I can almost resist everything, except, any books about the Left Bank during the 1940s to the late 1950s. Generally, readers/culture addicts are seduced by images of Paris and its culture throughout the years. In a way, it's the conceptual 'Disneyland' for those who don't live there, yet, keep track of its beauty through pictures, movies, and of course, literature. I'm so much in tune to that world that I pretty much started up a press, TamTam Books, just focusing on the Paris post-war years, due that I love the literature as well as the figures that came out of that time, especially Boris Vian.
There are many books on Paris that was published throughout the years, as well as memoirs, diaries, and biographies - so it's not an obscure subject matter by any means. But it wasn't until recently one hears the name Boris Vian in English reading books on the Existentialist period. Vian was a significant figure in those years, and a lot of books about that period avoided his identity, I think due that none of his books were available in English at the time. Therefore I have to presume editors for various presses probably decided if editorial cuts are being made, it is perfectly OK to eliminate Vian in its narrative. That is not the case anymore. Although he's a side-figure in the recent book "Left Bank" by Agnès Poirier, at least he's given credit as a writer and social figure in Paris.
Beyond that, this book doesn't have any new information, and if one is a long-term reader of Paris literary and social history, still it's a fun read and Poirier does a good job in covering all the loose ends of the rambling narrative that is the grand city of romance and ideas. All the stars are here: Juliette Gréco, Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Samuel Beckett, Camus, as well as the Americans that came to Paris during the post-war years, such as James Baldwin, Miles Davis, Richard Wright, Saul Bellow, Norman Mailer, and the old stand-by's such as Picasso and Jean Cocteau. A colorful group of characters. One is in good company.
I have a deep interest in Paris. Not only what I imagine is Paris, but other people's Paris as well. It's a city that demands one's attention, especially in the field of the arts. It has a lot to do with its citizens, but it is also a city that is reflected quite often by various foreigners. For me, it is something in the way the city is laid out. I think architecturally first, then how that space is filled by what I think are interesting people. Charles Baudelaire, Boris Vian, the songs of Juliette Greco, the imagery of Serge Gainsbourg - all of this makes intriguing pictures and sounds in one's head. I would also like to add bart plantenga's "Paris Scratch" to that cultural pile as well.
First of all, I don't know if one can look at this book as fiction, non-fiction, a journal - it can be a combination of all three. The way I read it, "Paris Scratch is between a memoir and a travel journal. It is similar to taking a photo by or sketching on paper a scene in front of the author. The book consists of 365 chapters/sections, which in theory can be an actual year. "Paris Scratch" is not a book of lists, but deeply investigations of feelings, places, and people, as conveyed by the author. Various French artists and authors, as well as pop singers, run through the pages, but also foreign writers such as Henry Miller commenting on Paris. It's a city that has a lot of cultural baggage, and there is no way getting around the awesomeness of the place - and plantenga clearly conveys the magic that is or was Paris.
Entirely personal, and one-of-a-kind approach to Paris, plantenga successfully writes about a place that most readers of this book will be familiar with - yet, will discover new sensibilities and sensual aspects of a city well-lived, and reported by exquisite writers, for instance, bart plantenga.
It was a happy shock to me when I heard that my book “Sparks-Tastic” was up for the Prix Goncourt last December, but alas I didn’t win, due that that prize goes to French language authors, and somehow, even though I do have some French blood (mostly Canadian to be honest) running in my veins, I’m neither a citizen of a French providence nor can I read or speak French. But in spirit, of course I’m French. So I was disappointed that I didn’t get the prize and the fact, technically, I shouldn’t have been on the list in the first place. Which now comes to mind, I despise any hint of nationalism in one’s art or even behavior. Technically I’m an American, but what does that mean? To this moment, it still bothers me a great degree that no American has participated in the Eurovision song contest. What I find irritating is the case that a lot of European artists sing in English, yet, where are the Americans?
Miles Davis tried to get on the show in the late 1950s, with a pick-up band of Juliette Gréco and Catherine Sauvage sharing lead vocals, Johnnie Ronson (Mick’s dad), and Peggy Lee doing some scat vocalizing in the background - yet, unbelievably, they were not chosen to be part of the event. Although, and I do admit, that there were different nationalities in this line-up, but still, shouldn’t the Eurovision judges acknowledge the talent behind this one-off band? As an American (therefore a humanist) I find it totally disgusting how art is placed in a box, and not allowed to sing out, whatever it is in song or in my profession, words. And I should also like to say, not just words, but words arranged on a page in a specific manner.
Now, that I brought up this subject matter, I need to be honest with all of you. I resent being in contests, and then… losing. Why invite me in the first place, and then denounce yours truly by not giving one the prize that they so richly deserve? It’s insane! Nevertheless let by-gones be by-gones and focus on the present. As a youth I ran across an interesting street musician in mid-town Manhattan, who wore a Viking costume, and I was struck by his amazing music and being such an astonishing and forceful individual. When you take a walk, not expecting what will hit you…, well it’s a stunning moment. Now whenever I put my pen onto paper, I will not forget that moment, and will wander till I find it again.
I used to play a weekly game of Monopoly with Juilette, which almost like clockwork, I would lose to her on a regular basis. We would meet up at the Café de Flore, where I arranged with the manager to have a table for us in the middle of the afternoon. I think one of the reasons why I am such a lousy player is that I don’t like the game at all. But Juilette has a passion for it, that to be honest I don’t fully understand.
Everyone presumes that we are a couple, due to our common love for clothing that is all black, and our shared passion for jazz. The fact is Juilette has been having an affair with an American Jazz trumpet player for the past three months. The funny thing is her english is terrible, and he can’t speak a word of French. I can only imagine what they share, and I’m just lucky that Juliette meets me on a weekly basis to play a shitty game of Monopoly.
After a few hours of losing miserably to her, I asked her if we can cut the game out, and go see a film. She agreed to this, and we went to Le Cinema de Grand Action on Rue des Ecoles. They were showing the complete “Flash Gordon” movie serial from 1936, starring Buster Crabbe as Flash. Over the years, they mostly showed an edited version of the serial, and made it into a feature. But here, they are showing the complete series which is 13 episodes. The episode tonight is Chapter 8 “Tournament of Death.” I have read that Andre Breton would go to movie theaters without knowing what was playing or their time schedule. It could be in the beginning, middle or end. It didn’t matter to him. Once he felt a tinge of boredom he would leave and go to another screening. Rarely would he see a whole film by itself, and me watching a movie serial is very much like that, because I don’t see every episode. For instance, I missed out on Episode 7.
Nevertheless I like sitting with Juliette in a dark theater. When I look at her, by my side, she virtually disappears into the blackness, perhaps due to the clothing as well as dyed black hair. The only thing that is highlighted is her red lips and white skin. Watching Flash battle a masked opponent, I begin to regret that I may lose Juliette to her new American lover. What was taking place in front of me, on the screen, was all of a sudden not important to me.
The film, or episode was only 20 minutes long. But within that time frame I came to the conclusion that I love Juliette, and yet as the theater lights got turned on, I realized something has changed. As we walked out of the theater, I asked her if she wanted to go have a drink, either cafe or wine. She told me that she can’t because she has to meet her boyfriend at another cafe, but thanked me for the film, and the game, mostly thanked me for the game. I don’t know why she enjoys playing with me, since I lose every game.
Juliette Gréco singing "Les Amours Perdues" by Serge Gainsbourg
This is an interview from The Guardian UK May 26, 2006. I found this piece extremely charming and moving. Gréco is an artist that I admire from her toes to her head, and Miles... Well ok he's the king... of everything! Here's the article:
Like every young person of my generation, I immersed myself in jazz. I met the greatest musicians - Charlie Parker, the Modern Jazz Quartet, most often at the Club Saint-Germain with Sacha Distel, and Dizzy Gillespie when he came to Tabou. All that happened over the space of two or three years, a mythical period that today feels as though it lasted 20 years. They arrived after the war, we welcomed them, we listened to them fervently, we loved them, and in a way they transformed our ideas about what jazz was - what we already knew, we'd picked up almost by accident. During the Occupation, if you tried to listen to jazz, you risked punishment. So we listened to The Lambeth Walk - for us, the ultimate trip. But above all there was Django Reinhardt, again someone who had arrived from another world. Article continues
I always loved it when I was taken to places where I could learn things. I was like a little sister to [the writer and musician] Boris Vian, who was very protective towards me. The first time Miles Davis came to Paris, it was at the Pleyel, a crumbling place. Recently, on a plane, I bumped into the man who ran the Pleyel and he said, "It's all changed, come and have a look." I was touched; it was very sweet. For it was there that I first met Miles, at his first concert in Paris. There weren't any seats left - and anyway I wouldn't have been able to pay for one - so I was taken to watch from the wings by Michelle Vian, Boris's wife, who was looking after me. And there I caught a glimpse of Miles, in profile: a real Giacometti, with a face of great beauty. I'm not even talking about the genius of the man: you didn't have to be a scholar or a specialist in jazz to be struck by him. There was such an unusual harmony between the man, the instrument and the sound - it was pretty shattering. Miles was a spectacle in himself: he always dressed in a very classic way, not the way he dressed later on.
So I met this man, who was very young, as I was. We went out for dinner in a group, with people I didn't know. And there it was. I didn't speak English, he didn't speak French. I haven't a clue how we managed. The miracle of love.
I wasn't tempted to sing with Miles: why try to do badly, or less well, something that other people do so well? I'm not going to start singing jazz standards: it's not in my blood or my culture. Mind you, I have a deep affection and huge admiration for Ella Fitzgerald and a few others.
Miles didn't hear me sing until much later in New York, at the Waldorf-Astoria. Before that, to him, I was just me, a girl with a strange face, and it was me he loved, which made me happy. At that point I'd had only very limited success as an actress. I was becoming famous without really having done anything, which is a very uncomfortable position. I didn't talk much, only when I needed to ask questions - about existentialism, about things I'd read about without really understanding. One day [the philosopher] Maurice Merleau-Ponty spoke to me. He must have liked my face, because he invited me to dinner. We went dancing and he answered all my questions, which was magical. I was all curiosity but I felt I didn't have anything to give in return; I was at that age where all one does is take.
I'd heard of people like Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir when I was 14 or 15, through my sister who was a student, but I couldn't ever have imagined that one day I'd be close to them. Sartre said to Miles, "Why don't you and Juliette get married?" Miles said, "Because I love her too much to make her unhappy." It wasn't a matter of him being unfaithful or behaving like a Don Juan; it was simply a question of colour. If he'd taken me back to America with him, I would have been called names.
Years later at the Waldorf in New York, where I had a very nice suite, I invited Miles to dinner. The face of the maitre d'hotel when he came in was indescribable. After two hours, the food was more or less thrown in our faces. The meal was long and painful, and then he left.
At four o'clock in the morning I got a call from Miles, who was in tears. "I couldn't come by myself," he said. "I don't ever want to see you again here, in a country where this kind of relationship is impossible." I suddenly understood that I'd made a terrible mistake, from which came a strange feeling of humiliation that I'll never forget. In America his colour was made blatantly obvious to me, whereas in Paris I didn't even notice that he was black.
Between Miles and me there was a great love affair, the kind you'd want everybody to experience. Throughout our lives, we were never lost to each other. Whenever he could, he would leave messages for me in the places I travelled in Europe: "I was here, you weren't."
He came to see me at my house a few months before he died. He was sitting in the drawing room and at one point I went to the verandah to look at the garden. I heard his devilish laugh. I asked him what had provoked it. "No matter where I was," he said, "in whatever corner of the world, looking at that back, I'd know it was you."
· Interview by Philippe Carles; translation by Richard Williams.
Happy Birthday Elliott Gould
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Happy Birthday to one of the all-time greats and one of the coolest of the
cool Elliott Gould. From my 2019 New Beverly interview with Elliott Gould
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