Authors: Rosamond Bernier
Some of My Lives (35 page)
My chapter in
Irving Penn: A Career in Photography
, the catalog for a 1997â98 exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Irving Penn: A Career in Photography
, the catalog for a 1997â98 exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago.
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At the end of World War II,
Vogue
magazine was a tumult of packaged high style. Superlatives swirled around like perfumed snowflakes in a heavy storm. The major players in the
Vogue
of those days had a distinctly cosmopolitan turn of mind. Iva Patcevitch, president of
Vogue
's publishing house, Condé Nast, and Alexander Liberman, art director of
Vogue
, were recent arrivals from Paris, and both were of Russian origin; several of the magazine's photographers, such as Serge Balkin and Constantin Joffé, were also Russian.
Vogue
magazine was a tumult of packaged high style. Superlatives swirled around like perfumed snowflakes in a heavy storm. The major players in the
Vogue
of those days had a distinctly cosmopolitan turn of mind. Iva Patcevitch, president of
Vogue
's publishing house, Condé Nast, and Alexander Liberman, art director of
Vogue
, were recent arrivals from Paris, and both were of Russian origin; several of the magazine's photographers, such as Serge Balkin and Constantin Joffé, were also Russian.
Irving Penn was not like that at all. He was a plainspoken, plain-looking young American, recently back from the American Field Service. He wore sneakers, which at the time were anything but customary in the
Vogue
offices, and he rarely wore a tie. Quiet and reserved, he spoke little and he spoke softly. But there was no mistaking his steelyâin fact, stubbornâresolve: he knew exactly what he wanted, and what he wanted had nothing to do with the accepted high gloss of the fashion photograph.
Vogue
offices, and he rarely wore a tie. Quiet and reserved, he spoke little and he spoke softly. But there was no mistaking his steelyâin fact, stubbornâresolve: he knew exactly what he wanted, and what he wanted had nothing to do with the accepted high gloss of the fashion photograph.
When I first met Penn in the New York office of
Vogue
in 1946, he showed me a photograph of a Venetian canal clogged with a lot of old rubbish. I said, almost to myself, that it looked like a painting by Paul Klee. His face lit up in surprise that a young editor should say such a thing. From that moment, there was a certain rapport between us.
Vogue
in 1946, he showed me a photograph of a Venetian canal clogged with a lot of old rubbish. I said, almost to myself, that it looked like a painting by Paul Klee. His face lit up in surprise that a young editor should say such a thing. From that moment, there was a certain rapport between us.
From 1934 to 1938, Penn had attended the Pennsylvania Museum
and School of Industrial Art, where he had hoped to become a painter, and during that time he spent two summers in the New York offices of
Harper's Bazaar
as the assistant and protégé of Alexey Brodovitch. While there, he glimpsed Salvador DalÃ, Isamu Noguchi, and Richard Lindner on their way in or out, and he was present when new drawings by Jean Cocteau, Christian Bérard, and Jean Hugo arrived in the morning's mail.
and School of Industrial Art, where he had hoped to become a painter, and during that time he spent two summers in the New York offices of
Harper's Bazaar
as the assistant and protégé of Alexey Brodovitch. While there, he glimpsed Salvador DalÃ, Isamu Noguchi, and Richard Lindner on their way in or out, and he was present when new drawings by Jean Cocteau, Christian Bérard, and Jean Hugo arrived in the morning's mail.
But when the twenty-six-year-old Penn first came to work for Alexander Liberman at
Vogue
in 1943, he knew little of the multifarious and multinational avant-garde that he would be called upon to photograph. There was no reason to suppose that he would later excel as a portrait photographer, nor that between 1946 and 1950 Penn would shoot nearly three hundred portraits for
Vogue
, of which over one hundred would be published. His sitters were to include, among writers, T. S. Eliot, Edmund Wilson, W. H. Auden, Marianne Moore, Stephen Spender, Graham Greene, and Evelyn Waugh. There were masters of the keyboard, such as Wanda Landowska, Vladimir Horowitz, and Rudolf Serkin; filmmakers like Alfred Hitchcock and René Clair; among composers, Igor Stravinsky and Leonard Bernstein; jazz greats like Duke Ellington and Dizzy Gillespie; and a couturier, Christian Dior. There was also in 1947 a memorable group portrait that included, among other cartoonists, Charles Addams, Saul Steinberg, George Price, and William Steig.
Vogue
in 1943, he knew little of the multifarious and multinational avant-garde that he would be called upon to photograph. There was no reason to suppose that he would later excel as a portrait photographer, nor that between 1946 and 1950 Penn would shoot nearly three hundred portraits for
Vogue
, of which over one hundred would be published. His sitters were to include, among writers, T. S. Eliot, Edmund Wilson, W. H. Auden, Marianne Moore, Stephen Spender, Graham Greene, and Evelyn Waugh. There were masters of the keyboard, such as Wanda Landowska, Vladimir Horowitz, and Rudolf Serkin; filmmakers like Alfred Hitchcock and René Clair; among composers, Igor Stravinsky and Leonard Bernstein; jazz greats like Duke Ellington and Dizzy Gillespie; and a couturier, Christian Dior. There was also in 1947 a memorable group portrait that included, among other cartoonists, Charles Addams, Saul Steinberg, George Price, and William Steig.
In dealing with this formidable cast of characters, Penn turned out to be a gentle but implacable sorcererâa sorcerer with an artist's eye. With a built-in divining rod he could pick up the inner vibration of his subjects, even if he had nothing to go on, except perhaps the notes written for him beforehand by a well-informed assistant. But when he peered through the lens, this reticent man showed no mercy as he ferreted out the secrets that the sitters might most have wished to hide. As early as 1942, during the year he spent trying to be a painter in Mexico, he shot a picture of chickens captured in a bottle. He has been doing something like it ever since.
For some of his portraits for
Vogue
in 1948, he built a set of two converging panels that forced his sitters into a constricted space. They were caught as surely as a specimen butterfly pinned to a panel.
Vogue
in 1948, he built a set of two converging panels that forced his sitters into a constricted space. They were caught as surely as a specimen butterfly pinned to a panel.
Some of them took it (so to speak) in their stride. Marcel Duchamp
stood in his corner, imperturbably puffing on his pipe. Spencer Tracy in the same year was as relaxed as if he were in his own living room.
stood in his corner, imperturbably puffing on his pipe. Spencer Tracy in the same year was as relaxed as if he were in his own living room.
Others were not so amenable. Georgia O'Keeffe so hated her portrait that she wrote to Penn in a very firm hand asking him to destroy it. O'Keeffe's reaction is not surprising. I saw the forbidden print, now part of the Penn Collection and Archives at the Art Institute of Chicago. Dressed all in black, she looks like a wizened waif, as much a captive as any of those Mexican chickens.
Penn's relentless perfectionism did not make him easy to work with. Even objects had to comply. Liberman once described a shoot involving the instant of a fall of a tray loaded with glasses. Penn insisted that only the finest Baccarat crystal would be right, so dozens and dozens of the most expensive glasses were used in recording the right moment of spill and break.
Insects, too, had to conform to Penn's wishes. He needed some flies to complete a color image, called
Summer Sleep
, of a dozing girl by a fan, shot through a screen. So dead flies were glued to the screen to keep them exactly in the spots where Penn felt they were needed.
Summer Sleep
, of a dozing girl by a fan, shot through a screen. So dead flies were glued to the screen to keep them exactly in the spots where Penn felt they were needed.
A certain aloofness is often built into Penn's portraiture. One feels that he has deliberately set up a distance between himself and his subjects. He observes them but does not want to know them. He arranges their positions, their limbs, as meticulously but as impersonally as he organized the famous still lifes that were such a feature of his pages for
Vogue
(and one that was to be carried over in his commercial work).
Vogue
(and one that was to be carried over in his commercial work).
The English actor Paul Scofield once noted that Penn liked to photograph strangers. But there were exceptions. Penn went to Barcelona in 1948 to try to recapture the atmosphere in which the young Picasso had matured in the late 1890s. Penn had introductions to Sebastià Junyer, Picasso's companion in those heady days and the friend who had accompanied him to Paris on that historic first trip in 1900. The Penn Archives have long, affectionate letters from Junyer, full of genuine delight in Penn's company. In Junyer, Penn made a friend for life.
Even in Paris, also in 1948, where he often started with only
minimal knowledge of his sitters, he got results that completely contradicted expectation. Readers of
Vogue
who knew of Dora Maar as Picasso's archetypal weeping woman were amazed to find her shown by Penn as an immensely distinguished human being, no longer quite young, who stared back at the camera as one photographer to another.
minimal knowledge of his sitters, he got results that completely contradicted expectation. Readers of
Vogue
who knew of Dora Maar as Picasso's archetypal weeping woman were amazed to find her shown by Penn as an immensely distinguished human being, no longer quite young, who stared back at the camera as one photographer to another.
Penn also captured something of the inner anxiety that underlay Jean Cocteau's elegantly angular, show-off pose. The sideways glance, the jacket worn off the shoulder, the contrasted patterns of tie and waistcoat, and the famous hands (“like articulated jewels,” Marcel Proust had said)âall were trapped by Penn.
When faced with the quite young painter Balthus, who was then known only to a small group of passionate admirersâPicasso among themâPenn pounced on the reversed dandyism that Balthus affected at the time: his torn and tattered old clothes, his painter's coat belted with string, and the then-mandatory cigarette drooping from his lips. Balthus adored being Balthus, and Penn's portrait captures this to perfection.
One of the Parisian sitters, an expatriate American, was terribly observant. Janet Flanner, who informed and delighted readers of
The New Yorker
magazine for many years with her “Letter from Paris,” wrote with characteristic pungency and insight about her portrait, “It is excellent of my face; that is exactly how worried I am and look, especially when I fleetingly think of the universe today ⦠The only element which is not true is that I look tall; this comes from your extraordinary and slightly falsified perspective, which is your style signature and a highly interesting one, too. The top and capital parts of the sitter go back, so that the head is idealizedly small and the limbs come forward, giving, in my case, an impressive but untrue height. You are very talented; your Hitchcock portrait in
Vogue
this month is a fine piece of monstrosity, practically straight Goya.”
The New Yorker
magazine for many years with her “Letter from Paris,” wrote with characteristic pungency and insight about her portrait, “It is excellent of my face; that is exactly how worried I am and look, especially when I fleetingly think of the universe today ⦠The only element which is not true is that I look tall; this comes from your extraordinary and slightly falsified perspective, which is your style signature and a highly interesting one, too. The top and capital parts of the sitter go back, so that the head is idealizedly small and the limbs come forward, giving, in my case, an impressive but untrue height. You are very talented; your Hitchcock portrait in
Vogue
this month is a fine piece of monstrosity, practically straight Goya.”
Not unexpectedly, Alfred Hitchcock himself had a different opinion and telegraphed, “Have seen the picture taken by
Vogue
âhorrible! Please thank Mr. Penn with hope that it will be reshaped, both in features and posture.” It wasn't.
Vogue
âhorrible! Please thank Mr. Penn with hope that it will be reshaped, both in features and posture.” It wasn't.
Penn was to photograph many figures from the world of dance,
but the ecstatic arabesque was not his style: he brought a new poetry to immobility. For example, in 1948, after posing for her corner portrait, Martha Graham wrote how moved she was by Penn's “quietness and gentleness.” The “inner stillness” of the confined space intrigued her, she said. In fact, while posing, she began to plan “a dramatic dance” drawn from the experience.
but the ecstatic arabesque was not his style: he brought a new poetry to immobility. For example, in 1948, after posing for her corner portrait, Martha Graham wrote how moved she was by Penn's “quietness and gentleness.” The “inner stillness” of the confined space intrigued her, she said. In fact, while posing, she began to plan “a dramatic dance” drawn from the experience.
When Penn photographed him that same year, Merce Cunningham had just formed his endlessly innovative company. Not long before, in 1944, he had created the role of the preacher in Martha Graham's dance
Appalachian Spring
, with music by Aaron Copland. And then there is Jerome Robbins, barefoot, his slim black-clad body taking the measure of that corner and looking for once as defenseless as a puppet.
Appalachian Spring
, with music by Aaron Copland. And then there is Jerome Robbins, barefoot, his slim black-clad body taking the measure of that corner and looking for once as defenseless as a puppet.
My first thanks go to my stepson, Olivier Bernier, for his steadfast encouragement and editorial acumen.
I will always be grateful to my stylish agent, Lynn Nesbit, for introducing my book and me to Jonathan Galassi. This led to the happiest of collaborations with Jonathan and his colleagues Jeff Seroy and Jesse Coleman, models all three of helpfulness and patience.
My longtime friend and now lawyer Virginia Rutledge has been, as always, a valued sounding board and counselor.
An
abrazo
to my nieces Natalia and Margarita Jimenez for keeping the Spanish accents going in the right direction.
abrazo
to my nieces Natalia and Margarita Jimenez for keeping the Spanish accents going in the right direction.
My thanks to Elizabeth C. Baker, distinguished art editor, for taking a benign look at some of my text.
Another old friend, now the Rev. Susan J. Barnes, made helpful suggestions about a subject she knows intimately, the Menil family and collection.
Affectionate thanks to Michael Mahoney, who invented me as a lecturer and added a clarification to the Manet family text.
Thanks are due to Stephen Pascal, who delved into the
Condé Nast
archives for me.
Condé Nast
archives for me.
More thanks go to Marcello Simonetti, who stepped in late with some helpful observations.
On the home front, I thank my assistant, Sue Spears, for plumbing the depths of the technological age for me.
And warm thanks to my housekeeper of thirty-five years, Lucy Montes, for her unselfish devotion.
A bouquet of thanks to the master florist Ronaldo Maia, for brightening my life with his uninterrupted, imaginative generosity.
Also by Rosamond Bernier
Matisse, Picasso, Miróâas I Knew Them
Copyright © 2011 by Rosamond Bernier
All rights reserved
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Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
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Designed by Jonathan D. Lippincott
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eISBN 9781429995054
First eBook Edition : September 2011
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First edition, 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bernier, Rosamond.
Some of my lives : a scrapbook memoir / Rosamond Bernier.â1st ed. p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-374-26661-5 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Bernier, Rosamond. 2. Art criticsâUnited StatesâBiography. 3. Arts, Modernâ20th century. I. Title.
NX640.5.B47 A3 2011
709.2âdc22
[B]
2011007503
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