of them go to Venice for a holiday; Lifar agreed. For each of them it was the start of a happy season. In Venice Diaghilev smiled more than he had for a dozen years; the maestro was entranced with his vixen boy. But even a year later when Serge had made Lifar the most celebrated dancer in the world, he realized that Lifar was not Massine. The boy did not have the mentally rigorous mind to to choreography. Diaghilev had to call Massine and beg him to save the troupe that year. Massine agreed, out of past loyalty and the paycheck. And Lifar danced brilliantly. But through the years 1926-1928, Diaghilev seemed to grow away from Lifar - and away from ballet. The maestro seemed tired.

At the end of 1928 Diaghilev's broken spirit suffered irreparably. Once again, Serge visited Nijinsky, hoping to bring him to his senses. He decided to accompany his former lover to Paris to see an evening of ballet. Nijinsky was docile, smiling, but like a star a million miles away. When he sat in the theatre box with Serge, he asked only if Lifar could jump. He spoke no other words. Of course, when the public learned that Nijinsky was in the theatre, a rush of emotions gripped the crowd. But no miracle happened. After the ballet, Serge helped Vaslav down the back stairs. Nijinsky was afraid of falling and walked gingerly. Finally, at the waiting car, Serge put both hands on Vaslav's shoulders and kissed him. When the automobile drove away with Nijinsky, it seemed to carry off Diaghilev's hopes and desires as well. Serge never saw Nijinsky again.

Diaghilev then fell hard for another Russian-born lad who played part of a Stravinsky-saturated Sinfonietta and immediately touting him at his latest great discovery : Igor Markevitch (1912-1983) was "unveiled" in a concert hurriedly held at Covent Garden in 1929, twelve days before his birthday, so he could still be presented as a sixteen-years-old in a hastily composed Piano Concerto Diaghilev has commissioned from him. A couple of days earlier, Diaghilev had published an open letter in the Times of London proclaiming that his "young countryman" would finally put an end to the gaudy "Paris orgies" of the past two decades - artistic orgies that Diaghilev himself, of course, had perpetrated, but of which he now blaringly repented. It was as if he tried to kill himself ; he ignored his diabetes and he carried on recklessy - eating and drinking immoderately. Against his doctor's orders, Serge romanced Igor with a whirlwind tour of Germany, where they met with Hindemith, heard Mozart (under Richard Strauss' baton) and Wagner's Tristan und Isolde, and went to all the museums. "Sa cruauté et son despotisme, wrote Markevitch in Etre et avoir été, eussent pu le rendre odieux s’il n’avait possédé un charme dont il usait en virtuose aussi bien pour modifier une ambiance que pour rétablir une situation. Par-dessus tout, Diaghilev était amoureux de l’amour. Il faisait une forte distinction entre l’amant et l’aimé, voyant dans son propre rôle une mission qui consistait à former un être plus jeune pour lui permettre d’atteindre son plein épanouissement. A ses désirs physiques je me prêtais autant par la fascination qu’il exerçait sur moi que comme on se plie à un rituel. Les choses étaient facilitées par le fait que l’érotisme chez lui était plus naïf que pervers. Sa psychologie amoureuse possédait les caractéristiques que l’on note chez de nombreux invertis et qui provient d’une sexualité restée adolescente comme si une mauvaise expérience (c’était le cas de Diaghilev) une inhibition physique ou une crainte secrète en avait freiné le développement. On peut dire que ses goûts ne différaient guère que par la passion qu’il y attachait, des jeux auxquels nous nous adonnions parfois entre enfants au collège. D’ailleurs il avait en amour une tendance au rituel qui rappelle celui que les garçons introduisent facilement dans leurs amitiés. Je crois qu’il n’eut pas désavoué un serment de fidélité où l’on mêle son sang. En bien des choses, il avait seize ans, comme moi."



By august of 1929, the maestro returned to Venice totally exhausted. He weakened, became feverish, and sank into a coma at his Venice hotel. Lifar and Kochno sat up with him. But, at dawn on august 19, Serge died. He left Markevitch a marked man, at seventeen already a figure of jealous controversy. The protagonists of the "Paris orgies", Stravinsky and Prokofiev, not pleased with what they had been reading, snubbed him. Without the soothing quality of Diaghilev's personality, his ballet company began to crumble. Lifar and Kochno fought viciously, "like mad dogs" reported a witness, over the maestro's body that day as they argued about who was Diaghilev's most special friend.



Based upon Bill Russo's "Diaghilev" (from magazine In touch for men, January-February 1980)

lundi 12 octobre 2009

Stanley Kubrick et la musique

I think music is one of the most effective ways of preparing an audience and reinforcing points that you wish to impose on it . The correct use of music, and this includes the non-use of music, is one of the greatest weapons that the film maker has at his disposal.” Très formaliste, Stanley Kubrick a bien placé la musique au cœur de sa construction cinématographique et lui a conféré une véritable fonction rhétorique. Il est d’abord l’inventeur d’associations narratives particulièrement efficaces entre des images et des thèmes musicaux, empruntés le plus souvent au répertoire classique. Le thème distordu de la Neuvième Symphonie de Beethoven figurant l'énergie dévoyée d'Alex DeLarge (A Clockwork orange), le chant mélancolique du Trio en mi bémol de Schubert révélant l’âme de Lady Lyndon (Barry Lyndon) et, bien sûr, l’apesanteur intersidérale rendue par Le Beau Danube bleu (2001 : a space Odyssey). Mais au-delà de ce maniement magistral de l’illustration musicale, Kubrick a utilisé la musique comme un matériau structurel de ses films, ménageant plusieurs niveaux d'intégration entre le flux musical et le mouvement des images, comparables à certains des rapports, souvent conflictuels, eux aussi, de la musique et de la langue dans l'opéra. Ainsi dans Barry Lyndon (dont l’action dans le film à été située au XVIIIe siècle), comme un compositeur avec le récitatif sec, le récitatif accompagné, l'aria ou la mélodie continue, le réalisateur a disposé les moyens d'une "mystérieuse alchimie des correspondances"(Maurice Jaubert), allant jusqu’à construire le récit sur le plan formel d’un opera seria.

Stanley Kubrick est reconnu pour avoir marqué les imaginaires de souvenirs visuels persistants (notamment dans la publicité) mais il a également laissé une trace sonore et musicale indélébile. C’est dans ses films les plus virtuoses, la « tétralogie » cinématographique que constituent 2001 (1968), Orange mécanique (1971), Barry Lyndon (1975) et Shining (1980) que la musique est devenue un élément majeur de formalisation cinématographique, ce sont ces « partitions » qui constituent la mémoire sonore de Kubrick. Mais dans tous les autres il faut aussi prêter l’oreille au sens de la bande son et remarquer la « Kubrick touch ».

Kubrick recourt délibérément à des « tubes » de la musique occidentale. Des chansons sentimentales : américaine (Happy birthday dans 2001, Singing in the rain dans Orange mécanique, We’ll meet again (Ross Parker et Hughie Charles, chanson présente dans le roman de Nabokov Lolita) dans Docteur Folamour, Stranger in the night, dans Eyes wide shut et, bien sûr, Daisy, inoubliable chant du cygne de l'ordinateur HAL dans 2001), allemande (cf. Sentiers de la gloire), irlandaise (Barry Lyndon)… et à partir de 2001 le répertoire classique, offrant des repères musicaux d’une grande efficacité. Celle-ci est d’ailleurs renforcée par une fidélité, de film en film, à des compositeurs (Purcell, Beethoven, Ligeti), des thèmes (Dies irae) ou des figures (valse).



Le niveau sonore et la durée des séquences musicales varient avec la perspective narrative. Peu remarquable à première attention, l’originalité de la partie musicale de Lolita tient précisément dans l’économie de ces dosages. Les thèmes, peu nombreux et très reconnaissables (le thème de Lolita mais aussi une mélodie aux accents rachmaninoviens ou un thème légèrement jazzy), apparaissent le plus souvent brièvement et très en retrait (une trace) mais peuvent soudain subir un brutal renforcement. Cette économie est celle de la folie du personnage masculin errant en somnambule pris entre autocensure et explosions de jalousie. Autre film d’une errance érotique masculine, Eyes wide shut, offre également de ces exemples de mise en rapport de l’espace représenté (une voiture se déplace de gauche à droite) et du son correspondant (qui se déplace de la gauche vers la droite), pour suivre des mouvements de l’âme.

La dimension dramatique est très systématiquement exploitée dans les films de « guerre », des Sentiers de la gloire à Full metal jacket. De la même façon, y alternent et s’y opposent les sons « naturels » de la guerre - celui de la bataille (et du risque de mort) est rendu par un passage sans solution de continuité entre une « exaltation » de bruits naturels (mitraille, sifflet) et des partitions très minimalistes de percussion - et les sons des soldats qui rendent compte de l’état d’aliénation dans laquelle la société les tient : à l’establishment militaire correspondent des musique militaires « classiques », martiales ou, dans les Sentiers de la gloire, une valse de Vienne (déjà) pour un bal des officiers, contre, en 1970 au Viet Nam, les vulgaires effluves radiophoniques de rock et de chansons débiles consommés par les marines. Dans Les Sentiers de la gloire, la scène du peloton d’exécution est une « synthèse » des deux. Les correspondances et différences entre les deux musiques rendent celles des deux guerres. Dans les Sentiers de la gloire existait un temps pour la possible « fraternisation » et la perspective d’une concorde entre les hommes confié à la chanson populaire allemande reprise par les hommes un moment libérés d’eux-mêmes. Le moment équivalent de Full metal jacket est rendu par le coup de feu de Jocker achevant la tireuse vietnamienne. Ce n’est plus la musique qui peut rendre compte désormais de « la dualité de l’être humain ».

Le montage juxtapose souvent de longues plages musicales et de longue plages non-musicales, sans que la frontière soit dissimulée et, même, l’irruption brutale de bruits (sonneries de portes, téléphones…) la soulignant nettement. L’alternance des emblèmes musicaux attachés à une scène permet une mise en place immédiate dans l’action : le point d’écoute est souvent dramatiquement privilégié par rapport au point de vue (sinon dans Ultime razzia). L’essentiel du récit de Docteur Folamour est composé du montage alterné de trois sons associés à trois espaces. La salle du Pentagone sans musique où l’on discute, s’oppose à deux lieux « musicalisés » où se fait la guerre : la base aérienne soumise à une attaque de commando et ponctuée de bruits naturels (vent, mitraille, moteur, cri) ; la cabine de l’avion lanceur de la bombe H retentissant de musique patriotique et militaire (percussion, cuivre, chœurs, thème de Stars and Stripes). C’est de la perturbation de cette « partition » entre musiques et situations visibles, que naît le trouble de Shining. Le découpage des séquences d’images et celui des séquences de sons y sont en effet décorrélés.

Dans ses films, Stanley Kubrick joue parfaitement de ces « trucs » qu’Adorno assimilait à de l’illustration musicale : le leitmotiv qui fait d’un thème musical aisé à reconnaître l’emblème d’un personnage, d’une situation, d’un sentiment. Les deux films « noirs » du début, Le Baiser du tueur et Ultime razzia montrent un jeu déjà subtil de ces associations et des niveaux narratifs que permet de dessiner la partie musicale. Spectateur, on y entend, parallèle à la voix-off qui raconte, une musique à la troisième personne qui informe le spectateur sur l’implicite de la situation ou du personnage (ainsi les sons de jazz attachée à la femme fatale du caissier dans Ultime Razzia renseignent sur la réalité de ses propos hypocrites). Par ailleurs on y perçoit, comme les personnages, de la musique inscrite dans l’action : la musique de danse produite par le club où se noue l’essentiel de l’action du Baiser du tueur. Et, déjà, une « contamination » des deux peut faire entendre la pensée intérieure du personnage (l’attraction exercée par la voisine danseuse sur le boxeur est marquée par la présence du motif musical de la boîte sur un plan de l’appartement vide de son occupante).

A partir de 2001, quand Kubrick recourt désormais systématiquement au répertoire classique préexistant, marquant le retour d’une pratique négligée depuis l’instauration du cinéma parlant, son art de l’association juste mais non convenue, de la consonance entre des images inédites et des musiques riches d’usages et sens préalables a, paradoxalement, rendu vie à certaines œuvres trop négligées par une audition routinière.



Mais, de même qu’il a rendu un hommage irrespectueux aux formes cinématographiques hollywoodiennes classiques (film noir, péplum, film de science fiction, film d’horreur, film de guerre) en les rudoyant, Kubrick accuse souvent la dimension « figurative » des œuvres musicales en les utilisant à contresens. Il confirme, par la dissonance crue entre sons et images, la forte corrélation des deux médias. Ainsi l’usage pervers qu’il fait du quatrième mouvement de la Neuvième Symphonie de Beethoven (véritable « lieu commun » musical) dans Orange mécanique. Que son œuvre la plus iconoclaste soit aussi la plus fournie en pareils détournements musicaux n’est pas étonnant. Orange mécanique, film sur un être iconoclaste est une œuvre méloclaste et , a contrario, démonte et démontre le rapport étroit entre déroulement des images et déroulement de la musique. On y voit et entend constamment se disloquer l’harmonie musique-récit.

La correspondance « classique » existe bien parfois : le montage des thèmes de musique funèbre (Dies irae, Musique pour la mort de la reine Mary de Purcell) pour signifier la pulsion meurtrière des voyous. Elle fonctionne même souvent comme une « mécanique » homologie des signifiants : la synchronisation du rythme des images et du rythme musical, de la dynamique, des timbres : la scène de sexe avec les deux clientes du drugstore est exactement chronométrée sur l’ouverture de Guillaume Tell de Rossini ; le viol de la femme de l’écrivain sur Chantons sous la pluie… Le plus souvent il y a discordance totale des signifiés ou détournement du lien signifiant signifié : l’Hymne à la joie soulignant ici pulsion érotique, raciste, mysticisme sanguinolent, une imagerie « gore » plutôt traditionnellement associée au hard rock. C’est d’ailleurs cette transgression dans la signification de l’œuvre de Beethoven au cours du traitement Ludovico infligé à Alex (on l’applique à la projection d’images–vues à travers l’œil maintenu ouvert qui regarde de force- des camps de concentration) qui le rend allergique à la musique.



Un semblable jeu entre sens commun musical et sens particulier dans le film, rend tellement efficace l’emprunt devenu fameux aux deux Strauss, dans 2001. On y voit et entend une association pleine car agissant au niveau des signifiés, mais aussi des signifiants. Le sens métaphysique de la correspondance entre le plan cosmique initial, celui du surgissement de l’intelligence humaine et celui du retour du fœtus, trouve sa contrepartie dans le titre-même du thème musical choisi Ainsi parlait Zarathoustra. Mais, physiologiquement, les sens de la vue et de l’ouïe travaillent aussi en harmonie : l’arpège ascendant tonique/dominante/tonique, suivi de deux accords passant brutalement du majeur au mineur est conforme à l’étagement des astres.

« 2001 est une expérience non verbale… J'ai essayé de créer une expérience visuelle qui contourne l'entendement et ses constructions verbales, pour pénétrer directement l'inconscient avec son contenu émotionnel et philosophique… J'ai voulu que le film soit une expérience intensément subjective qui atteigne le spectateur à un niveau profond de conscience, juste comme la musique.» La sensation de la distance (vide et solitude), « de la disproportion de l’homme », est celle, fondamentale, visuelle mais aussi métaphysique, de ce film-poème symphonique. Film fait d’épisodes indépendants (de mouvements), film sans parole ou reléguant les mots à des codes strictement utilitaires, il fonctionne « avec la même opacité, la même présence obtuse et énigmatique, infiniment ouverte à l’interprétation, qu’un thème musical. » La fonction de la musique choisie dans 2001, Odyssée de l’espace, au-delà d'une magistrale illustration, est d’ouvrir le spectateur, comme l’espace, à l’inconnu, l’indéterminé, le vide, de le déprendre de ses références.

Ainsi peut-on interpréter à différents niveaux le recours à plusieurs œuvres de Ligeti : Atmosphères (orchestre), Lux aeterna (chœur a capella), Requiem (chœur et orchestre). Film d’anticipation, 2001 se devait d’user de musique « contemporaine », cette musique sans repère pour la plupart des auditeurs et qui permet d’exercer sur lui un effet de malaise. Mais quand il s’agit de Ligeti, la musique provoque un état de quasi hypnose : des sons réverbérés, fondus, continus, perçus comme « inarticulés » par opposition aux articulations nettes des musiques humaines (la valse notamment). L’association du Kyrie (extrait du Requiem) à l’apparition périodique du monolithe noir rend à la fois le mystère, la dimension religieuse de ce propos sans parole car sans signification intelligible. « Certains mots doivent se placer à un niveau que l’humain ne peut pas situer. Ces êtres auraient probablement des pouvoirs incompréhensibles. Ils pourraient être en communication télépathique à travers l’univers entier. avoir la capacité de façonner les événements d’une manière qui nous semble divine. Ils pourraient même représenter une sorte de conscience immortelle qui fasse partie de l’univers. Quand vous commencez à vous intéresser à ce genre de sujet, les implications religieuses sont inévitables parce que tous ces caractères sont ceux que l’on attribue à Dieu. »



Godard disait que le travelling était une affaire de morale, inversement c’est bien à la forme de son film, Orange mécanique, que Kubrick donne la responsabilité de statuer sur l’a-morale de son personnage (A-lex De Large), mais aussi sur celle de la société qui le redresse. La véritable portée sémantique du film ressort une fois encore de l’articulation entre musique et image. Elle lui donne une très nette couleur de « comédie musicale ». Toutes les actions de la partie d’Alex ravageur sont chorégraphiées (ralenties ou accélérées) et soutenues par de la musique omniprésente. D’ailleurs, Chantons sous la pluie joue, au premier degré, une fonction dramatique : dévoyée musicalement, elle accompagnait l’attaque du couple, c’est par elle, qu’Alex, la chantant « dans son bain », se fait reconnaître de l’écrivain-mari survivant. Et l’on pourrait appliquer à la description des scènes de sexe dans ce film (mais également à celles traitées sur un rythme ralenti dans Eyes wide shut), les termes utilisés par Rick Altman pour évoquer l’art de Busby Berckley. « Le mouvement que l’on voit sur l’écran fonctionne comme un accompagnement de la bande musicale. Un nouveau mode de causalité s’instaure, sans lequel l’image a pour « cause » la musique, plutôt qu’une quelconque image antérieure ».

Barry Lyndon propose nombre d’associations judicieuses entre musique, personnages et actions. Film d’époque, il fait le choix d’un répertoire culturellement adéquat : contemporain de l’action (les Lumières et l’époque préromantique), conforme à la situation comme un décor (de la musique militaire dans les batailles, de la musique jouée en concert…) Il y a aussi l’usage des thèmes adaptés aux personnages et à leur humeur profonde (le Trio op. 100 de Schubert pour la gravité de Marisa Berenson…) Mais le cinéaste joue aussi d’associations moins directes et qui agiront plus inconsciemment. Quand Barry quitte sa première condition d’homme du peuple, bon sauvage victime de la société, pour s’intégrer au monde et jouer de ses faiblesses, l’image le signifie : du plein air fort peu bucolique (le champ de bataille filmées à hauteur d’homme) nous passons au décor très ordonnancé des allées et des antichambres princières ; la musique, plus subtilement, le laisse entendre et marque cette transition de l’état de nature aliénée au statut de courtisan consentant, quand une marche militaire aux accents et timbres populaires fait place à la marche, toujours militaire mais combien savante, de l’Idoménée de Mozart.



Enfin, il existe un niveau plus profond encore où correspondent l’action cinématographique et l’art musical. Barry Lyndon est un film d’époque non seulement par ses décors et ses costumes ou par l’âge des musiques qu’il emprunte. Il l’est aussi par sa construction en opera seria. On y trouve une opposition entre récitatif et aria, transcrite dans l’alternance des plans séquences montés serrés qui signent les moments où l’action avance (la prise de vue est latérale et le tempo rapide) et, quand l’action s’arrête, l’ouverture de l’espace par travelling avant ou arrière et arrêt de la caméra sur le personnage. De même, l’action est ponctuée de scènes de duel que souligne la variation d’un même motif musical jouant lui-même de la répétition et de la variation (une passacaille). Le parallélisme pourrait se poursuivre : le décor de ces duels s’intériorise de plus en plus, les plans sont de plus en plus rapprochés et, crescendo, l’intensité de la musique s’accuse par un renforcement du niveau sonore.

Shining joue des ingrédients de la fiction « gothique » pour traiter profondément du problème de la transgression, « shining », entre fiction et réalité, conscient et inconscient, réalité et surréalité…transgression présentée comme psychotique ou véritablement ontologique ? La musique est elle aussi en transgression de sens ou de fonction par un jeu constant entre musique d’écran et musique de fosse. Tantôt la musique est réellement présente dans l’action : elle est émise par la télévision que regardent mère et fils, la dynamique parallèle du bruit produit par les roues du tricycle ou par la table roulante, pareillement étouffé par les tapis qu’elles rencontrent… ; le crépitement des touches de la machine à écrire sur laquelle s’épuisent l’inspiration créatrice et la santé mentale du père… Tantôt la musique est évocatrice de l’arrière pensée ou de l’arrière plan psychique du personnage : celle qui apparaît avec les visions de l’enfant (le sang se déversant de la cage d’ascenseur, les deux jumelles) ou qui souligne l’angoisse de la mère (quand elle découvre le manuscrit de l’œuvre compulsive de son mari). Tantôt, la musique « franchit » la frontière que ni l’action, ni l’image ne franchisent. C’est le thème musical (de la Musique pour cordes, percussion et célesta de Bartok) qui, en restant le même, réalise le phénomène de translation entre la vision réelle de la mère et l’enfant parcourant le labyrinthe et la « sur-vision » qu’en a le père, en plongée sur la maquette du labyrinthe…



La musique passe sans cesse cette limite entre ce qui est représenté sur l’écran, présent dans l’imaginaire du personnage, donnée à entendre au seul spectateur du film… Dans le générique et pour souligner le plan en hélicoptère de la voiture parcourant solitaire une route de haute montagne, avant même que ne soit connu aucun élément de l’intrigue, la musique donne à entendre les échos du Songe d'une nuit de sabbat de la Symphonie fantastique de Berlioz, déformée par un ajout de synthétiseur et de voix. Cette ambiguïté dans son statut de réalité et/ou de représentation, la partition musicale l’acquiert également par sa propre nature. Le choix du répertoire : des œuvres à la tonalité incertaine, à l’instrumentation vague (percussions, synthétiseur) d’une part. La forte « musicalisation » des bruits naturels : machine à écrire, moteur, vent, d’autre part. « De cette histoire, je ne veux donner aucune explication rationalisante. Je préfère utiliser des termes musicaux et parler de motifs, de variations et de résonances. Avec ce genre de récit, quand on essaie de faire une analyse explicite, on a tendance à le réduire à une espèce d’absurdité ultra-limpide. L’utilisation musicale ou poétique du matériau est dès lors celle qui convient le mieux. »

La puissance créatrice de Stanley Kubrick s’est bien imprimée à la dimension musicale de ses films, indissociable de toutes les autres. Ces repères musicaux qu’il a très systématiquement élaboré, nous permettent ainsi de « reconnaître » son dernier film avant d’en comprendre les particularités encore déconcertantes, en s’appuyant sur la présence de quasiment tous les « emblèmes » musicaux kubrickiens : la référence (non musicale) à Beethoven : Fidelio comme mot de passe ; la trace du Dies irae (pendant l’orgie) et du Rex tremendae du Requiem de Mozart (dans un café précédant juste la lecture du journal et la nouvelle de la mort par overdose de la prostituée) ; une chanson populaire détournée de son usage (écho de Stranger in the night dans la scène d’orgie dont les premiers éléments mélodiques sont la cellule du motif répétitif de piano) ; Ligeti encore, ici dans une œuvre « agressive » pour le piano ; une valse enfin, produisant dans les deux génériques de début et de clôture, un effet « enivrant » : mais ici aucune image réaliste d’apesanteur, seulement l’inscription en mesure des lettres du générique. Cette valse de Chostakovitch ne fait qu’une très brève apparition dans le cours de la narration, associée à l’intimité féminine (vertige pour le personnage masculin, héros du film).



Elizabeth Giuliani, "Stanley Kubrick et la musique", AFAS, 2005.

source : http://afas.imageson.org/document57.html

dimanche 20 septembre 2009

The Rocky Twins

Leif and Paal Roschberg, were born 27 February 1909 in Kristiana (renamed Oslo in 1925) to Adolf Roscher Roschberg and Gudrun Holst and they had an elder brother called Gunnar (1905-1965). When they were eleven they wrote a book of fairy tales but their interest in dance eclipsed their writing talents and they studied ballet and dance in Oslo under Per Aabel (1902-1999) and Love Krohn and allegedly had further tuition in London and Paris. They made their theatrical debut as The Rocky Twins in the Casino de Paris show "Les Ailes de Paris" in early 1928 at the age of 18 and became great friends with Helene Nice (1900-1984) later to become known as the Bugatti Queen. They made an immediate impression and were adored by Parisian theatregoers. Next, they starred with Gina Palerme in "La Volupte de Paris" at the Concert Mayol in the summer of 1928. It was here that they gave their legendary impersonation of the famous Dolly Sisters who had just retired from the stage. They were described as "two tall disturbingly attractive youths... alike as two peas in a pod. On stage and off it was impossible to tell them apart."



In the midst of their success at the Concert Mayol they were filmed by Marcel L’Herbier in L’Argent. Released in January 1929, this was the biggest French film of the season and firmly established the Rocky Twins as major Parisian stars. In the meantime they had left Paris for Vienna and appeared in the Emil Schwarz revue Sie Werden Lachen at the Stadt Theatre from October 1928 to February 1929.

On their return to Paris in the spring of 1929, Mistinguett (1875-1856), "the queen of parisian music hall", took them under her wing and escorted them on a trip to London. Here it is likely that they appeared in various cabaret shows including the famous Kit Kat Club (April 1929) and in September 1929 starred in Andre Charlot’s cabaret revue at the Grosvenor House Hotel, Park Lane and scored a big success in a number called "Guess Which is Which". Billy Milton (1905-1989), an English entertainer who met them at this time observed "they were unbelievably handsome and so alike you couldn’t tell which was which. As one hostess remarked, you could never be sure which one you were talking to or had gone to bed with." The more sober atmosphere of London may have precluded any appearance in drag as the Dolly Sisters but according to Mistinguett they were arrested for public indecency (the mind boggles) and Miss rescued them from prison, ticking off the judge in the process and they all returned happily to Paris.

In November 1929 they starred with Mistinguett in Paris Miss at the Casino de Paris. Apart from acting as her partners in several numbers they also did their hide and seek game where a gallant young man goes behind a tree and immediately a gorgeous woman appears. Mistinguett said that "they were so ravishing that each night after the show they would allow themselves to be kidnapped by beauty enthusiasts of both sexes" and it was known that one of Rockies was in the midst of an affair with the Chilian tin millionaire Arturo Lopez-Willshaw (1900-1962). With their success in "Paris Miss", they tried to break into America and were engaged in lengthy negotiations with the Shubert Organisation. Variety thought that they were "just a pair of hoofers but they do look gorgeous and with showmanly handling probably will click in New York." The European scout for the Shuberts said, "they make a very good appearance and are very smart socially and were rather popular in London. But I believe I remember that their ideas of salary were rather exaggerated." It is not known what exactly happened but it is unlikely that at this time the Shubert’s exercised any option on their services. Instead they continued to appear in "Paris Miss" right through 1930, starred in a cabaret show at Les Champs Elysées (April 1930) and followed Mistinguett on a European tour in the spring and summer of 1931.



They then appeared with Mona Lee in an act that toured Scandinavia but during a performance in Stockholm in August 1931 one of the twins slipped, injured himself and was hospitalised. Finally in the autumn they made their first trip to America. At first it was muted that they would appear in one of the celebrated and hugely successful Franco and Marco stage units that toured the USA, but it is not clear exactly what they did or where they were based. Perhaps intially they appeared in cabaret in New York before making their way to Los Angeles.


By the spring of 1932 they had became the celebrated drag act at the popular Ship Cafe at Venice Beach, Los Angeles and were spotted by Edmund Goulding (1891–1959), the MGM director. He added them to the cast of the Marian Davies' movie Blondie of the Follies that was in production during the summer and released in 1933. Goulding was one of the rare English directors to make a long term career in Hollywood and was riding high with the success of Grand Hotel. He was open about his homosexuality, although like most gay men in screenland he was married. Between 1932 and 1935 he was exiled to England by MGM while Louis B. Mayer covered up a sex scandal involving the hospitalization of two women following one of his orgies. During their stay in Hollywood, besides socialising with the Gouldings and visits to parties at Hearst Castle - the home of William Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies - the Rocky Twins joined the entourage that accompanied song writer Lorenz Larry Hart (1895-1943). "Talent they had not," Leonard Sillman (1908-1982) recalled, "but they were fairly bursting with boyish charm. They had been headliners in European vaudeville, had come to Hollywood to conquer new world, had taken over a huge villa in Beverly Hills, and proceeded to give the most gilded parties since the great days of the wild, or silent era, when party was a party. The Rocky parties were always climaxed by a mass visit to their bedroom where the twins would display their jewelry. They had diamonds by the peck and gold ornaments by the pound, given to them (they said) by the crowned heads of Europe."

These lavish parties were given in the hope of getting parts, but if "everyone came," Sillman observed, "nobody gave them contracts." Like Malin, the twins performed in drag, their act a burlesque of the famous Dolly Sisters. Irving Eisman, who described them as "wild" and "brazen", said Larry's best friend, the dentist Milton Bender, was in love with them. Larry just thought they were wonderful and took them everywhere, enjoying their tremendous notoriety. They hit the bars, they hit the clubs, they went to parties at Malin's home or Lew Cody's beach house in Malibu. "They weren't orgies," a dancer who went often with Larry said. "Nobody got raped, for God's sake. If someone showed up and was shocked by what was going on, he left." They were seen with Larry’s other companions Tallulah Bankhead and William Haines (1900-1973) persuing the bizarre in Hollywood including visits to the Club New Yorker in the Christie Hotel with its star attraction of the immensely talented, openly homosexual New Yorker Jean Malin, who died in a freak car accident in August 1933 aged 24.


With the film actress and danseuse Julianne Johnston, the Rocky Twins sailed into the Los Angeles Christmas show at the Shrine auditorium in December 1932 and by the Spring of 1933, when Jean Malin transfered to the Ship Cafe, they themselves appeared at the Club New Yorker with Julianne Johnston. In April they were arrested and spent a night in jail because they didn’t have a driver’s license, no proof that the French car they were driving was theirs and were unable to satisfy the officers about the women’s clothes in the car. At the time they were described as ‘absolute madmen’ and completely wild since they loved to play unfunny jokes, phoning people all hours of the night just to annoy them. As in Paris they were also "pursued by international swingers of the day and admired as male courtesans."

In May 1933 they appeared in Leonard Sillman’s "Low and Behold", a satirical musical revue in three acts staged at the Pasadena Community Playhouse where they performed their famous Dolly Sisters routine. It is not known if they appeared in the New York production that opened as "New Faces of 1934" at the Fulton Theatre. However, there is a photograph of Tallulah Bankhead and Paal Rocky at the opening which might suggest their involvement. They had arrived back in New York in the fall of 1933 and were rehearsing to appear in the famous Ziegfeld Follies that tried out in Boston during November 1933, but the Council of Actors Equity Association ruled that as "aliens" they had to wait 6 months before entering another production. Whatever the situation with the AEA, by the summer of 1934 they had an act with Nitza Vernille at the Palace Theatre in New York that gained praise and then appeared in a string of supper shows in cabaret including the Continental Grill at the Hotel St Moritz (October 1934), Sunday Nights at Nine at the Barbizon Plaza Hotel Concert hall (January 1935) and Le Boeuf sur le Toit (February 1935). They then signed with the festival impersario Robert Henderson to appear in his revue "Up to the Stars" that opened in Milwaukee in May 1935 and may have toured.

Presumably they continued in cabaret or vaudeville until they appeared in the Henry Carson musical revue Contintental Varieties at the Theatre Masque, New York at the end of 1935, but the show was flat and it was commented that the Rockies were "nice dancers but fail to impress". Shortly after thier last appearrance in New York in the floor show at the Versailles Restaurant in March 1936, the Rocky twins returned to Europe and toured cabaret nightspots including the Chat Noir nightclub in their hometown of Oslo. By 1937 the pair appear to have split. Leif spent two years in Taormina in Sicily before marrying a Maria Vogt in Vienna in 1939 (later divorced). Paal began a film career with Tobis Praktikum in Berlin and appeared in Es leuchten die Sterne (Hans H. Zerlett, released in march 38) and may have done further film work in Berlin then Paris before moving back to America where it is rumoured he worked at RKO in 1940. Leif also by then had abandoned Europe and was in living in New York. Paal married Lilian Turner in 1941 in San Francisco (later divorced) but then returned to Norway for the rest of the war where he spent 3 years in the Norwegian air force, 1 year in the American air force, six months with the occupational troops in Frankfurt and was awarded several medals. Leif stayed in America and married Jenny Voigt in 1944 in Canada (later divorced) and took up painting and had two exihibitions in New York in 1952. Paal remained in Norway and became a film and book writer. Paal died in 1955 (a relative thought that Paal having got engaged was saying farewell to his gay lover and was murdered in New York), Leif in 1967.

source : http://www.garychapman.biz/Gary_Chapman/Articles/Entries/2008/4/6_The_Rocky_Twins.html

jeudi 17 septembre 2009

Margaret Rutherford

"You never have a comedian who hasn't got a very deep strain of sadness within him or her. Every great clown has been very near to tragedy", said Magaret Rutherford (1892-1972) : her father murdered his father (by battering him to death with a chamber pot) before she was born, and her mother died when she was three, leaving Margaret to be raised by an aunt. After working as an elocutionist and piano teacher, she was 33 when a small legacy from the aunt enabled her to study acting at the Old Vic school, and from then on she worked steadily in the theatre and occasionally in the cinema, largely in comedy, though she was about to appear as Mrs Danvers in Daphne du Maurier's own adaptation of Rebecca when the outbreak of war caused the production to be cancelled. Then Noël Coward cast her as Madame Arcati, the dotty but genuine medium, in Blithe Spirit in 1941. This confirmed her star status in the theatre.




David Lean's 1945 film version established her as one of the great comic actors of her time. This position she sustained until the 1960s when she won an Oscar for her Duchess of Brighton in the otherwise dull The V.I.P.s (1963). Bringing her career to a fitting close, Orson Welles cast her as Mistress Quickly in Chimes at Midnight (1965), and Chaplin gave her a cameo role in his cinematic swansong, A Countess from Hong Kong (1967).

But her most famous screen appearances remained as Miss Marple. The role fitted her own character - indomitable, stout, ebullient and slightly eccentric (in a way only the British could be). Rutherford took great umbrage when she learned that Agathie Christie had expressed concerns about her (Rutherford's) girth, as Miss Marple is usually portrayed and played as a trim, tallish spinster. However the novellist dedicated The Mirror Crack'd "To Margaret Rutherford in admiration". The actress appeared as the little old lady detective in five MGM's productions : Murder, She Said (1961), Murder at the Gallop (1963), Murder Most Foul (1964), Murder Ahoy (1964) and The Alphabet Murders (1965). These films also gave her husband Stringer Davis (1899-1973) his most prominent role (as her side-kick Mr Stringer) - they'd married in 1945 and he had small parts in most of her films since then. With her impeccable comic timing and a face like a startled bloodhound (a sort of cross dressed Michel Simon) she was a natural ; the sort of player that only comes along once in a generation. Incarnating a range of eccentric spinsters and dotty aristocrats, Rutherford was a formidably confident and dignified presence. She worked with comedians as different as Peter Sellers - a fellow employee at a fleapit cinema in The Smallest Show on Earth (1957) - and Norman Wisdom - a difficult customer in Trouble in Store (1953). But her greatest comic confrontation was in The Happiest Days of Your Life (1950) as headmistress of a girls' public school forced to share premises with headmaster Alastair Sim's boys' boarding school.




Rutherford left behind her a gallery of colourful characters: the historian Professor Hatton-Jones in the Ealing classic Passport to Pimlico (1949) inquiring of the claimant to the Duke of Burgundy, "Are you a bleeder?"; a definitive Miss Prism in Anthony Asquith's film version of The Importance of Being Earnest (1952) ; and memorable parts in minor movies such as Miranda (1948) and An Alligator Named Daisy (1955). James Mason called her the one living five-star actress, and George Harrison said she was his favourite star. She was created a dame in 1967 as she was succumbing to Alzheimer's. Fiercely feminist, cousin of the radical left-wing Labour politician Tony Benn, she and her husband adopted the writer Gordon Langley Hall (1937-2000), who was then in his twenties. This adoptive child underwent a sex-change operation in 1968, married one year later a young black motor mechanic (it was the first legal interracial marriage in South Carolina) and later wrote under the name "Dawn Langley Hall" a documented biography : Margaret Rutherford, A blithe spirit (1983) .




During her declining years, Margaret Rutherford employed a former opera singer called Violet Lang-Davis as a companion. She lived at the couple's home in Chalfont St Peter, Buckinghamshire. When Rutherford died in 1972, Lang-Davis, then in her 60s, stayed on to look after Rutherford's widower and grew so close to him that they contemplated marriage. But he died in August 1973 before they could tie the knot and Lang-Davis was left nothing. She then embarked on a series of actions designed to secure the inheritance of the late Mr Davis. She went to see her old priest in Brook Green, west London, Father Joseph Williams, who had agreed to marry her and Davis. She left a copy of a will naming herself as sole beneficiary while Williams was out visiting parishioners.




Lang-Davis sold a considerable quantity of antiques and memorabilia to a Fulham antiques dealer called John Harvey telling him that she was Margaret Rutherford’s niece, and he paid her £1,013 in a mixture of cash and cheques for the valuables. Harvey sold everything except the Oscar (which he paid £30 for) and the Golden Globe, won in 1964 by Rutherford as best supporting actress in The VIPs. She later told the police that there had been a burglary and that some of the items sold to Harvey had been stolen in the burglary. But she finally admitted what she had done : "I sold all these things because I needed the money. I needed the money desperately in order to live." A handwriting expert proved the will a forgery. In October 1975 she was arrested and remanded in Holloway pending her trial at Reading crown court on charges of theft, criminal deception and forgery. But when the day of the trial arrived she did not appear, and a warrant for her arrest was issued but never executed. In 1985 two of Rutherford's medals - her DBE and a Variety Club award - turned up for sale at Sotheby's. Lang-Davis had not reported them stolen in the "burglary", so they were the first items she sold. Police tried unsuccessfully to trace her...

lundi 14 septembre 2009

A secret source of inspiration for Cecilia Bartoli and Philippe Jaroussky

Carestini ? Caffarelli ? No ! The french "protée musical" Louis Vernassier.






dimanche 13 septembre 2009

The Vinteuil Sonata

It is a Proustian paradox that the apparently hopeless is the most likely to happen. At this most unexpected time [july 1942], from a presumably incomunicado France, has come a letter which illuminates a twenty-year old problem with regard to Proust's epoch-making novel, A la recherche du temps perdu. The letter is from Toulon, and contains a report of an interview with the man who was admittedly the closest friend of Marcel Proust (1871-1922) and who, musician and composer in his own right, was the source and channel for most of Proust's knowledge of music. There is no doubt that Reynaldo Hahn (1874-1947) is the person best qualified to speak with authority about the vexed question of the originals of the Vinteuil Sonata. The talented and charming Hahn saw Proust daily for a good part of the latter's lifetime; he alone among Proust's many friends was able to adapt himself completely to the eccentric hours and difficult sensibilities of that cloistered invalid. Yet, apart from an article in the "Hommages a Marcel Proust" published by the Nouvelle Revue française in 1923, and very scanty references elsewhere, Hahn has stood aloof from the flood of Proust reminiscences which have been pouring forth for a quarter of a century, resulting in a bibliography alone of hundreds of pages; he has not even published correspondence, as so many of Proust's friends and acquaintances have done. One reason for this reticence, as stated frankly to his interviewer, is that much of this avalanche of Proustian literature, in Hahn's opinion, is inaccurate or unilluminating. Anything he might publish would risk being lost in the confusion, and he has been content to wait for the right moment-which, to be sure, present circumstances seemed to be rather pronouncedly delaying. The specific questions which were submitted to him at the interview, however, he answered graciously and at length. Of the item of Proustiana here concerned, the Vinteuil Sonata, we have come to speak as familiarly as of the "Eroica" or the overture to Tannhauser. For all readers of Remembrance of Things Past the Vinteuil Sonata has achieved the status of those great creations of literature which step out of the frame that encloses them to become separate and independent entities. A host of conflicting suppositions exists with regard to the possible originals of this piece of imaginary music; and in the long history of this controversy this letter brings us the latest and probably the most definitive instalment.

Esthetically speaking, the matter of the originals of an artist's creations has an adventitious, a wholly incidental interest which may be a subject for literary curiosity but is of no artistic significance. However, if we recognize in Proust's novel an imaginative transcript or rather reconstruction of the period of French history in which he lived, the problem of the models from which he composed his synthetic and symbolical portraits takes on a more than usual importance. Especially is this true of the Vinteuil Sonata, whose significance in the book is many-faceted. Through the medium of a "little phrase" which occurs in one of its movements the Vinteuil Sonata becomes the symbol, the "national anthem", of the two most important love-affairs in the book, namely that of Swann for Odette and of the narrator for Albertine. After love has proved a disappointment, both Swann and the "I" are led beyond it by the music of the Sonata (and later on by a Septet which represents Vinteuil's art in a more mature stage) to a realization of the meaning and value of art. For the narrator, this revelation is of fundamental importance, for it leads directly to the recovery of his vanished past, the temps perdu, which Vinteuil's music teaches him can be found only in that which is above time and therefore timeless ; only in that which is for ever preserved by being incarnated in a work of art. Thus the quest for something in life which should be real and worthwhile, something of permanent value, in short, the search for reality, is ended when Marcel finds in the music of Vinteuil the supra-terrestrial, extra-temporal, eternal essence of things, only glimpses of which had been vouchsafed him in rare moments of contemplation, as of the steeples of Martinville or of the taste of a madeleine soaked in tea. By the end of the book, with the help of Vinteuil's music, the narrator has discovered his vocation-to compose a work of art; and accordingly there is catalysed in him the determination to write a novel. This is, needless to say, the novel we have, of which the decision to write it is the climax. Art, thought Proust, was the only reality, and rarely has a work of literature been so steeped in the sister arts as is Remembrance of Things Past.

Of all the arts, music, as exemplified by the Vinteuil Sonata, he considered the purest and most perfect, and even the form of his book shows its influence. Proust's novel has been compared to a fugue, in which all the possibilities of the themes of time and memory are played on to the full; to a symphonic poem, which begins with a long, slow silence, grows to a loud crescendo of many voices, and dies away again to a solitary meditation. Most striking of all, the composition of the novel has been explained as being similar to that of a Wagnerian opera-which is not surprising in view of the enormous vogue of Wagner in Proust's impressionable youth and of his own admiration for that composer's genius. All the multifarious themes played with variations over and over again in the course of the novel are, if not developed, at least stated in the very first volume of "Swann's Way". Who was Vinteuil ? If you subscribe to Proust's theory that the greatest artists of each generation are the most profound and in consequence the most revolutionary; if you believe that the representatives of the arts in his novel illustrate his thesis that the true artist is an innovator who is at first uncomprehended and ignored by the public, which only in time learns to appreciate him, then you must agree with those who declare that Bergotte, the writer, is Anatole France; Elstir, the painter, Cezanne; la Berma, the actress, Sarah Bernhardt; and Vinteuil, the musician, Cesar Franck-which last supposition gains greatly from the resemblance between the simple, modest character and life of Vinteuil, as described in the novel, and that of Franck. However, if we look at the materials of Proust's experience out of which he fashioned his creations, we find matters not quite so uncomplicated and schematic. For example, the artists with whom Proust was acquainted and who presumably furnished the models for the figure of Elstir, were, first of all, Monet, then Turner, Whistler, Vuillard, Bonnard and possibly Degas ; with Cezanne (as also with Renoir), a letter written by Proust in one of the last years of his life tells us, he was almost completely unfamiliar. So it was not the fundamentally upsetting revolution of Post-Impressionism but the much milder Impressionism that Proust had in mind when he composed the figure of the painter; not Cezanne, but Monet. Yet, although the technique of Elstir as described is impressionist, in strength of innovation and importance he corresponds more to Cezanne. Therefore, if we speak symbolically and broadly, we may still say that he is Cezanne. Similarly, in that broad sense, Vinteuil is Cesar Franck.

Actually, the sources of the character are not so simple. There has been much scurrying hither and yon in search of these, and it is Proust himself, considerably annoyed by the imbecility of people's wanting to know the originals of personages he rightly regarded as inde- pendent artistic creations having no prototypes in life, who has drawn most of the red herrings across the trail. The harassed author expressed himself very forcibly on this point in one of his letters : "[How] annoyed [I am] to hear people tell me: don't try to contradict, the Duchess of Guermantes is Madame G. (when the Duchess of Guermantes, who is both everyone and no one, is in any case exactly the opposite of Madame G. )". Besides, in his constant desire to give pleasure to his friends he would make them each the repository of exclusive confidences as to the original of such-and-such a theme or character in his book-confidences which, as now reported to posterity, embarrassingly fail to agree. Thus, to return to the Vinteuil Sonata, Robert de Montesquiou, on asking Proust for its original, was told that it was a sonata by Fauré which gave all those who heard it an irresistible desire "de violer un enfant de choeur dans la sacristie " -which audacious remark does more credit to Proust's ability to adapt his conversation to the person to whom he was talking, in this case the bizarre, extravagant Montesquiou who fancied the outré, the shocking, the paradoxical, than to his own sensibility. Mme Sheikevitch, another of Proust's good friends, has her own story to tell. She quotes the following from Proust's conversation at Cabourg in September 1912: "Do you like Borodin ? You know that it was one of the themes of his third Symphony which gave me the idea of the little phrase of the Vinteuil Sonata... Might we not explain this charming confidence as inspired by the wish to compliment the Russian connections of this lady, especially since discussion and praise of things Muscovite had tactfully been made by Proust the keynote of his conversation on this occasion ?

We may take much more seriously a dedication written by Proust in Jacques de Lacretelle's copy of Du Cote de chez Swann : "Dear friend, there are no clés for the characters of this book; or rather there are eight or ten for each ; similarly for the Combray church, my memory loaned me as "models" (posed for me) many churches. [...] My recollections are more precise for the Sonata. To the extent (very slight, to be sure) that I made use of reality, the little phrase of that Sonata, and I have never told it to anyone [!] is (to begin at the end), in the Saint-Euverte soirée, the charming but really mediocre phrase of a sonata for piano and violin by Saint-Saëns, a musician of whom I am not fond. (I shall indicate exactly to you the passage which recurs several times [...]) At the same soirée, a little farther on, I should not be surprised that in speaking of the little phrase I might have thought of the Good-Friday Spell music. In that same soirée again (page 241), when the piano and the violin sigh like two birds which are calling to each other, I thought of the Sonata by Franck, whose Quartet will appear in one of the succeeding volumes. The tremolos which cover the little phrase at the Verdurins' were suggested to me by a prelude to Lohengrin, but the phrase itself at that moment by something of Schubert's. The same evening at the Verdurins' the phrase is a ravishing piano composition by Fauré."
To recapitulate, in this dedication Proust suggests the following originals of the "little phrase" :
I. A piano and violin sonata by Saint-Saëns (of whom at the same time he speaks slightingly),
2. Wagner's Good-Friday Spell music,
3. A theme from Schubert,
4. A piano composition by Fauré (who often was the chief ornament of the parties given by Proust, at whose request he would frequently seat himself at the piano and play for the assembled guests.
Franck is mentioned also, but only in connection with a contrapuntal passage for piano and violin which is not that of the "little phrase". More importantly, the Quartet by Franck, which was to appear in one of the later volumes (not published at the time of the letter to de Lacretelle), can only be the Septet by Vinteuil so enchantingly described in The Captive. Let us return now to Reynaldo Hahn, who begins by being very much astonished at Mme Sheikevitch's explanation of the "petite phrase". He even doubts Proust's acquaintance with Borodin's third Symphony, of which he had never spoken. At any rate, Hahn admits no influence of Borodin on Vinteuil's "little phrase" and seems to regard the entire incident as pure conversation. As to his musical influence on Proust, Hahn is delightfully explicit. "Contrary to popular opinion, Proust was not in the least a musician. Almost all the music he knew he heard through me. He went out very little, and, as I went to see him every evening, I often sat down at the piano and played for him something I wanted him to hear or that he wanted me to play."


Now follows Hahn's explanation of the Vinteuil Sonata: "It happened in this way-and I am now coming to the Vinteuil Sonata-that the Sonata in D minor for piano and violin by Saint-Saëns had pleased him very much, and particularly a singing phrase of the first movement. He asked me hundreds of times: "Play for me that bit I like, you know, that... 'little phrase' by Saint-Saëns." Another musical phrase, also singing, very melodious, but more vibrant, of the last part of Cesar Franck's Sonata for piano and violin, he also liked very much. That is why, although I never questioned him on the subject and he never said anything explicit to me, I suppose there is no single clé for the Vinteuil Sonata any more than for any of the characters of Remembrance of Things Past. To return to the "little phrase", I am almost certain that in Proust's mind it was composed in reality of an amalgam, of a fusion of two musical phrases, Saint-Saëns's and Franck's." Hahn thus confirms Proust's statement about the Saint-Saëns Sonata with the important added detail that it is the one in D minor, and ascribes some influence on the "phrase" to the piano and violin Sonata by Franck. He also mentions in passing the baselessness of another theory often advanced, namely that Proust's inspiration was a Sonata by Lekeu.

Hahn indicates that this theory was dictated by snobbery alone, inasmuch as Lekeu was a musician with a very esoteric and limited appeal and "people must have found it more elegant to attribute the 'little phrase' to him rather than to the man who was probably its chief author, at that moment scorned by 'people of taste' and undergoing the inevitable eclipse which overtakes all genius. Besides, if Proust could have heard Lekeu, it could only have been when I was away at war (about 1917), which was after the publication of Swann's Way, at which time he used to have musicians coming to him regularly to play chamber music." Just as the great artist Elstir is not Cézanne but Monet, so the creator of the music that inspired the "little phrase" of Vinteuil's Sonata turns out to be not the great Cesar Franck but Saint-Saëns, who was so far from being considered a decisive innovator or an outstanding genius that even Proust, in the letter to de Lacretelle, practically apologizes for making use of his music. However, cut-and-dried formulae have no place in discussions of art; and we must make the reservation that in the glorious passage describing the Septet which was the expression of the mature genius of Vinteuil, it was definitely from Cesar Franck's Quartet that Proust derived his inspiration. When asked to jot down in musical notation the phrases he had mentioned, Reynaldo Hahn very properly declined, with these words, which might well be borne in mind in any discussion of Proust's models: "If I made a note of these phrases for you, I should be betraying Proust by seeming to furnish a definite clue where there is, after all, nothing but a strong presumption." Although nothing is more fascinating for an admirer of Proust's genius than to examine the environing influences which shaped its development, one hesitates before the final mystery of the work of art which he created whole out of the shreds and patches of his experience.

Dorothy Adelson from Music & Letters, July 1942.

samedi 5 septembre 2009

Stephen Tennant and the cruising dandies

Among the myths associated with the 1920s, the flamboyance of style is the most persistent. [...] Most homosexuals wanted [...] to blend in with the mass of "normal" people and so they conformed to the canons of virility that were in vogue at the timen adding only the slightest variations to their appearance. [...] The "serious, intelligent and embarrassed homosexual" dit not distinguish himself in any way. The hair was worn very short at the nape of the neck and on the sides, brillantined and combed in order to form a wave or plastered smooth like patent leather. The suit was dark, of thick fabric, broad in cut, with the bottom of the trousers flared. This baggy fashion had some erotic advantages, as Gifford Skinner relates : "The average man wore his trousers very full cut and they went up almost to the chest. The underclothers, if one wore any, were quite as loose and left the genitals free. Any friction caused by walking could produce the most stark effect. In the street, homosexuals would stud their conversation with remarks like 'Did you see that piece?' or 'Look what's coming - he's sticking straight out!' This was often an illusion caused by a fold in the clothing, but it was a pleasant pastime and didn't cost anything."

Others, however, sought a departure from the ubiquitous classicism. Suits in electric blue, almond green or old rose were much admired, but few dared to wear them for fear of being kicked out of public places. Certain accessories became homosexual signs of recognition, in particular suede shoes and camel's hair coats. Some dared to wear their hair long. Any eccentricity was readily perceived as proof of inversion, leading to a little adventure for Quentin Crisp, a flagrant homosexual if ever there was one, when he presented himself at the draft board : While his eyes were being tested, they said to him, "You've dyed your hair. That's a sign of sexual perversion. Do you know what these words mean?" He just said yes, and that he was a homosexual. That does not mean that the man in the street could clearly identify a homosexual that he knew enough to decipher the signs. However, any sartorial oddity was suspicious and could easily be seen as a sign of homosexuality. There was one way out : to be perceived as an artist, i.e. necessarily an "original". Crisp notes that the sexual significance of certain forms of comportment was understood only vaguely, but the sartorial symbolism was recognized by everyone. Wearing suede shoes inevitably made you suspect. Anyone whose hair was a little raggedy at the nape of the neck was regarded as an artist, a foreigner, or worse yet. One of his friends told him that, when someone introduced him to an older gentleman as an artist, the man said : "Oh, I know his young man is an artist. The other day I saw him on the street in a brown jacket." In the same way, the use of make-up was spreading, so that mere possession of a powder puff was enough to prove one's homosexuality for the police.


[...] The very chic Stephen Tenant (1906-1987), taking tea with his aunt, was admonished : "Stephen darling, go and wash your face." Thus we know that the practice was by no means limited to male prostitutes, but involved various social classes. However, it was far from being well accepted, even in the most exalted circles. At a ball hosted by the Earl of Pembroke, Cecil Beaton was thrown in the water by some of the more virile young men; one of them shouted : " Do you think the fag drowned?" According to Tennant, who was there at the time, the attack was caused by the abuse of make-up ; he was convinced that it was Beaton's made-up that so disturbed the thugs. When Stephen Tennant was a little boy in Edwardian England, his father asked him what he would like to be when he grew up. "I want to be a Great Beauty, Sir," he replied. In the 1920s, Stephen Tennant embodied homosexual aesthetics carried to its apogee. He was a great beauty, and he enjoyed using all the artifices of seduction and l'art de la pose, theatricality. In that, he exaggerated the prevailing fashion for dressing up.[...] Photographed by Cecil Beaton, especially, Tennant looked like a prince charming. Even in his everyday wear, he stood apart from the crowd ; [...] his style and his innate sense of theater [...] made him a symbol of the Bright Young People of the 1920s in London. Late in the decade, Tennant represented the most extrem of fashion - for a man, at least. His feminine manners and appearance were not diminished by the striped double-breasted suits he wore, in good taste and well cut, "which ought to have made him resemble any young fellow downtown." But Stephen's physical presence was enough to belie such an impression. He was large and imperious, but he moved with a pronounced step, affected, which was drescribed as "prancing" or as "seeming to be attached at the knees".


Each of his movements, from the facial muscles to his long limbs, seemed calculated for effect. He gilded his fair hair with a sprinkling of gold dust, and used certain preparations to hold the dark roots in check. "Stephen could very well have been taken for a Vogue illustration - perhaps by Lepappe - brought to life." [...] Together with Cecil Beaton, Stephen Tennant and other young society men organized all kinds of themed evenings. Stephen Tennant's effeminate appearance caused ambivalent reactions. Some were simply struck : "I do not know if that is a man or a woman, but it is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen", the admiral Sir Lewis Clinton-Baker would say. Others were less indulgent. When Tennant arrived one evening dressed particularly outrageously, the criticism reached a boiling point. Rex Whistler, one of his friends, considered it regrettable that he had gone too far : "He posed as much as a girl." Rex's brother added, "Men should not draw attention to themselves. That was the only true charge against Stephen, and it was irrefutable." Parents also complained that their children spent time with Stephen. Edith Olivier noted that Helena Folkestone was complaining about how badly people spoke of Stephen, that he was hated by people who did not understand him. Olivier noted that they were out of touch with the times, since "nowadays so many boys resemble girls without being effeminate. That is the kind of boys that have grown up since the war."

Although many who knew Tennant later in life "could hardly believe the physical act possible for him", The one real love affair of his adult life was with Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967), the masculine, renowned pacifist poet. Sassoon brought to their relationship his fame, his talent, his position, while Tennant's only daily activities were dressing-up and reading about himself in the gossip columns. Looking at the photos of the two lovers, Tennant posing languidly (vogueing, really), way-too-thin and way-too-rich, as Sassoon looks on proudly, even the most radical Act-Up militant might mutter a private "Oh, brother!" However Tennant's extreme elegance was close to sexual terrorism, as it flabbergasted society on both sides of the Atlantic for half a century. "Cherish me and introduce me to the glories of New York," Tennant telephoned a startled friend, David Herbert, as he crossed the Atlantic on the Berengaria. Herbert met Tennant at the boat and was embarrassed to see him walking down the gangway "marcelled and painted [...] delicately holding a spray of cattleya orchids."Pin 'em on!" shouted a tough customs officer in homophobic disgust."Oh, have you got a pin?" exclaimed Tennant in complete disregard for the reaction of others. "You kind, kind creature."


In London, sollicitation principally took the form of "cottaging"; it consisted in making the rounds of the various urinals of the city looking for quick and anonymous meetings. [...] The urinals were frequently subjected to police raids; and there were often agents provocateurs, which made it all the more dangerous. Then other places were used used as pick-up sites, like the arcades of the County Fire Office in Piccadilly Circus, the Turkish baths at Jermyn Street, the isolated streets [...] ; in Clareville Street, Leicester Public garden or Grosvenor Hill, one could find somebody for the night. [...] As in Germany, but to a lesser degree, male prostitution expanded tue to unemployment. At the Cat and Flute in Charing Cross, young workmen would be found. The contemporary practice was that two would sit together and share a beer. A client would approach and offer to pay for the second one. After a moment one of the boys would step away, leaving the two others together. These boys were not necessarily homosexual, but got into prostitution due to the econoic situation. Some of them said they were "saving up to get married." The rates were set, with 10 shillings added if there were sodomy. Soldiers (mainly from the Guards brigad) and sailors made up another category of prostitutes. Unlike the workmen, they were not in prostitution as a result of need but rather by tradition. The best places to meet them were the London parks, [...] Tattersall Tavern in Knightsbridge, and The Drum, by the Tower of London, for sailors. The guards' red uniform and the sailors' costumes exerted a fascination and an erotic attraction that was constantly evoked by contemporaries: "everyone prefers something in uniform." Any national costume or traditional equipment can be sexually stimulating and there are as many eccentric sexual tastes as there are kinds of costumes.

The sailors' uniform was particularly appreciated for the tight fit and especially for the horizontal fly. Moreover, while soldiers generally had very little time to share, sailors had many weekends. For a walk in the park, a soldier received about 2 shillings ; a silor might get up to 3 pounds. Stephen Tennant wrote about this fascination, nothing one sailor's tight little derière. Anecdotes from those days include the story of an evening organized by Edward Gathorne-Hardy where a contingent of soldiers of the Guard were invited as special guests ; in another, a soldier was offered as a gift to the master of the house. To the soldiers, prostitution was a tradition ; it seems that the young recruits were initiated by the elders as they were being integrated into the regiment. The customers were designated twanks, steamers or fitter's mates. A good patron was preferred ; thus Ackerley reveived a letter one day announcing the death of one of his lovers - and another soldier from his regiment offering himself as a replacement. This part-time prostitution allowed soldiers to get some pocket money, which they then spent on drinks or with prostitutes of their own. These activities were not entirely safe, for many a soldier or sailor could turn out to be quite brutal.

from History Of Homosexuality In Europe, 1919-1939 par Florence Tamagne

dimanche 23 août 2009

Fabre and his habitudes italiennes

François-Xavier Fabre (1766-1837) was awarded the Grand Prix in late August 1787 and arrived in Rome on 10th December. In August 1790, the director Menageot reported that he was most pleased with the sketch for Fabre's Death of Abel. Having won the Grand Prix, Girodet arrived that same month in Rome and wrote to Gérard, "Le Grand Nez [his nickname for Fabre] a fait un Abel mort." The source for the composition is the engraving by Le Villain after Adam mourning Abel by J. Karl Loth, included in the first volume of Tableaux, Statues, Bas-Reliefs et Camées de la Galerie de Florence et du Palais Pitti (I789). The iconographical particularity of Loth's painting, the death of Abel shown to occur immediately following the brothers' sacrifices, is repeated, but only the figure of Abel is retained, who now assumes the role of victim on the sacrificial altar. The recent violence is suggested only by a small area of blood-stained hair, while the precariousness of the pose is masked by the graceful indolent fall of the arms. Abel is an image of perfect beauty and goodness, an unblemished pale figure outlined against the twilight darkness of nature; as religious sentiment the painting is an astonishing visual parallel to Gessner's highly popular prose poem Mort d'Abel. The concluding remark in Menageot's report on the exhibition suggests Fabre's reputation at this time: "Jusqu'à présent [il est] celui qui nous donne le plus de [satisfaction]". Fabre's Abel also made an impact on Girodet, the rival who exhibited Endymion the following year.

The young painter soon adopted the counter-Revolutionary views of two friends, the poet Vittorio Alfieri and his mistress the Comtesse d'Albany, whom he had met soon after his arrival in the city. In July 1793 Fabre painted the first in a series of portraits of Alfieri, while with the young pupil of David the Comtesse continued drawing lessons she had begun in Paris; a lasting, constant friendship was sealed. Visiting aristocrats eager to acquire paintings as souvenirs promptly became Fabre's market for pictures. Although his dreams of a brilliant Academic career in Paris faded, he found comfort in the thought of his pre-eminent position in Florence. Fabre embodied the eminently bourgeois virtues of stability and discretion. Although he could be witty and easily make use of his vast knowledge, he most often remained aloof from others, an isolation which results in part from his physical ugliness. For Fabre, in his art as in his life, lacked passion and imagination. In Louis David, son école et son temps (1855), Delécluze wrote "Son éloignement de France, les succès brillants qu'obtinrent dans leur pays Girodet et Gérard, ses anciens rivaux, et une tendance naturelle vers la paresse, augmentée encore par une affection goutteuse et les habitudes italiennes qu'il avait contractées, furent autant de causes qui éteignirent dans le coeur de Fabre cette activité, cette émulation indispensable pour produire de grandes choses dans les arts." In May 1800 as the emigrés returned in large numbers to stabilized Consular France, Fabre began Neoptolemus (Pyrrhus) and Ulysses rob Philoctetes of the arrows of Hercules. Fabre attempts to recreate the concentrated effect achieved by David in his paintings of the mid-eighties. The choice of the Sophoclean version of the story, in which Ulysses's companion is the hesitant Neoptolemus who is too honest to leave Philoctetes behind on Lemnos, suggests the influence of Alfieri who had translated the Greek tragedy into Italian a few years earlier. In I799 the Comtesse wrote, "Il y a sept ans qu'il fréquente le poète tous les jours, qu'il est imbu de ses ouvrages, qu'il les sait par coeur, qu'il en est idolâtre." Fabre knew Greek and probably was delighted whenever he could assist Alfieri, who studied Greek tragedy during the last years of his life, from 1796 to 1803.

But the full pictorial expression of Fabre's affection for Alfieri does not yet appear in this huge canvas. The painter pay just homage to the poet in I803 Fabre with Saul, troubled by remorse, sees the ghost of the high-priest Achimelech, executed along with his sons at Saul's order for having harboured David, while another ghost, that of Samuel with flaming sword, seizes him by the hair and predicts his suicide, and his daughter Micol tries to calm his fears. The painting remained in the Comtesse d'Albany's salone until her death. A morning nightmare concocted from the Bible by Alfieri, in the tragedy published in 1784, the visions are vividly evoked through Saul's emotional descriptions but never appear on stage. This climactic moment from Alfieri's last tragedy is borrowing from his earlier compositions (Mort d'Abel) and influences (David, Poussin) to create this scene of ghost-infested madness; it would be difficult to find a more successful visual counterpart to Alfieri's art, in which classical form and romantic mood are so intimately in accord. Fabre took great care in the execution of this painting and undoubtedly finished it before 8th October I803, when the death of Alfieri plunged Fabre and the Comtesse d'Albany into inconsolable mourning. Stranded in Florence and not particularly gregarious, Fabre had placed great importance on his intellectual friendship with Alfieri. He now devoted himself entirely to the Comtesse who willingly accepted the painter's companionship: "Pour moi je ne trouve pas un être ici qui me convienne et à qui j'oserais communiquer ce que je pense, excepté à Fabre, qui voit de même que moi. Sa tête n'est pas encore remise depuis la perte que nous avons faite; il est encore trop troublé pour travailler avec goût." (April I804).

Disillusioned by his difficulties and his lack of interest in front of the canvas, he sought rest and comfort, indulging in his passion for collecting, painting occasional portraits and for the next fifteen years presiding by the side of the Comtesse at her Salon, the most prominent in Florence till her death on 29th January I824. In 1826, leaving Alfieri's major manuscripts in exchange for an export permit, the emigré finally returned home in his native Montpellier, with his collection and that of the Comtesse who had inherited Alfieri's library. Fabre became conservateur of his donation of books, paintings, drawings and objets d'art, inaugurated as a museum on his feast day in 1828, and as well directed the painting school which he founded. For Girodet and Gros in Paris, his unblemished experience of David's art was now of attractive nostalgic value; in the midst of the stylistic controversies of the 1820's Fabre's isolated aesthetic purity offered the besieged elder Davidians a refuge. In 1829, at sixty-three years of age, he sought a director for the painting school, "Je ne le voudrais point classique exagéré mais encore moins romantique décidé, ni surtout blasphèmateur contre l'école de David; nous ne vivrions pas ensemble!" For Fabre, the trenchant aesthetic doctrine inhibited rather than inspired the artist. Showing as much pride as presumption, he wrote to Gros in I832: "Je crois bien que nous sommes les doyens de cette belle école de David que vous vengez si bien des sarcasmes dont on voudrait la couvrir mais qui ne l'atteindront jamais."

Based upon "François-Xavier Fabre, Peintre d'Histoire" by Philippe Bordes, in The Burlington Magazine, February and March 1975.

mercredi 19 août 2009

Bernstein plays Ravel's Concerto in G major

Completed in November 1931, the Concerto was premiered in January 1932, in a legendary performance by Marguerite Long (1874-1966). The sensations that this work conjures up, right from the beginning, are brightness and boundless energy. Inside of Paris' legendary Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, the Orchestre National de France conducted from the piano by Leonard Bernstein (1918-1990) pays tribute in 1975 to the 100th birthday of Maurice Ravel. Some of these marvelous musicians were already playing in the orchestra when Ravel was still alive, and they often accompanied Marguerite Long. Bernstein's reckless and sensitive playing is here combinated with the most authentic ravelian orchestral sounds.

Opening with a whiplash sound, the first movement, Allegramente, proceeds rapidly, from an initial burst of light, composed of a lively piccolo tune threading through crystalline, harp-like piano figuration, to the incisive ending, traversing the many truly magical, even mysterious, moments of repose, when the piano indulges in dreamy, languid soliloquies. Delighting in the piano's expressive potential, Ravel fully employs the instrument's sonority, weaving, for example, a trill into a melody. The piano's rich and subtle discourse is magnificently matched by the orchestra, which, appearing in many guises, mimics and complements the piano, reinforcing the sensation of relentless energy by sharp, metallic, insistent statements by the trumpet. Ravel's splendid orchestration, which tempts the listener to experience this work as a brilliant, and almost self-sufficient, demonstration of sheer musical color, reflects the composer's interest in jazz, evidenced by trombone glissandi and similar effects. However, the jazz elements are profoundly Ravelian, which means that they hardly strike the listener as out of context.



The remarkable second movement introduces an introspective, soulful atmosphere, seemingly quite remote from the bustle of the previous movement. A simply stated solo piano theme, of a disarming yet profoundly soulful simplicity, suggesting, perhaps, the image of a solitary promenade in the moonlight, yields to a timeless flute theme which expresses feelings of longing, sorrow, and subdued, yet clearly stated, passion.



The final movement, as the piano wends its way through a series of shrieks and wails, executed by woodwind and brass instruments, affects the listener as a mounting wave of sound. A sudden, abrupt exclamation concludes the seductive cacophony of this climactic movement, and the listener experiences a desire to revisit the enchanted landscape of a musical work whose limpid formal structure contains a seemingly boundless world - without a trace of creative fatigue or ambivalence - of elegantly turned musical ideas.

mardi 18 août 2009

Bill Miller the Heartbreaker

"The most beautiful person I ever saw. It was instant." Otis Bigelow met Bill Miller (1921-1995) at a party, and fifty years later he still remembered the moment. "A Frank Sinatra recording of I'll Be Seeing You was playing on the phonograph. We went out and had dinner. So I was in love, and he was in love. He was stationed at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and we kind of spent that month together." Bill Miller is also famous among his contemporaries as one of the most gorgeous men in the 1940s. He knew and frequently slept with the rich, the famous and the brilliant. While the rest of the world struggled through World War II and its aftermath, Bill Miller tasted the cream of Manhattan gay life, his life centering around parties, yachts and grand hotels. His social circle in New York (and later Europe) included Dorothy Parker, Christopher Isherwood, W. H. Auden, Jean Genet, Jean Cocteau, George Cukor and many other figures from litterature, the visual arts and cafe society. Surprisingly, Miller was never a professional model. Paul Cadmus draw him, George Platt Lynes photographed him, and everyone wanted him. Miller was by far the most powerful attraction Bigelow had ever felt. "We were at the Waldorf Astoria in the suite of some wealthy man who invited us to stay over in the spare bedroom", Bigelow remembered. "We were in bed. I looked at Bill, and I thought 'I can't live without him.' And that was that." Bigelow finally admitted to himself that he really was gay. "I had to face the fact that I had changed."

Bigelow's life was complicated somewhat by the fact that he had met a man named George Gallowhur (1905-1974) earlier in the summer, [...] a dashing thirty-seven-year-old industrialist with a slightly higher public profile [...]. Paul Cadmus remembered [him] as someone who "gave the appearance of being very, very businesslike and a straight American", but who actually "loved to go in for sailors and things like that." Gallowhur fell madly in love with Bigelow, who found him "stunning", but did not reciprocate his feelings. To entice the young undergraduate, Gallowhur made the young man an extraordinary offer. Bigelow was about to enter his final year in the Naval Reserve Officer Training program at Hamilton. If the student would live with him, Gallowhur had the power to keep his promise, and to specify that Bigelow could not be sent to the Pacific. Bigelow was still seeing Gallowhur when he met Bill Miller, "so I had to tell George I couldn't see him anymore." Gallowhur begged him to reconsider. "Let me give a dinner party for six people", the industrialist suggested. Bigelow could bring Bill, who would sit next to Gallowhur at dinner ; afterward Bigelow could choose between them. "Give me a chance!" Gallowhur pleaded. Bigelow agreed and brought Miller to Turtel Bay. After coffee had been served, Gallowhur took Bigelow aside. "Have you made your choice?" he inquired. "Yes", said Bigelow. "It's Bill." Bigelow and Miller had only one more week together before Bigelow had to go back to college. "We were so happy", Bigelow remembered. "I went back to school and he went back into the Coast Guard." The sailor wrote Bigelow a single letter : he said he was "dead" without him, and Bigelow believed that Miller was shipping out. In november, Bigelow returned to New York for Thanksgiving. He was glum, thinking that Miller might have already perished at sea.

In Manhattan, he stayed with George Hoyningen-Huene (1900-1968), a famous fashion photographer for Vogue and Harper's Bazaar. Hoyningen-Huene had been born in St Petersburg at the turn of the century ; his parents were a Baltic nobleman and the daughter of the American minister to the court of the czar. The photographer was forty-two when Bigelow met him, and he kept himself fit with regular visits to the gym - a custom that would become almost universal among a certain class of gay men three decades later. After Bigelow had done some modeling for his host, Hoyningen-Huene tried to coax him into bed. When Bigelow refused him, Hoyningen-Huene became furious, and started to shout : "You're doing all this moping around about that sailor Bill! Did you know that Bill has been living in Turtle Bay with George Gallowhur since about three days after you left?" Bigelow was stunned. It was the "cruelest thing" he had ever experienced. It was also his awakening.

(from The Gay Metropolis by Charles Kaiser)

mercredi 12 août 2009

Buster Crabbe master of outer space

Comic strips were a basic form of entertainment to many people in the 1930s, especially during the depression, an art form that continued up to the 1950s, before television reduced its impact. Comics provided escape from the everyday routines of living. Buck Rogers rode a high wave of popularity in American newspapers at that time. But another spaceman character quickly caught up with the popularity of Buck Rogers in competing newspapers: Flash Gordon. He was created in 1934 by Alex Raymond (1909-1956) who was a great artist, respected in the industry as one of the finest, whose bold outlines, use of vivid colors, and strikingly handsome characters, grabbed the attention of many readers. It didn’t take Flash long to exceed the popularity of Buck and, within a year or two, Alex Raymond worked on another special project: to find a character to compete with the popular Tarzan comics. Alex’s answer to Tarzan came in the form of Jungle Jim, who possessed less of the savagery, and a more contemporary approach to jungle justice than Tarzan. Like Flash had done earlier, Jungle Jim was accepted by readers, although it never approached the popularity of Tarzan. Johnny Weissmuller (1904-1984) and Buster Crabbe (1908-1983), having once competed for the Tarzan lead, eventually came to dominate all four of these roles in the movies. They both played Tarzan at the beginning of their careers, but Weissmuller became the Tarzan, and when he grew too old for the rigors of the series, he became Jungle Jim - the only Jungle Jim. On the other hand, Crabbe became Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers. In short, Weissmuller ruled the jungle, and Crabbe was master of outer space.

Crabbe grew up in the islands, where he learned to literally "swim like a fish." He was a champion boxer in high school, and went on to become a champion swimmer in the Olympics (1932). Like his friend Johnny Weissmuller, Crabbe's swimming success gained him the attention of Hollywood and led to his entrance into films. Although Buster originally intended to become a lawyer and only took up acting to get enough money to enter law school, he quickly became a popular action star when he took the lead role in Paramount's King of the Jungle , a big-budget rip-off of MGM's Tarzan series. Crabbe starred as Kaspa, the Lion Man, but to all intents and purposes he was playing Tarzan. An independent producer, Sol Lesser, gained the rights to do five Tarzan films and, recognizing Crabbe as a natural for the part, he signed him up.



Unfortunately, the 12-chapter Tarzan the Fearless (1933), was a pretty weak effort, merely a cheap attempt to capitalize on the Tarzan legend - and Crabbe's superb physical prowess - by slopping together a mish-mash of jungle action. Crabbe himself, in his autobiography, put his finger on the cliffhanger's main weakness: "Lesser's [Tarzan] was an ignorant brute who spoke halting English - a loincloth leviathan." While a variation of this approach worked in the MGM films, Crabbe's Tarzan was also sabotaged by a weak script, which made the King of the Jungle seem like a self-interested savage rather than a heroic figure. Again in Crabbe's words: "no amount of promotion could save it."



After the Tarzan serial, Buster was signed to a contract by Paramount. In 1936, Universal Studios were going to make a serial called Flash Gordon. "I had followed old Flash in the papers for some time", wrote Crabbe in his autobiography, "and I pictured several actors in my mind who I thought would make good Flash Gordons. A guy on another planet was a way-out theme in those days, but still interesting enough to tickle the imaginations of adventurous souls. [...] So I decided to run out to Universal and watch the testing. I recognized two of the actors right away. One of them was the guy I thought would make a perfect Flash, a fellow named George Bergnian. He was a health nut who was good looking and had played in several bit parts around town. I’d worked with him a couple of times and, as I looked at him, I thought, with bleached hair, he’d be great. The other actor I recognized was Jon Hall. He was a swimmer and an athlete with a nice physique, good looking features, and also would have been good in the role. I stood around for half an hour or so, watching the actors jump around the stage, speak a few lines, and perform whatever actions the director requested. Some were excused after the first runthrough while others were given more time and kept to one side for another look. The producer of the picture was there, Henry MacRae, and at one point in the testing he walked over to where I was standing and introduced himself.




“You’re Buster Crabbe, aren’t you?” he asked. I smiled and nodded, shaking his hand. “Are you here to try out for the part?” “No, sir. I read about the testing and I had nothing better to do, so I thought I’d come over and watch. Is it okay?” “Sure. Glad to have you,” he said. He was silent for a minute, standing beside me as we both watched an actor go through his routine on stage. “How would you like to play the part?” “Me?” I knew who he meant, but I hadn’t come to get the part. My interest was only in satisfying my curiosity. I honestly thought Flash Gordon was too far-out, and that it would flop at the box office. God knew I’d been in enough turkeys during my four years as an actor; I didn’t need another one. “I’m under contract to Paramount,” I said. “I don’t know what plans they have for me.” “I know about your contract. We’ll arrange to borrow you.” He kept his eyes on mine, as if trying to read my responses before I spoke them. I looked back at the stage. “You’ve got some pretty good talent up there now.” “The part is yours if you want it,” he said matter-offactly, continuing to wait for my consent. “What makes you think I’d fit the part?” “I’ve seen some of your features. Alex Raymond and I discussed what qualities to look for in casting the lead, and from what I’ve seen of your work, you fit the bill.” “But I haven’t even tested for the part.” “It’s yours if you want it.” Somehow I got the impression that if I flat out said “No,” he’d have persisted. “That’s up to Paramount. If they say you can borrow me, then I’d be willing to play the part.” On that note, we shook hands, said good-bye, and I left. On the way home, I reflected upon the conversation. [...] I didn’t test for the part, nor was I ever asked to. Within a month after my conversation with Henry MacRae on the Universal sound stage, I got a call from my boss at Paramount, informing me that I had been loaned out to do the Flash Gordon serial. The production crew and cast were among the best talents available for what was going to be a B-movie.




[...] Just before Universal began filming the serial, I had to report to a hair dresser on Hollywood Boulevard
to have my hair bleached. Having always looked out at the world from under a dark brow, it was an unusual experience being a blond. It was as if someone had lifted the roof - suddenly, everything looked brighter. I spent a lot of time staring at myself in the parlor mirror, trying to adjust to the sudden change. It was a little embarrassing. The bleach job didn’t appeal to me at all. I braced myself for the goodnatured ribbing I’d have to take at the studio the next day, as I put my hat on and left the salon for home. I began to place myself into the role of Flash Gordon since I had been made-up to resemble him. It was kind of an unavoidable method-acting, brought about by this stranger who kept peering out of mirrors at me. [...] The first Flash Gordon was wrapped up in six weeks, just before Christmas of 1936. There was no cast party, as often is done for class-A movies. Some of the actors went across the street to a bar, to celebrate the end of our long ordeal. The director might pat us on the back and say, “nice job, guys,” but that was it. [...] When Flash Gordon hit the theaters in early 1937, it turned out to be a big hit. According to Universal’s front office, Flash grossed the second-biggest income the studio had that year. At the time, I wasn’t aware of the impact Flash would have on my life. [...]




Buck Rogers
was [...] a 12-episode affair directed by Ford Beebe and Saul Goodkind. It was a story about two Earthlings frozen in suspended animation (a fore-runner of cryogenics?) who are awakened in the 25th century. A battle between the forces of good and evil had erupted in the universe, and the destiny of Earth hung in the balance. Although the art of rocketry and laser weaponry had reached a very advanced state, the American government of the future was quick to recognize the superior intelligence of Buck Rogers, and persuaded him to champion their cause at the rank of lieutenant colonel. Buck was a brunet, like me, which was nice for a change. Jackie Moran played the part of Buddy, my 20th century companion, which gave us a sort of Batman and Robin relationship [...]."

sources :
http://www.filmfax.com/features/pdf/buster_crabbe.pdf
http://filesofjerryblake.netfirms.com/html/buster_crabbe.html

samedi 8 août 2009

Sade et les chevaliers de la manchette

"Est-il possible d’être assez barbare pour oser condamner à mort un malheureux individu dont tout le crime est de ne pas avoir les mêmes goûts que vous ? On frémit lorsque l’on pense qu’il n’y a pas encore quarante ans que l’absurdité des législateurs en était encore là. Consolez-vous, citoyens; de telles absurdités n’arriveront plus : la sagesse de vos législateurs vous en répond. Entièrement éclairci sur cette faiblesse de quelques hommes, on sent bien aujourd’hui qu’une telle erreur ne peut être criminelle, et que la nature ne saurait avoir mis au fluide qui coule dans nos reins une assez grande importance pour se courroucer sur le chemin qu’il nous plaît de faire prendre à cette liqueur.

Quel est le seul crime qui puisse exister ici ? Assurément ce n’est pas de se placer dans tel ou tel lieu, à moins que l’on ne voulût soutenir que toutes les parties du corps ne se ressemblent point, et qu’il en est de pures et de souillées; mais, comme il est impossible d’avancer de telles absurdités, le seul prétendu délit ne saurait consister ici que dans la perte de la semence. Or, je demande s’il est vraisemblable que cette semence soit tellement précieuse aux yeux de la nature qu’il devienne impossible de la perdre sans crime ? Procéderait-elle tous les jours à ces pertes si cela était ? [...] Est-il possible d’imaginer que la nature nous donnât la possibilité d’un crime qui l’outragerait ? Est-il possible qu’elle consente à ce que les hommes détruisent ses plaisirs et deviennent par là plus forts qu’elle ? Il est inouï dans quel gouffre d’absurdités l’on se jette quand on abandonne, pour raisonner, les secours du flambeau de la raison ! Tenons-nous donc pour bien assurés [...] qu’il ne peut exister en nous d’autres penchants que ceux que nous tenons de la nature, elle est trop sage et trop conséquente pour en avoir mis dans nous qui puissent jamais l’offenser.

Celui de la sodomie est le résultat de l’organisation, et nous ne contribuons pour rien à cette organisation. Des enfants de l’âge le plus tendre annoncent ce goût, et ne s’en corrigent jamais. Quelquefois il est le fruit de la satiété; mais, dans ce cas même, en appartient-il moins à la nature ? Sous tous les rapports, il est son ouvrage, et, dans tous les cas, ce qu’elle inspire doit être respecté par les hommes. Si, par un recensement exact, on venait à prouver que ce goût affecte infiniment plus que l’autre, que les plaisirs qui en résultent sont beaucoup plus vifs, et qu’en raison de cela ses sectateurs sont mille fois plus nombreux que ses ennemis, ne serait-il pas possible de conclure alors que, loin d’outrager la nature, ce vice servirait ses vues, et qu’elle tient bien moins à la progéniture que nous n’avons la folie de le croire ? Or, en parcourant l’univers, que de peuples ne voyons-nous pas mépriser les femmes ! Il en est qui ne s’en servent absolument que pour avoir l’enfant nécessaire à les remplacer. L’habitude que les hommes ont de vivre ensemble dans les républiques y rendra toujours ce vice plus fréquent, mais il n’est certainement pas dangereux. Les législateurs de la Grèce l’auraient-ils introduit dans leur république s’ils l’avaient cru tel ? Bien loin de là, ils le croyaient nécessaire à un peuple guerrier. Plutarque nous parle avec enthousiasme du bataillon des amants et des aimés; eux seuls défendirent longtemps la liberté de la Grèce. Ce vice régna dans l’association des frères d’armes; il la cimenta; les plus grands hommes y furent enclins. L’Amérique entière, lorsque l’on la découvrit, se trouva peuplée de gens de ce goût. À la Louisiane, chez les Illinois, des Indiens, vêtus en femmes, se prostituaient comme des courtisanes. Les nègres de Benguelé entretiennent publiquement des hommes; presque tous les sérails d’Alger ne sont plus aujourd’hui peuplés que de jeunes garçons. On ne se contentait pas de tolérer, on ordonnait à Thèbes l’amour des garçons; le philosophe de Chéronée le prescrivit pour adoucir les moeurs des jeunes gens. Nous savons à quel point il régna dans Rome: on y trouvait des lieux publics où de jeunes garçons se prostituaient sous l’habit de filles et des jeunes filles sous celui de garçons. Martial, Catulle, Tibulle, Horace et Virgile écrivaient à des hommes comme à leurs maîtresses, et nous lisons enfin dans Plutarque que les femmes ne doivent avoir aucune part à l’amour des hommes.

Les Amasiens de l’île de Crète enlevaient autrefois de jeunes garçons avec les plus singulières cérémonies. Quand ils en aimaient un, ils en faisaient part aux parents le jour où le ravisseur voulait l’enlever; le jeune homme faisait quelque résistance si son amant ne lui plaisait pas; dans le cas contraire, il partait avec lui, et le séducteur le renvoyait à sa famille sitôt qu’il s’en était servi; car, dans cette passion comme dans celle des femmes, on en a toujours trop, dès que l’on en a assez. Strabon nous dit que, dans cette même île, ce n’était qu’avec des garçons que l’on remplissait les sérails: on les prostituait publiquement. Veut-on une dernière autorité, faite pour prouver combien ce vice est utile dans une république ? Ecoutons Jérôme le Péripatéticien. L’amour des garçons, nous dit-il, se répandit dans toute la Grèce, parce qu’il donnait du courage et de la force, et qu’il servait à chasser les tyrans; les conspirations se formaient entre les amants, et ils se laissaient plutôt torturer que de révéler leurs complices; le patriotisme sacrifiait ainsi tout à la prospérité de l’Etat; on était certain que ces liaisons affermissaient la république, on déclamait contre les femmes, et c’était une faiblesse réservée au despotisme que de s’attacher à de telles créatures. Toujours la pédérastie fut le vice des peuples guerriers. César nous apprend que les Gaulois y étaient extraordinairement adonnés. Les guerres qu’avaient à soutenir les républiques, en séparant les deux sexes, propagèrent ce vice, et, quand on y reconnut des suites si utiles à l’État, la religion le consacra bientôt. On sait que les Romains sanctifièrent les amours de Jupiter et de Ganymède. Sextus Empiricus nous assure que cette fantaisie était ordonnée chez les Perses. Enfin les femmes jalouses et méprisées offrirent à leurs maris de leur rendre le même service qu’ils recevaient des jeunes garçons; quelques-uns l’essayèrent et revinrent à leurs anciennes habitudes, ne trouvant pas l’illusion possible.

Les Turcs, fort enclins à cette dépravation que Mahomet consacra dans son Alcoran, assurent néanmoins qu’une très jeune vierge peut assez bien remplacer un garçon, et rarement les leurs deviennent femmes avant que d’avoir passé par cette épreuve. Sixte-Quint et Sanchez permirent cette débauche; ce dernier entreprit même de prouver qu’elle était utile à la propagation, et qu’un enfant créé après cette course préalable en devenait infiniment mieux constitué. Enfin les femmes se dédommagèrent entre elles. Cette fantaisie sans doute n’a pas plus d’inconvénients que l’autre, parce que le résultat n’en est que le refus de créer, et que les moyens de ceux qui ont le goût de la population sont assez puissants pour que les adversaires n’y puissent jamais nuire. Les Grecs appuyaient de même cet égarement des femmes sur des raisons d’État. Il en résultait que, se suffisant entre elles, leurs communications avec les hommes étaient moins fréquentes et qu’elles ne nuisaient point ainsi aux affaires de la république. Lucien nous apprend quel progrès fit cette licence, et ce n’est pas sans intérêt que nous la voyons dans Sapho.

Il n’est, en un mot, aucune sorte de danger dans toutes ces manies [...] parce que la corruption des moeurs, souvent très utile dans un gouvernement, ne saurait y nuire sous aucun rapport, et nous devons attendre de nos législateurs assez de sagesse, assez de prudence, pour être bien sûrs qu’aucune loi n’émanera d’eux pour la répression de ces misères qui, tenant absolument à l’organisation, ne sauraient jamais rendre plus coupable celui qui y est enclin que ne l’est l’individu que la nature créa contrefait."

Extrait du Cinquième Dialogue de La Philosophie dans le boudoir ou Les instituteurs immoraux (1795) de Donatien Alphonse François de Sade

Edouard Dermit, l'Ange Heurtebise

In early 1947 Jean Cocteau, who started to live at Milly-la-Foret, engaged a gardener : the sensationally handsome Antoine Dermit (1925-1995). The 22-years-old young man who was as the son of a Lorraine miner had been rebaptised Edouard by his mother, popularly shortened to Doudou.



Herbert List photographied him in 1948. The same year, Dermit made a first appearence as an actor, in Cocteau's L'Aigle à deux têtes. In 1950, he played under the direction of Jean-Pierre Melville, entrusted by the poet, in Les Enfants terribles. This memorable performance by an unknown comedian, carefully coached by Cocteau and sensitively directed by Melville, was a sensation. The beautiful lighting and the haunting music by Georges Auric added to the film's spell. Dermit's beauty was again displayed to artistic effect by Cocteau in Orphée, as the young poet Segeste. The name comes from one of Cocteau's poem L'Ange Heurtebise. The character reappeared in Cocteau's last film, Le Testament d'Orphée (1959), as the older poet's guardian.




Cocteau had soon discovered Dermit's gifts as a painter, and taught him all he knew about the techniques of art. When he died, Cocteau left many drawings and sketches for the frescoes of a small chapel in Frejus, and these his adopted son was able to use in order to complete his master's work there. Cocteau had also left in his charge the manuscript of a posthumous work, Passé défini, which Dermit saw through the press.




dimanche 2 août 2009

Brook and Robin Lopez



"A year ago they were 19-year-old sophomores on Stanford's men's basketball tem, leading the Cardinal to the Sweet 16. Now the Lopez brothers, twin seven-footers Brook (left) and Robin (with Sideshow Bob hair), are banging in the NBA paint for New Jersey and Phoenix, respectively. [They are] the only twins ever selected in the first round of the NBA draft [...] - and the only twins with unisex names ! [...] "

samedi 1 août 2009

Alexandre Cabanel et le Paradis perdu



Second Prix de Rome en 1845, Alexandre Cabanel (1823-1889) séjourne cinq années à la Villa Medicis où il développe une palette d’une grande clarté, à la manière précise et raffinée héritée du grand modèle classique incarné par Ingres qui avait dirigé l'institution romaine quelques années plus tôt. En 1847, il travaille à la représentation de l'ange déchu décrit par Milton : « La double pensée de la félicité perdue et d'un mal présent à jamais le tourmente. [...] D'un seul coup d'oeil, et aussi loin que perce le regard des anges, il voit le lieu triste dévasté et désert : [...] régions de chagrin, obscurité plaintive, où la paix, où le repos ne peuvent jamais habiter, l'espérance jamais venir, elle qui vient à tous ! [...] L'inquiétude est assise sur sa joue fanée ; sous les sourcils d'un courage indompté et d'un orgueil patient veille la vengeance. Cruel était son oeil ; toutefois il s'en échappait des signes de remords et de compassion. » Il hésite sur la pose à lui faire adopter car il désire « [mettre] en scène deux natures, deux races : l'une prédestinée au mal et au malheur, enfin à tomber ; tandis que l'autre, chaste et pure, s'élève radieusement vers Dieu en le glorifiant. [...] Cette opposition de bonheur qui rappelle à Satan sa gloire passée est à peu près le sujet du tableau. » L'Ange déchu constitue son deuxième envoi, et à la grande déception du jeune peintre, se trouve « extrêmement violenté par l'Institut », la pose maniériste du personnage et le romantisme affiché du sujet l’écartait sans doute trop de la ligne esthétique à tenir.



Siégeant désormais sous la coupole de l'Institut, où il est élu en 1863, Cabanel demeure fidèle au poème de Milton. En 1867, il présente un immense Paradis perdu de 11 mètres de hauteur, commandé pour le Maximilianeum de Munich par Louis II de Bavière. Ce tableau, peut-être le plus ambitieux de l'artiste, fut détruit en 1945 dans les bombardements. Il subsiste malgré tout grâce aux nombreuses esquisses dessinées, études peintes, réductions, notamment une où l'artiste se concentre sur la figure essentielle d'Adam. Dans une atmosphère de forêt primitive, le premier homme est assis, adossé contre un arbre, dans une position d'abandon, les muscles détendus et relâchés, la tête mobile et souple de fatigue penchée vers l'avant. Le visage très abouti, identique à celui du Paradis perdu, est plongé dans l'ombre comme dans une nocturne et donne à Adam un aspect romantique et presque mélancolique. Dans une très belle opposition de clair-obscur, la lumière semble venir de l'arrière de la composition pour envelopper la silhouette et former autour d'elle une auréole car c'est bien le corps même du premier homme qui irradie, source de cette lumière qui assimile la figure de l'Adam au tronc de l'arbre et l'intègre à la nature même comme au tableau tout entier. Dans une attitude lasse et vaincue, non dénuée de sensualité, la représentation d'Adam est vigoureusement traitée sans aucune afféterie. A l'aide d'une facture très aboutie, l'artiste offre la vision d'un abandon très moderne, l'image d'une lassitude et de la conscience de la perte, celle d'un état de nature idéal à jamais perdu. Cette transposition picturale du moment d'après la Faute offre au spectateur la vision d'un Adam à la beauté farouche, la beauté de la Faute, celle d'un ange déchu.

vendredi 31 juillet 2009

Une visite au château de Verrières

En mars 1964, Louise de Vilmorin reçoit une équipe de la Télévision suisse romande dans son château de Verrières. Le critique littéraire Maurice Huelin l'interroge notamment sur Saint-Exupéry, et l'entretien se conclut sur la définition d'une certaine idée du bonheur qui a toujours accompagné cette femme littéralement extraordinaire...



http://archives.tsr.ch/player/personnalite-vilmorin


samedi 25 juillet 2009

Louise de Vilmorin, la machine à plaire

"Une femme, Louise de Vilmorin, qui a été aimée, et même idolâtrée, par des hommes aussi différents qu'Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Orson Welles ou André Malraux, il fallait bien que sa puissance de séduction soit exceptionnelle. [...] Un grand nom, une grande beauté qui inspirera peintres et photographes, un esprit dont les reparties deviendront célèbres, et le plus redoutable des dons, celui de la poésie. Louise verra tout avec des yeux de poète. Fille de Philippe et de Mélanie de Vilmorin, Louise naît le 4 avril 1902. Elle a déjà une soeur, Mapie, et aura bientôt quatre frères, Henry, Olivier, Roger, André. Ces six enfants connaissent une enfance dorée sous la houlette du « bon abbé » Tisnes. Enfance dorée, mais assombrie par le manque total d'affection de Mélanie à l'égard de Louise, qui déplorera ce manque jusqu'à la fin de sa vie. Ainsi revint-elle à de multiples reprises sur cet épisode de son enfance où, de retour de promenade, elle constata avec effroi que sa poupée préférée, la seule, « la poupée chimère » , avait disparu. Froide et indifférente, sa mère l'avait donnée, pour la distraire, à la fille d'une amie de passage. Louise fit là l'épreuve de l'irréparable, que nous sommes tous appelés à connaître sous une forme ou sous une autre ; et vit ensuite dans cet objet perdu la source de tous les objets dont elle aima à s'entourer sa vie durant, élaborant un art de vivre qui loin de se réduire à un superficiel sens du decorum lui fut véritablement essentiel.

En 1919, Louise souffre de tuberculose osseuse et sera pendant deux ans « la jeune fille allongée ». Tous les amis de ses frères sont amoureux de cette sylphide. Parmi ces amis qui se changent vite en admirateurs, un seul réussit à plaire à Louise : Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, de deux ans son cadet. Mais Mélanie de Vilmorin refuse que sa fille épouse un garçon sans le sou et sans avenir aucun. La mort dans l'âme et dans le coeur, Antoine renonce à Louise, qui lui inspirera sa Geneviève dans Courrier Sud (1929)... et dont le souvenir revit un peu plus tard dans la Rose, dont s'éprend le Petit Prince. De cet épisode de sa vie, Louise tirera plus tard un recueil de poèmes au titre évocateur, Fiançailles pour rire. Puis elle accepte d'épouser un richissime Américain de 39 ans, Henry Leigh-Hunt, qui a compté parmi les innombrables amants de Mélanie et dont elle aura trois filles, Jessie, Elena, Alexandra. Henry entraîne Louise à Las Vegas, qui n'est alors qu'une morne bourgade où elle s'ennuie à périr. Pour combattre cet ennui, elle écrit d'admirables lettres.

En 1930, pendant un séjour à Paris, elle rencontre André Malraux, qui l'encourage fortement à continuer ses travaux d'écriture. Louise doute, et doutera toujours, de son talent. C'est alors que son frère André lui lance : « Dieu s'admire en toi. Pourquoi sommes-nous si peu à le savoir ? » [...] André Malraux porte chez Gallimard le manuscrit du premier roman de Louise, Sainte-Unefois. Gide, Paulhan, Drieu s'extasient et crient au miracle. Sainte-Unefois paraît en 1934 et provoque des enthousiasmes délirants, comme celui de Jean Cocteau, qui déclare à son auteur : « Vous êtes une sainte et je vous épouse. » Comme elle n'est pas une sainte, Louise n'épouse pas Jean Cocteau, qui sera l'un de ses plus fidèles amis. L'admiration que Malraux porte à l'écrivain s'adresse aussi à la femme. Une liaison s'ensuit, jusqu'à ce que Louise, qui est aussi volage que l'était sa mère, commette une infidélité. Furieux, Malraux rompt alors immédiatement avec Louise, qui se dit inconsolable. Elle se laissera vite consoler par le peintre Jean Hugo, par Pierre Brisson, qui dirige le Figaro, et par son éditeur, Gaston Gallimard (« Je méditerai, tu m'éditeras ») - pour ne nommer encore que ces trois-là. En amour, Louise de Vilmorin aurait pu faire siens les propos de Natalie Barney : « En amour, je n'aime que les commencements. » Louise connaît, dans les années 1930, de nombreux commencements. Pour les mener à bien, elle divorce. Elle se croit libre. Pas pour longtemps. A l'automne 1938, Louise de Vilmorin rencontre celui qui va être son deuxième, et dernier, époux, le comte Pâli Palffy. Un grand seigneur hongrois, qui offre à Louise dans son château de Pudmerice, dans les Carpates, la vie romantique qu'elle a toujours rêvé de mener. Ce beau rêve s'écroule avec la déclaration de guerre en 1939. Henry Leigh-Hunt regagne les Etats-Unis en emmenant ses trois filles, que Louise ne reverra que bien après la Libération.


Louise passe les années 1940 à Pudmerice, où elle écrit Le Lit à colonnes, et revient définitivement en France au printemps 1944. Elle est à nouveau libre, ayant divorcé de Pâli, grand coureur de jupons. A l'automne 1944, Louise s'installe à Paris, à l'ambassade de Grande-Bretagne, où brillent deux étoiles de la noblesse britannique, Duff et Diana Cooper, qui ont tous les deux succombé aux charmes multiples de l'enchanteresse. Au commencement des années 1950, Louise de Vilmorin vient habiter la superbe demeure de ses ancêtres, à Verrières, dans les environs de Paris. Elle y devient la bonne dame de Verrières, comme George Sand était la bonne dame de Nohant. George recevait Liszt ou Delacroix ; Louise reçoit Jean Cocteau, qui y écrit La Difficulté d'être, et Orson Welles, qui y compose son Monsieur Arkadin (et réalisera un peu plus tard pour la télévision française Une histoire immortelle, sur un scénario de... Louise de Vilmorin). Dans son salon bleu, Louise accueille le Tout-Paris, le Tout-Londres, le Tout-Vienne, le Tout-Rome. Bref, elle incarne à elle seule les Etats unis (et mondains) d'Europe. Elle est définitivement célèbre et entre au Musée Grévin. Ses dévots propagent ses formules magiques, comme « Je t'aimerai toujours d'amour, ce soir » ou « Parle-moi de moi, il n'y a que ça qui m'intéresse »...


En 1950, Louise de Vilmorin écrit son chef-d'oeuvre, Madame de. Immense succès de librairie, film de Max Ophüls avec Danielle Darrieux, Charles Boyer et Vittorio De Sica. Suivent deux autres ravissants romans, Julietta et La Lettre dans un taxi, dans lesquels l'auteur donne libre cours à son imagination et à sa fantaisie, toutes deux sans limites. Pendant les années 1960, Louise de Vilmorin se change en une machine à plaire : au romancier Roger Nimier, à l'éditeur Pierre Seghers, au chanteur Léo Ferré, pour n'en nommer encore que trois... Elle préfigure les femmes sexagénaires et toujours sexy, les « sexas sexy » qu'incarneront après elle Jane Fonda ou Joan Collins. Assurée de sa persistante séduction, Louise décide de reconquérir André Malraux, que de Gaulle a fait ministre de la Culture. Pendant deux ans, elle écrit chaque jour, et parfois deux fois par jour, à celui qui ne demande qu'à être encore séduit.


Le 24 novembre 1968, [...] ils redeviennent amants. Ou peut-être mettent-ils en pratique cette jolie définition de l'amour que Malraux avait donnée à Louise : « S'aimer, c'est s'embrasser d'un peu plus près » ? Louise et André veulent se marier, mais l'épouse de Malraux refuse le divorce. Louise change ce refus en plaisanterie : « Aujourd'hui, il n'y a plus que les prêtres qui veulent se marier », explique-t-elle. Puisqu'ils ne peuvent pas se marier, ils décident de vivre ensemble. André Malraux s'installe à Verrières en juillet 1969. Nouveau roi du salon bleu, Malraux doit admettre à sa cour les pages de la reine Louise. Leurs plaisanteries amusent Louise mais n'amusent guère le ministre qui vit perpétuellement sur des sommets. La vie quotidienne ne tarde pas à devenir insupportable à l'éléphant Malraux et au papillon Louise, qui n'ont pas les mêmes sujets d'amusement... Louise, habituée à briller, doit céder le pas, et la parole, à André. Dans un moment d'exaspération, elle résume ainsi la situation : « Je ne suis plus Louise de Vilmorin, je suis Marilyn Malraux. » Le 26 décembre 1969, dans l'après-midi, saisie d'un malaise, Louise meurt subitement en disant au médecin qui lui fait une piqûre : « Ah, mais vous me faites mal ! » Ce sont ses ultimes paroles. [...]"

d'après Jean Châlon, in Le Nouvel Observateur du 20 mars 2008.



« Nous nous aimons toujours (...), je ne vous ai pas assez dit que je vous aimais et que vous pourriez vous jeter vers moi comme vers un océan de larmes et d'amour, un océan de sincérité. Cependant, c'est moi qui vais vers vous pour les mêmes raisons. Quand reviendrez-vous ?»

vendredi 24 juillet 2009

Jack Balas

Born in Chicago in 1955 when America saw extraordinary social change, Jack Balas was a student of art’s evolution from the 1970’s forced-march of severe minimalism to the 1980’s post-modernist pluralism, when anything became possible. Early in his career he focused on painting landscape imagery and our constructed environment. He liked to talk about formal concerns: painting as map or diary linking visual and verbal, conceptual and material, fact and fiction, abstraction and representation. While all this remains true, with the paintings he makes today he would now say that, given how many images we are all bombarded with via the media every day, he is simply interested in making memorable ones. And indeed he does.





Over the last several years the male figure has taken center stage in his works. Ripe with associations that can still invoke powerful taboos in contemporary culture, the images have ancient roots in idealized notions of beauty, truth, and form. But his "Studio Men," as he refers to his models, are able to shape-shift at the same time into a variety of emotional, political and stylistic scenarios - contexts in which they function as everyman.





Gingerly moving paint across a surface, Jack is able to bend and flex oils and enamels in the most fluid of ways. Color compositions that are complex, soft, and, tender display intimately the male form, whether nude or clothed. Throughout his work, especially those on paper such as from the MUSE/Museum Series (2006-09) and Tattoo Detour: Drawings from Honolulu (2007-08), the viewer is bated into stealing long glances into what feels like a private journal, what with its unabashed display of scribbled margins and the occasional private phone number, seeming to record moments, thoughts, and aspirations of an artist searching.




In an altogether and decisively different approach in works such as The Long History (2008), Navy's Romeo (2008), and Base (2008), the artist creatively toys with the illustrative, almost animation-like techniques of a graphic novelist, marrying them to a measured and controlled hand of traditional realism, with a few art-historical references thrown in to boot. Jack intensifies his tone and lavishes rich color in broad gestural strokes across the canvas, sweeping you up and into the moment, allowing you to participate or merely watch. Thus he is able to breathe fresh air into a timeless subject, making the figure brand new, memorable, and sexy.





sources :
http://www.jackbalas.com/PHOTO/studio%20men/StudioMen.html
http://www.creativethriftshop.com/Artist/Bio_JackBalas.htm

jeudi 23 juillet 2009

Teja Kremke and Rudolf Nureyev

Teja Kremke (1942-1979) was a handsome 17-year-old East Berliner living in Leningrad when he met Rudolf Nureyev (1938-1993), then aged 21, who was a rising star of the city's Kirov Ballet (now the Mariinsky Theatre). A student at the Vaganova ballet school, Teja had shiny chestnut hair, pale skin, full lips and intense grey-blue eyes, with an erotic presence as visible as a heat haze. They became lovers soon after meeting in 1959, and "blood brothers", cutting themselves to mingle their blood. But their growing intimacy was too risky to reveal to anyone at the school. When another student went to the ballet school shower room one day, he found that Nureyev and Teja had locked themselves in and were refusing to open the door. It confirmed what he had suspected for some time: often, when he came back in the evening to the room he shared with Teja, he had seen Nureyev climbing out of the window (Nureyev would one day tell a mutual friend that it was Teja who first taught him “the art of male love”). Kremke was also an amateur filmmaker and compulsively filmed many of Nureyev’s performances at the Kirov, to help him analyze his shortcomings. He followed him into the streets of Leningrad too. At the same time, Teja was constantly goading Nureyev to leave Russia. “He’d say, ‘Go! Get out! At the first opportunity you have. Don’t stay here or no one will hear of you!’” said their friend.


Kremke returns to East Berlin, still yearning for his lover, hoping that they can reunite and pursue their adolescent dreams of togetherness. In 1961, Nureyev’s dramatic leap to freedom in the West without him at France’s Le Bourget Airport devastates Kremke and against his mother’s wish he telephones his adored Rudik in Paris. They make arrangements to meet and Kremke tells him he is prepared to sacrifice everything and defect, with all its ramifications of Soviet vengeance on those left behind. But even as Kremke packs his bags the Berlin Wall goes up overnight and, locked behind it and separated from the one he loves, Kremke must now risk his life to join Nureyev. He goes to pieces. His family remembers how he “fell apart” during the ensuing KGB interrogations. Nothing seemed to mend the cracks in his heart and mind left behind by the love of his life, Rudik. He drank. He was very depressed. His whole family was punished for his brief dangerous liaison.” Travel denied, study opportunities denied, wretched work: the usual bureaucratic torture. He drowned under mysterious circumstances in 1979, he was 37.

Frank Eugene



Frank Eugene Smith (1865-1936) studied painting under Wilhelm von Diez at the Munich Academy of Art and became well-established as a portrait painter before he took up photography about 1885.



His technique of scratching the negative (with an etching needle to suppress unwanted detail and enhance the graphic vitality of the print) and of drawing on them created a new syntax for the photographic vocabularity.



No one before him had hand-worked negatives with such painterly intentions. He is regarded as one of the most innovative art photographers of the period prior to the first World War.