The Greatest Dinner in Soho London

 

The gangs all here: Timothy Behrens, Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, Michael Andrews. © The John Deakin Archive

September 15, 2018 (Paris)

September 15, 2018

People often asked me why I write when I'm on a trip, or especially in a city like Paris?   For me, my brain moves slowly, which causes my reactions to being slow as well.  I'm one of those fellows that morning means one thing, a few hours of reflection.  Without the meditation, my life is meaningless, and therefore I have a great need to write.  

Travel writing serves many purposes.  Recommendations to where to shop, to see, or eat, but what interests me the most is how aware I'm of my surroundings.   When I wake up, and I look out the window, I see the rooftops of various Paris buildings.  I have the urge to leap out of the window and hop from one rooftop after another, like my spiritual hero Fantômas.  Alas, I have a fear of heights, which stops me from doing such a practice.

Nevertheless, I do take the elevator down to the street level and leave the building in that sort of manner.   The lift itself is small.   Not that long ago we invited my Japanese relative to our place here in Paris, and even she commented that this is the smallest elevator ever, and that's a compliment of sorts for anyone who spent time in Japan.  There is Tokyo small, and then there's Paris tiny.   I often think of the substantial men walking around the city and how they can fit into a typical Parisian elevator. 

Today is Oscar Wilde day.  Lun*na and I decided to visit his tomb which is located in Père Lachaise Cemetery.  In the past, I have tried to locate his grave by using a tourist map or two, but consistently got lost, and never found the location.  This time, with the miracle of the smartphone, I can find the blasted tomb.   I'm not the type of guy who has heroes, but Oscar Wilde is a different breed of the icon for me.  Ever since I was a young teenager, I have been drawn to his life and writings.   I remember that I even had photographs of Wilde up in my bedroom wall.   The reason why I looked up to him in such a manner is mostly due to his 'outlaw' image and his sexuality.   He seemed to be a man born in the 19th century, but very much a 20th-century figure, or dare I say it, a 21st-century man.  When my memory was good, I used to quote his quotations to whoever would hang out with me. I was apparently an Oscar Wilde bore.

As one approaches Père Lachaise from the south, you are consistently waking uphill, and following my phone map to the Oscar destination is quite a hike.  Once I reached there, I'm surprised that the tomb is not more prominent.   My vision of the burial site is that it was a block-long, but alas, the nature of the tomb looks lonely and a worthy subject matter for a Smiths song.  Still, the monument by British sculptor Jacob Epstein is magnificent.  One's impression is that it's an art deco piece, but  I think that's simplifying the design.  Wilde died in 1900, and Epstein built the tomb in 1914.  It was commissioned by Wilde's literary executor Robert Ross and paid anonymously, but over time the donor was revealed to be Helen Carew.  Ironically there were some during that era that wished that the statue was homoerotica, but Epstein chose Wilde's poem "The Sphinx" as the inspiration for his work.  

Epstein did most of his work in England, and then transported the tomb to Paris, but had trouble going through customs.   On the French side, they refused to see it as a work of art, and customs charged an import duty of 120 pounds, due to its material, which was paid by Ross.   The sculpture had testicles but was covered by plaster by an unknown figure on the French side of the world.   As a compromise, Epstein made a bronze butterfly to cover up the testicles, but that too was altered or stolen by famed poet and occultist Aleister Crowley.   Weeks after discovering the removal of the butterfly, Epstein by chance meets up with Crowley at a Paris cafe, where the occultist had the bronze butterfly around his neck, wearing it like a necklace.  Crowley told Epstein that his work is now on display as he intended. 

Epstein had a successful and long career as an artist, and his eldest daughter, Kathleen, was married to the British painter Lucian Freud, who did numerous portraits of her.  Her nick-name is Kitty, and the painting "Portrait of Kitty" is a classic work by Freud. 

Looking at the tomb today I feel overwhelmed, almost starstruck seeing such a monument to such a great figure like Oscar Wilde.  What I like about the work is that it does reflect on Wilde, but not in an obvious manner.  I feel it has a life of its own.  It's interesting to note that they put a glass wall around the tomb because of the damage caused over the years by fans.  There are many lipstick lips on the grave which gives it an erotic edge.  

- Tosh Berman 

Modernists and Mavericks by Martin Gayford on Tosh Talks

Martin Gayford, the author of "Modernists and Mavericks," is a terrific writer on the arts, and this book is the obvious and organic meeting of author and its subject - The London artists of the post-war years.   For one, Gayford knows David Hockney and Lucian Freud, and he also interviewed all the living artists that are in this book.  It's not a book of gossip, but a survey approach to artists who worked in London from the end of World War II to the early 1970s. 

I became familiar with some of these artists through the art collection of the late David Bowie.  When the family auction off his works, I did go see paintings by Frank Auerbach, David Bomberg, and others of that world.  What's interesting is that these artists worked in London, a city that was on the surface, destroyed by the ravages of bombings and the war, yet, it became a visual playground for the great post-war painters.  Freud always worked with a model in front of him, in his studio, Auerbach worked in the same format using the same model painting after painting, and Bacon's world was basically Soho London and its citizens.  So, the world of the London painter was a small one, but a very intense series of moments, months, and years working on their art.  As well as having sex, drinking and socializing within their world. 

Gayford captures the London painters in a moment where they did talk about their fields of interest, which was painting, but also I didn't realize that there was a sizable female presence in the painting world as well, regarding Paula  Rego, Bridget Riley, and others.   Gayford brings up a lot of painters working in that era, who are not as famous as Hockney and company.   I have been pretty much drawn to the medium of paint, due to its placement within a frame, and the texture of various colors and brushes. I like the communication between the artist's hand and what appears on their canvas.   The importance is not that these artists all lived and worked in London, but their ability to transform their space, time, and presence in such a location that was limited at the time.   Across the pond was New York City, and beyond that, for Hockney Los Angeles, still the majority of the London Painters stayed at home and reflected on their world with high intensity and feeling.  "Modernists and Mavericks" is a very solid art history book, with some excellent paintings within its pages.  I enjoyed Gayford's book immensely.  

"Modernists & Mavericks: Bacon, Freud, Hockney & The London Painters" by Martin Gayford (Thames & Hudson)

Martin Gayford, the author of "Modernists and Mavericks," is a terrific writer on the arts, and this book is the obvious and organic meeting of author and its subject - The London artists of the post-war years.   For one, Gayford knows David Hockney and Lucian Freud, and he also interviewed all the living artists that are in this book.  It's not a book of gossip, but a survey approach to artists who worked in London from the end of World War II to the early 1970s. 

I became familiar with some of these artists through the art collection of the late David Bowie.  When the family auction off his works, I did go see paintings by Frank Auerbach, David Bomberg, and others of that world.  What's interesting is that these artists worked in London, a city that was on the surface, destroyed by the ravages of bombings and the war, yet, it became a visual playground for the great post-war painters.  Freud always worked with a model in front of him, in his studio, Auerbach worked in the same format using the same model painting after painting, and Bacon's world was basically Soho London and its citizens.  So, the world of the London painter was a small one, but a very intense series of moments, months, and years working on their art.  As well as having sex, drinking and socializing within their world. 

Gayford captures the London painters in a moment where they did talk about their fields of interest, which was painting, but also I didn't realize that there was a sizable female presence in the painting world as well, regarding Paula  Rego, Bridget Riley, and others.   Gayford brings up a lot of painters working in that era, who are not as famous as Hockney and company.   I have been pretty much drawn to the medium of paint, due to its placement within a frame, and the texture of various colors and brushes. I like the communication between the artist's hand and what appears on their canvas.   The importance is not that these artists all lived and worked in London, but their ability to transform their space, time, and presence in such a location that was limited at the time.   Across the pond was New York City, and beyond that, for Hockney Los Angeles, still the majority of the London Painters stayed at home and reflected on their world with high intensity and feeling.  "Modernists and Mavericks" is a very solid art history book, with some excellent paintings within its pages.  I enjoyed Gayford's book immensely.  

December 8, 2014

December 8, 2014

I had a hard time sleeping last night.  “I woke up at 4 A.M. and start sneezing, sometimes for five hours.  I tried to find what sort of allergy I had but finally came to the conclusion that it must be an allergy to consciousness.” Not only that, but I keep hearing noises around the house.   I was deeply concerned about a noise coming from my bed last night, and I realized it was my stomach digesting the vegetarian sausage I had before I went to bed.  Which lead me to thoughts about why I ate such a thing before going to sleep.  It made me so angry, because I wasn’t really hungry at the time.  Why do I eat when I’m not hungry?  I remember many years ago, when I was having sex with a girl that I greatly desired in school, I started to think about having pasta.   That whole day was thinking of nothing but getting this girl in bed with me, and yet, when the moment arrives, I started to crave penne.   When I climaxed inside her, I thought of tomato sauce being spread all over the pasta.   That happened many years ago, and to this day I still think of it - but mostly when I’m in bed trying to fall asleep.

I got up in a rather bad mood and decided to start writing my daily post for the day.  Since John Lennon was killed on this date, I considered it would be appropriate to write a memorial of some sort.  Lennon was very much a figure of my generation, specifically my youth.   I loved him.   What I found the most disturbing about his death is that I was shocked when it happened, but also quite disturbed that I didn’t like the album he released that year.  For me, the Plastic Ono Band album was his masterpiece.  Also the singles he released before that specific album were magnificant.  “Imagine” I think is pretty dull and forever what reason, his music became a sort of wallpaper in my life.  After that, he disappeared in the city that one can disappear like Fantomas.  He avoided the spotlight for five years, not even a photograph of him was made available in the media, and then all of a sudden he came back.  My excitement to hear a new Solo Beatle song or album was pretty great.  Yet, when I heard it, it sounded dated, and someone just coasting on their talent.  I knew there must be a great album within him, and it will be the next one.  Then his death took place which robbed me the “in theory” the perfect Lennon album.   Since then, my life became an illusion of sorts.  Soon after December 8, 1980, I gave up pop music and listened to only classical music.  Since punk was turning into a product, I decided to jump into another decade of music, or something as far as I can get from my once favorite three words: Rock. N. Roll.

I’m attracted to Jean Sibelius’ music, because he once “justified the austerity of his old age by saying that while other composers were engaged in manufacturing cocktails he offered the public pure cold water.” I understand that.  Sometimes, even I, have a hard time to make something of value, or worth.  When I can’t sleep at night, I have a 16mm projector and the only film on a roll is a series of works by Georges Méliès.  I set the projector up in my bedroom to project the film on the white wall above my bed.  My favorite film of his is “The Impossible Voyage” which is about a group of scientists who go on a trip to the interior of the Sun.   The film was made in 1904, and I often play music by Sibelius as a soundtrack to the images projected on my bedroom wall.  Sibelius is from Finland, and I never been to Finland, but in my imagination I think of it as a magical part of the world.   I often lay on the corner of my bed and think of worlds that I have never been to, but imagined.

“Cold water” is not bullshit.  It is exactly what it is, and therefore I can’t worry what people will say about me or my writing.  I “pay no attention to what the critics say.  A statue had never been erected in honor of a critic.” The clarity that I desire in my life, is that I find that “the longer you look at an object, the more abstract it becomes, and ironically, the more real.” With that in mind, I face this afternoon with great delight for the adventure that surely will happen.