Authors: Rosamond Bernier
Some of My Lives (6 page)
A
aron Copland introduced me to Paul and Janie Bowles in 1937. Lew and I were newlyweds; so were the Bowleses.
aron Copland introduced me to Paul and Janie Bowles in 1937. Lew and I were newlyweds; so were the Bowleses.
Janie was a small sprite, crop-haired, snub-nosed. “What's it like being married, for you?” she asked me. Since Janie was a lesbian and Paul a homosexual, their marriage was not exactly a mirror image of ours. She called Paul, most inappropriately, Fluffy or Bubbles.
She limped. As an adolescent, she had had tuberculosis of the knee. Her mother took her to a Swiss sanatorium, where she was put in traction for many months. She then went to school in Switzerland. As a result, she spoke fluent French and knew some bawdy French songs.
She never wanted people to know she was lame. She always put a small Band-Aid on her knee, as if she had just had an accident.
Paul was short, compact, very blond. At that time he was known as a composer to a small group that included Virgil Thomson. Writing and
The Sheltering Sky
came later. He wore a truss, an object of great shame. It was to be ignored. Once Janie picked it up. “You touched it,” he accused her. Never again.
The Sheltering Sky
came later. He wore a truss, an object of great shame. It was to be ignored. Once Janie picked it up. “You touched it,” he accused her. Never again.
Paul was involved in helping a theater group from an all-black YMCA in New York. We are in the late 1930s; there would not have been an integrated group in those days. One of the members had written a play that involved two white lynchers.
This presented a bit of a problem. They appealed to Paul. He appealed to Lew and me. Of course we agreed to participate.
We showed up for rehearsal. Our part consisted of rushing onstage looking menacing and rushing off.
We did this on the great night, to great acclaim.
We were feted at a dinner given after the performance; with Paul we were the only whites.
This was my first and only experience in the theater.
Paul and Janie thought of going to Mexico. We were building a house in Acapulco. “Come along,” we said. They came.
Our house wasn't finished. We rented a house on a point over the sea belonging to Bill Spratling, the American who made Taxco famous again (in colonial times it had been the source for silver) for its silver jewelry, and for its relaxed sexual mores.
The staff consisted of one copper-colored youth, whose usual uniform was a wisp of chiffon draped around his neck.
Paul's room was on the upper floor, where all around there was silence, except for the sound of waves lapping at the rocks. He slept with great balls of wax in his ears and a black mask.
Swimming and the beach were the main attractions and occupations. By midday, in the blazing sun, Paul would get a particular glint in his eye and say urgently, “I just have to have some
hot soup, hot soup now
.” Even the most resourceful hostess would find this a difficult request.
hot soup, hot soup now
.” Even the most resourceful hostess would find this a difficult request.
Paul's father was a dentist who had perfect occlusion. Paul had a comic turn, imitating his father, explosive with rage, his occlusion threatened by a grain of sand in the spinach.
It seemed a good idea to rent them their own house. We found one in town that belonged to a good-looking American beachcomber who had been married to a silent-screen star (Nancy Carroll), had taught Shakespeare at Princeton, and had settled in Acapulco to enjoy the obliging female population and to start a pearl-diving business. The equipment for the pearl diving lay in a disorderly heap in one corner of the courtyard, nestled under some dusty palm fronds.
Janie adopted an armadillo and named it Mary Schuster, after a friend of hers. The armadillo has a very small head and a correspondingly small brain. After lunch, Janie would call out, “Now, Mary Schuster, come for your French lesson.”
Eventually, Janie moved inland to another rented house. Paul went off to Tangier. Janie enjoyed playing the role of a conventional housewife and inviting the local ladies in for tea. The genteel facade was apt to be interrupted by the Indian maid bursting in and screeching, “Is it now time to kill the chicken?”
Janie enjoyed seducing conventional middle-aged women and producing them like fairground trophies. One who looked like the chairwoman of the local Republican Party was named Helvetia Perkins. Janie brought Mrs. Perkins to our Mexico City apartment.
I used to bring the favorite animal of my Acapulco menagerie up to Mexico City with me. At this time it was a wily, well-behaved coatimundi. The coati was thoroughly at home in the apartment. But when we went onto the landing to say goodbye to our guests, the coati rushed out. Feeling lost in unfamiliar surroundings, it scrambled up Mrs. Perkins's skirts, thereby putting its rescuers in an uncomfortable situation.
On another occasion, in Paris, Janie produced a nicely suited gray-haired lady named Rose who ran a tearoom in Connecticut. “She's a volcano in bed,” Janie confided.
Rose was duly introduced to Diana Cooper and various other highlights of the Parisian scene. “Don't understand your friends,” Rose complained. “They don't talk about anything.”
“What do your friends talk about?” I asked.
“Business and sports,” Rose answered.
By this time, the early 1960s, both Janie and Paul had moved to Tangier, but Janie showed up in Paris now and then, where she was a conscientious explorer of lesbian bars. I was in Paris then running my art magazine,
L'ÅIL
. She sent a message to my office: “I must see you.”
L'ÅIL
. She sent a message to my office: “I must see you.”
We went out to a café. “You are a businesswoman,” Janie said. “Tell me what you think of this business letter.” She had been cabling her bank in Tangier to send her money, but could never get an answer. Her letter:
Dear Mr. Vivanco [he was the bank manager]
If I do not receive my money by Tuesday, I will shoot myself.
Yours sincerely, Jane Bowles
I said it was an excellent business letter.
Janie was a highly gifted writer with an outsized writer's block. John Ashbery and Tennessee Williams prized her work. She wrote in
all a novel,
Two Serious Ladies
, a few short storiesâa wonderful one was called “Camp Cataract”âand a play,
In the Summer House
. At her request, I read the play aloud to Oliver Smith. He loved it and produced it on Broadway to a somewhat bemused audience.
all a novel,
Two Serious Ladies
, a few short storiesâa wonderful one was called “Camp Cataract”âand a play,
In the Summer House
. At her request, I read the play aloud to Oliver Smith. He loved it and produced it on Broadway to a somewhat bemused audience.
Writing was a titanic struggle for her. A severe stroke put an end to the struggle. Alcohol and drugs continued the destruction of this brilliant, witty, adorable, impossible person.
B
efore Pearl Harbor plunged us into World War II, the State Department initiated something called the Good Neighbor Policy. The idea was to send out the word that we North Americans are civilized people (much nicer than the Germans) and interested in Latin American culture.
efore Pearl Harbor plunged us into World War II, the State Department initiated something called the Good Neighbor Policy. The idea was to send out the word that we North Americans are civilized people (much nicer than the Germans) and interested in Latin American culture.
The Museum of Modern Art was an active partner in this program. This is how I, a twentysomething who hadn't even graduated from Sarah Lawrence (I got married instead), and my husband, Lewis Riley, of approximately the same age, were entrusted with a cargo of North American paintings. We were to shepherd them in turn to Colombia, Venezuela, and Cuba. In each country we were to put on an exhibition, arrange for the publicity, and scout the local scene for interesting artists.
The talent, as they say in showbiz, were contemporary American artists such as Eugene Speicher, Bernard Karfiol, Yasuo Kuniyoshi, Thomas Hart Benton, and other WPA-era stalwarts.
Two other similar exhibitions were to travel to other South American countries in the care of representatives of the Modern.
My qualifications were that I had been unofficially connected with the Modern and its curators, particularly when the museum was planning the mammoth
Twenty Centuries of Mexican Art
exhibition for 1940. I knew the leading artists wellâDiego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, José Clemente Orozco in particularâand so was able to help out.
Twenty Centuries of Mexican Art
exhibition for 1940. I knew the leading artists wellâDiego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, José Clemente Orozco in particularâand so was able to help out.
Lew was indispensable in that he spoke Spanish like a native Latin American (Spanish Spanish has a different ring to it) and played the guitar.
Our first stop was Bogotá. In the course of our duties we got to
know Eduardo Santos and his elegant wife, Doña Lorencita. Don Eduardo was the president of Colombia. Previously, he had been editor of the leading newspaper,
El Tiempo
, which was owned by his family. The Santoses very hospitably invited us to what was billed as a tea.
know Eduardo Santos and his elegant wife, Doña Lorencita. Don Eduardo was the president of Colombia. Previously, he had been editor of the leading newspaper,
El Tiempo
, which was owned by his family. The Santoses very hospitably invited us to what was billed as a tea.
We arrived to find a large group of people, and to Lew's relief cocktails were served. We chatted and we sipped; these diplomatic novices were somewhat shy about total immersion in diplomatic circles. My Spanish was only passable. French helped. On this trip I was to meet several ladies of a certain age who had studied in Paris with André Lhote. Time passed, and we were mentally edging to the door, when Doña Lorencita announced that tea will now be served and led us into an ornate dining room with a large table set as if for a substantial meal.
The very solid cakes were served like courses. There was no escape. As we choked down what we counted on being the last bites, Doña Lorencita announced, “And now the North Americans will sing for us.” To our dismay, a guitar was produced; somehow it had been leaked that Lew played the guitar. But he only played to accompany Mexican ranchero songs, and sometimes we sang together in somewhat discordant thirds.
So there we were, faced with the cake remains and a large attentive audience. We did our best for our country.
When we had finished exhibiting our wares and made the rounds of local studios, the problem arose as to how to transport the exhibition to Caracas, Venezuela. The local facilities were not reassuring. So I had the entire show packed under my supervision in a truck. I hit lucky with an obliging taxi driver and said to him, “Follow that truck. Don't let it out of our sight.”
For ten days we weaved up and around and down the Andes. At the border with Venezuela, Cúcuta, the Colombian authorities had failed to send the release papers to allow the paintings to exit the country. We waited two days at Cúcuta, and you can be sure those days seemed very long.
By then the taxi driver had become a family friend. He invented a little song called “Peggy la güera de Nueva York” (Peggy the Blonde from New York). He had heard Lew speak to me as Peggy. And I am not blond, but then everything is relative.
We finally made it to Caracas and were met by the director of the local museum, Luis Alfredo López Méndez. He seemed very nervous and was perspiring freely. It was ten in the morning, so we were a bit taken aback when he suggested a scotch. Anything for the job, we accepted.
Very soon he blurted out, “I will tell you, someone is sure to tell you, I am the man that âLatins Are Lousy Lovers' was written about.” We remembered that an article by someone called Helen Gurley Brown had appeared in a well-known American magazine. She had been married to the subject. We expressed our sympathy at this poignant admission.
Eventually, we actually moved into Luis Alfredo's ramshackle house. We were offering our services for the Latin American venture without a fee; as a contribution to the war effort, the Modern was to provide a per diem for expenses. This was so small, and the cost of living in Venezuela was so high, that the only way to survive was to accept his hospitality.
What I most remember about our stay as his guest was that he had a maid with a harelip who bellowed an idiotic local song called “Aurora” all day as she dusted absentmindedly.
I also remember the bus signs to a neighborhood called ParaÃso: “ParaÃso Directo.”
We were in charge of publicity and sent a selection of photographs to the local newspaper. This included Speicher's magisterial portrait of Katharine Cornell as Candida and a lush nude by Bernard Karfiol. The newspaper printed the nude with the caption “Katharine Cornell as Candida.” Very naughty. The reactions we heard were usually a highly amused
“Ay, qué cándida!”
“Ay, qué cándida!”
It became evident to us that the most interesting artist was an eccentric figure who lived on a beach off Macuto. We saw his work in the Caracas Museum: mainly white landscapes, delicate yet firm. His name was Armando Reverón. So we drove off to find him.
We found him at work on the beach, an emaciated figure painting at an easel propped in the sand. There was a second easel and a second figure busily painting away: his pet monkey. This was accepted by all as the most natural thing in the world.
We were invited to lunch in his tent with his companion, a shy, dusky native woman. He explained to us that there were no knives,
he didn't believe in them, so we used objects carved in wood by our host. He didn't believe in tea or coffee either, but offered a drink I remembered from my childhood: Postum. The food consisted of vegetables and fruits. No meatâso who needs knives? The only other guests were some life-sized dolls Reverón had sculpted.
he didn't believe in them, so we used objects carved in wood by our host. He didn't believe in tea or coffee either, but offered a drink I remembered from my childhood: Postum. The food consisted of vegetables and fruits. No meatâso who needs knives? The only other guests were some life-sized dolls Reverón had sculpted.
I reported my impression of Reverón's work to the Modern. This was in 1941. The museum put on a Reverón exhibition in 2007. No one remembered that it was my idea. (And no one at MoMA remembers that they have Orozco's
Dive Bomber and Tank
because of me.)
Dive Bomber and Tank
because of me.)
We reached our last stop, Cuba, in December 1941. Days were already short. It was quite dark when we were met by a distinguished Cuban intellectual, José MarÃa Chacón y Calvoâround of person and serious of mien. He took us on a motorized tour of Havana, pointing out the important landmarks, such as the National Capitol, a Washington Monument (D.C.) look-alike. The only trouble was that by then it was pitch-dark and the Cubans had only a halfhearted interest in illumination.
Much was made of the arcane fact that a diamond was buried under the floor of the National Capitol, at the precise point from which all roads in Havana were centered. I was disappointed to learn later that the diamond was synthetic.
When we were leaving Havana some time later, Chacón y Calvo sent a formal letter of thanks to Lew (to the man, not the woman, mind you) ending (it sounds better in Spanish): “Will you do me the favor of throwing me at the feet of your wife?” Since he was distinctly chubby, I wondered if he might bounce.
It was symphony orchestra season, and for the chic women of the capital this was the cue to bring out their fursâregardless of the tropical temperature. And the family diamonds (real, these). The orchestra's conductor at that time was a personable Italian, much favored by the ladies.
But the real music came from the streets. There seemed to be literally music in the air, with rumba rhythms pulsating from every café and street corner. A favorite number described a hearse being pushed along a street with its burden, but when a rumba is heard, the corpse springs out of its coffin and gets up and dances.
No one appreciated the uninhibited rhythmic vitality more than
Aaron Copland. He was in Havana for a Good Neighbor Policy tour similar to oursâto my good fortune, we had coincided in Bogotá, Caracas, and now Cuba.
Aaron Copland. He was in Havana for a Good Neighbor Policy tour similar to oursâto my good fortune, we had coincided in Bogotá, Caracas, and now Cuba.
For economy, I had rented an apartment to avoid hotel bills. I took over the kitchen and bravely entertained. “Everybody” came, including the American ambassador, Spruille Braden. I served an orange ice cream of my own invention. It had a somewhat unusual texture. “How amusing, fur ice cream,” one of the guests was heard to remark.
I acquired, briefly, a taste for Cuban cigars: Romeo y Julieta, Partagás, and BolÃvar were the best, I thought. I had gone to watch them being rolled into shape by young women at long tables. They were being read to aloud by a person on a high stool.
These were still the days of the reprehensible dictator Fulgencio Batista, much admired by the State Department as a bulwark against Communism. Fidel Castro would emerge a few years later.
Of course I visited studios. Unfortunately, the most interesting Cuban artist, Wifredo Lam, was not back in Cuba from Europe. I did like the work of Amelia Peláez, elements of Cuban architecture, and decorative arts peering from a strong black grid. I know there is a vibrant art scene now, and I hope to return to see what is going on with a whole new, talented generation today.
The Cuban visit was cut short by the horrific news of Pearl Harbor. I had been walking along the famous Varadero Beach outside Havana with Aaron Copland when we heard a broadcast from a beach shack.
As soon as possible, we packed up the exhibition and headed for home.
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