Authors: Rosamond Bernier
Some of My Lives (4 page)
W
hen I had met Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo at the Sinfónica rehearsal in Mexico City, they had invited me to go with them to the concert that night. I was to collect them at their house in a suburb called San Ãngel.
hen I had met Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo at the Sinfónica rehearsal in Mexico City, they had invited me to go with them to the concert that night. I was to collect them at their house in a suburb called San Ãngel.
The house to which I went later that day in high expectation was two houses in one.
There was a big blue cube for Diego and a rather smaller dark pink one for Frida, with a connecting bridge between them.
It was designed and built by a young architect and painter called Juan O'Gorman. It was remarkably daring for its date.
At that time, San Ãngel was a countrified suburb in which sedate family houses stood in large leafy gardens. People who walked by the O'Gorman house must have said to themselves, “What on earth is it? Is it a factory? A ship that never went to sea? Why aren't the stairs indoors, as they are everywhere else?”
But to me the house seemed like a wonderland, and not least for the flamboyant welcome that I got from my hostess.
Although I had done my best with my limited student's wardrobe, Frida took a quick look at me and would have none of it. “Come on, kid, I'll fix you up,” she said.
Next thing I knew, I had been transformed from an anonymous college girl to a transplant from a Tehuantepec market. Multicolored swaying skirt, embroidered
huipil
, pre-Columbian necklaces galore, and her masterpiece: my hair became a bright tapestry of flowers and ribbons.
huipil
, pre-Columbian necklaces galore, and her masterpiece: my hair became a bright tapestry of flowers and ribbons.
Frida laughed a great belly laugh of satisfaction at her work (she could laugh like a trombone in rut), tossed down one more little
shot of tequila, and called Diego over to admire me, and off we went to sit in their usual box for the Chávez concert.
shot of tequila, and called Diego over to admire me, and off we went to sit in their usual box for the Chávez concert.
You couldn't mistake Diego Rivera. He was well over six feet tall. He had been known to weigh more than three hundred pounds. And, as he himself admitted, he had a face like a gargantuan frog.
Frida, by contrast, stood five feet three and was delicately built. An attack of polio in childhood had left her with a withered right leg, and she was never to recover completely from a horrendous traffic accident in 1925 that had left her more dead than alive. Surgical and other painful treatments went on most of her life.
But she did not strike me as an object of pity who shrank from being looked at too closely. On the contrary, she drew attention to herself by adopting the spectacular costume of the women of Tehuantepec, of which she had made me a pale reflectionâfull-length swaying skirts ruffled at the hem and the embroidered overblouse called a
huipil
. Usually a big shawl went along with it, a rebozo. I still own a deep blue rebozo Frida gave me, and I have worn it onstage at the Met. Sometimes, as can be seen in some of the self-portraits, she added a face-framing extravaganza of ruffles and pleats that was the traditional Tehuana headdress. And she usually wore her hair entwined in a thicket of flowers and ribbons improvised every time. This was often topped off by garlands of heavy pre-Columbian necklaces. She didn't stint on the rings, either, on both hands.
huipil
. Usually a big shawl went along with it, a rebozo. I still own a deep blue rebozo Frida gave me, and I have worn it onstage at the Met. Sometimes, as can be seen in some of the self-portraits, she added a face-framing extravaganza of ruffles and pleats that was the traditional Tehuana headdress. And she usually wore her hair entwined in a thicket of flowers and ribbons improvised every time. This was often topped off by garlands of heavy pre-Columbian necklaces. She didn't stint on the rings, either, on both hands.
She often painted her nailsâorange, purple, green, whatever went best with the outfit of the day. Incidentally, Frida had never been to Tehuantepec; she just liked the becoming costume, it played to Diego's
mexicanidad
, and it made her the most noticeable kid on the block.
mexicanidad
, and it made her the most noticeable kid on the block.
I was to discover she had a great sense of mischief. No one was more fun to be around. Her vocabulary in both Spanish and English would have made a truck driver blush.
Rare was the man or woman who was not seduced by her, and seduction was her specialty.
After such a beginning, how could I not fail to fall in love with Mexico?
A
fter my marriage to Lew, my new life in Mexico began.
fter my marriage to Lew, my new life in Mexico began.
As a child, I didn't have any pets. No dog, no cat. I'm not counting two personable pink-eyed white mice that my Francophile father named Aglavaine and Selysette (these were characters out of a Maeterlinck play, I believe). The pet shop had guaranteed both were male, but one day Aglavaine or Selysette, I'm not sure which, produced sixteen offspring. That strained my schoolroom capacities. I think they were banished. (I had lessons at home tutored by a French governess.)
My first real pet came into my life in Acapulco in 1938. My young husband and I (we were respectively twenty-one and twenty-three) were staying in a small hotel in the town while our house was being built. This was long before the painful tourist boom that defaced a once-tranquil little port.
There was a knock on the door. An Indian boy, holding something, said to me, “Buy this, señora, and I will kill it and give you its skin.” It was a baby ocelot. I was horrified and without another thought said, “Don't kill it. I'll buy it.”
So I found myself in a small hotel room with a little snarling, hissing creature. My husband was out at the time.
By the next day, the ocelot was following me around and arching its neck to be petted. Not a snarl. It turned out that I was an animal tamer.
When the house was finally built, there were also quarters for the various local animals I accumulated. (There was a large garden.) It got around that there was an American señora who would buy animals, so as time went by, I ruled over a large menagerie.
The ocelot was a favorite, and I dignified it by calling it Tigre (Tiger). I used to brush it with Yardley's brilliantine. It had its boxâit was meticulousâin the spare bathroom next to my bedroom. When the door was opened in the morning, it would come bounding out across the room and leap onto my bed to reach me, licking and purring. The purr was louder than a cat's. I found it very soothing when I had a migraine to use the ocelot as a pillow under my head.
Although I tried to compensate for what might be lacking in its diet (raw meat) with limewater, the ocelot developed what I took to be a form of rickets. Its back paws were painful when it jumped onto my lap.
There was no vet in Acapulco, so I took the ocelot to the one doctor in town who treated babies and presented my patient. The doctor was indignant. But I said to him, “Just treat him like a baby, weigh him, and give him the appropriate medication.” So he did. A first: an ocelot on the baby scales.
I always took the favorite animal to Mexico City with me, where I had an apartment, although it was forbidden by the fledgling airline. I ignored this and rigged up a basket with a loose burlap covering the top for the ocelot. All went well until a sudden dip of the plane sent the ocelot springing through the burlap and out of its basket, to the terror of the other passengers. But in Mexico a discreet exchange of pesos arranges everything. I went right on transporting my favorites by air.
At one point I had left Tigre in the Mexico City apartment under the care of my Indian maid while I made a trip to New York. At that time, 1940, the Museum of Modern Art was organizing a vast Mexican exhibition:
Twenty Centuries of Mexican Art
.
Twenty Centuries of Mexican Art
.
I had become very friendly with the brilliant and combustible Mexican painter José Clemente Orozco. While Diego Rivera was a master of self-publicity and the center of spectacular news of one kind or another, José Clemente, although equally talented, was often overlooked. In fact, he was somewhat forgotten in his own country. He had a wife and several children and was very hard up. Seeing this, I hired a space, had my maid sweep it out, and put on the first Orozco exhibition in Mexico since 1916. We did quite well.
So I was anxious that José Clemente get equal booking with the
flamboyant Diego in New York. I went to see Nelson Rockefeller, who was president of the Museum of Modern Art at that time. I knew him slightly. He listened good-naturedly while I held forth on the importance of giving Orozco his proper position in the upcoming exhibition. He made me the following offer: if I could persuade Orozco to come to the museum and paint a panel in front of spectators, he would pay the expenses. José Clemente had no telephone, so I cabled him to come to my Mexico City apartment at a certain date and hour to receive an important call from me.
flamboyant Diego in New York. I went to see Nelson Rockefeller, who was president of the Museum of Modern Art at that time. I knew him slightly. He listened good-naturedly while I held forth on the importance of giving Orozco his proper position in the upcoming exhibition. He made me the following offer: if I could persuade Orozco to come to the museum and paint a panel in front of spectators, he would pay the expenses. José Clemente had no telephone, so I cabled him to come to my Mexico City apartment at a certain date and hour to receive an important call from me.
Long-distance calls were a big deal in those days, so I went to Nelson's office to telephone. I hadn't realized that Nelson understood Spanish, but when I shouted down the telephone (Orozco was very deaf) that there was a very rich manâ“un hombre muy rico”âwho would pay for him to come to New York, I saw Nelson chuckling behind his desk.
But Orozco immediately made objections: “
Me parece un circo
”â“It sounds like a circus to me.” “
Además tu tigre me está molestando
”â“What's more, your tiger is bothering me.” My ocelot was apparently nipping at his ankles.
Me parece un circo
”â“It sounds like a circus to me.” “
Además tu tigre me está molestando
”â“What's more, your tiger is bothering me.” My ocelot was apparently nipping at his ankles.
In spite of this, Orozco did come up to New York and did paint the panels in the Museum of Modern Art called
Dive Bomber and Tank
, while some members of the public were allowed to watch, at a distance. It is still there.
Dive Bomber and Tank
, while some members of the public were allowed to watch, at a distance. It is still there.
This was so long ago that when Nelson and his wife gave a party for the visiting Mexican artists, it was black-tie. We rented a suitable outfit for José Clemente, but then the problem arose of his black tie. I have failed to explain that Orozco had only one hand, having blown off the other in some chemical experiment. It is difficult to tie a bow on someone else frontally, so I stood on a chair behind José Clemente and reached around and tied the tie.
Back to my menagerie. The most intelligent and crafty animals I ever knew were the coatimundis. They are furry creatures, perhaps related to the raccoon, with a pointed snout and a bushy tail like a Christmas tree. They scamper on all fours and can climb trees or, if visiting me in Mexico City, curtains.
What distinguishes them from other animals, aside from their superior wits, is their love of perfume. Most animals have very limited
tastes as to what smells agreeable, but the coatis went in trances when confronted by a vase of tuberoses or would delightedly sniff at my wrists if there was a trace of eau de cologne.
tastes as to what smells agreeable, but the coatis went in trances when confronted by a vase of tuberoses or would delightedly sniff at my wrists if there was a trace of eau de cologne.
They would keep an eye out for the bottle of Tabac Blond that was on my dressing table. I would observe them, glancing at me to see if I noticed, approaching warily, then pouncing on the bottle to try to push it over.
They are shrewd. In Acapulco, there was a swinging screen door between the kitchen and the open-air dining room. They figured out how to push the door open and rush in before it closed.
They would watch the kitchen to see if the cook might be out. If she was, they made a dash for it and made a meal of whatever was within reach, a bowl of raw eggs, for instance, munching them down, shells and all.
In Mexico the coatimundi is called a
tejón
. As we might say of someone crafty that he or she is “foxy,” in Mexico they say such a person is
muy tejón
.
tejón
. As we might say of someone crafty that he or she is “foxy,” in Mexico they say such a person is
muy tejón
.
Over the years I had a number of coatimundis. As was my habit, I would take the favorite up to Mexico City with me. The coatis live in tropical forests, and Mexico City is at a high altitude. The favored coati felt the cold and found the most comfortable spot was in my bed, next to me.
At one point I had some minor ailment, and a Mexican doctor was called into service. He said, “Señora, I must examine you,” and pulled up the covers. He was astonished to find a coati in the American señora's bed.
Once an Indian brought me an anteater, not the most prepossessing of animals, but I added it to my menagerie. There were no spare cages or spaces for a new acquisition. My husband was away on a hunting trip, so I put the anteater on a temporary basis in his bathroom. Although limited in intelligence, the anteater, no fool, heaved itself into the cool depths of the toilet and with its little paws pulled down the lid on top of it.
My husband rushed back from his hunting trip and headed for his bathroom. He was in such a hurry that I had no time to say to him, “Don't look now, but there is an anteater in your toilet.”
Monkeys were an important contingent in my menagerie. It
started with a pair of long-legged and long-armed spider monkeys from Veracruz, named Canuto and Titina. Frida Kahlo had similar monkeys and took a lively interest in mine, asking if they were behaving well. In fact, I think it was because of my menagerie that Frida took to me, although she said most “North Americans,” as we are called south of the border, had faces like unbaked muffins.
started with a pair of long-legged and long-armed spider monkeys from Veracruz, named Canuto and Titina. Frida Kahlo had similar monkeys and took a lively interest in mine, asking if they were behaving well. In fact, I think it was because of my menagerie that Frida took to me, although she said most “North Americans,” as we are called south of the border, had faces like unbaked muffins.
Like many pairs, Canuto and Titina did not get along. Canuto took to seizing her by one leg and flinging her away from him. So they had to be kept apart and had separate cage-residences.
Titina was all affection, and we would go for walks together, her tail around my waist, holding my hand. She was so well brought up that I could take her out to luncheon, where she would sit on my lap facing me and not touch any of the food until her own plate was placed on the floor.
Then there was a minute wizened little monkey from Brazil, a marmoset, named by me Don Changuillo, because in spite of his small size he commanded respect. Don Changuillo accompanied me on my archaeological digs, perched on top of the turban I wore to protect myself from the dust of excavations. From that vantage point he could spot a grasshopper from a distance and with a flying leap capture it in one paw.
The only trouble with the monkeys was that they had a great fondness for eating hibiscus flowers and plucked them with glee as if they were ice cream cones. Ruin for the garden.
I had one problem animal, a kinkajou. It drank. It was nocturnal and spent its days in the darkened quarters I had provided for the night shift. At the cocktail hour, it would come swinging along the beams above the terrace bar by its long prehensile tail, drop onto the bar, to the dismay of the human customers, and grab a glass.
I am not making this up: it would then head for town and find its way to the Siete Mares Bar. I would get an angry telephone call from the bar's improbably named owner, Jorge Hardy, to please come and get it because it was annoying the customers.
Like many drunks, it ended badly. It hurled itself out of a moving car. That did it.
Then there were the birds. Most Mexican village houses had a few birdcages hanging from the porch rafters, with canaries and the
like. I followed the custom, but my favorite was an inconspicuous little gray bird called a
cenzontle
. It had an uncanny ability to briefly follow a tune sung to it, before breaking out into its own cadenzas.
like. I followed the custom, but my favorite was an inconspicuous little gray bird called a
cenzontle
. It had an uncanny ability to briefly follow a tune sung to it, before breaking out into its own cadenzas.
One time in New York an aged and wealthy admirer took me to a concert of the NBC Symphony Orchestra led by Arturo Toscanini. It was a hot ticket. The excitement of the evening was the world premiere of Shostakovich's Seventh Symphony. It has a simple, repetitive opening theme.
I was back in Mexico City the next day, and on to Acapulco. I sang the little theme to the
cenzontle
, which adopted it easily. When Carlos Chávez, conductor of the Sinfónica de México, came for lunch soon after this, he almost fell into his guacamole when he heard, for the first time, the Shostakovich theme trilled by a local bird.
cenzontle
, which adopted it easily. When Carlos Chávez, conductor of the Sinfónica de México, came for lunch soon after this, he almost fell into his guacamole when he heard, for the first time, the Shostakovich theme trilled by a local bird.
The stars of the bird collection were two brilliantly colored macaws. They perched in a palm tree just outside my dining terrace, their wings slightly clipped so they would not stray into the neighboring property. They had raucous voices, but this was forgiven because of their spectacular coloring.
They had a great fondness for butter. When I came out on the terrace for my breakfast, they would sidle down the palm fronds in their pigeon-toed progress and perch, one on each of my shoulders, to be rewarded by nibbles of buttered toast.
The most unexpected addition to my menagerie was a small penguin from Antarctica, brought to me by some sailors. I made it a little collar, attached a length of thin rope, and put it in my station wagon.
I drove to a secluded beach (they still existed then) to avoid intrusive attention. My new acquisition took to the water, and seemed to take to me. The penguin became my favorite swimming companion.
Unfortunately, my delightful new animal friend had arrived with what I thought to be a case of bronchitis. There was no one around who could advise me. In spite of my ministrations, I no longer had a penguin.
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