No. 21: Tosh Recommends...

 

No. 21: Tosh Recommends...

Famous Monsters of Filmland by Tosh Berman

 

Famous Monsters of Filmland by Tosh Berman

Lion Cafe by Tosh Berman

 

Lion Cafe by Tosh Berman

"The Thief of Talent by Pierre Reverdy & Translated by Ian Seed (Wakefield Press)

"The Thief of Talent" by Pierre Reverdy & Translated by Ian Seed (Wakefield Press) 978-1-939663-19-1

When I first heard about this book "The Thief of Talent" by Pierre Reverdy, I was expecting an experimental novel.   It's not.  It's a book length prose poem that is incredibly moving and beautiful.   The book came out in France in 1917, and was pretty much ignored till at least 1967.  In 2016, Wakefield Press has done the first english translation by Ian Seed.  It's a remarkable book about an artist/poet leaving their scene.  A long goodbye note of sorts, but also a very poetic look of a world that passes him by - which happens to be Paris, 1917.  

Reverdy, is without a doubt, one of the great poetic voices of the 20th century.  This early work by him, exposes a certain amount of doubt in working in a world that is often hostile, or at the very least, suspicious of such activity.   The great fellow poet/art critic Max Jacob encouraged Reverdy to write this book, but at the same time, one gather by this text that their relationship had sharp turns to the left and right, when it wanted to go straight ahead.  According to Seed's introduction, the big turning point for Reverdy in writing this book was when Jacob hid his writings from Reverdy by closing a chest door in front of him.  This very act, caused a certain amount of stress for Reverdy, even though it was common practice for artists and writers of that time, to hide their work from fellow artists, due to the fear of being plagiarized. 

Maybe because it is due that Dylan just won the Nobel Prize for literature, but I couldn't help thinking about his work, while reading this book.  Dylan is known for 'borrowing' text for his songs/writings, and one wonder if he knew Reverdy's work. I suspect he does.   This, almost reads like a Dylan book written in the future.   Like Dylan, Reverdy is very cinematic with his writing.  One gets clear visuals while reading the text.  He knows how to paint a picture in one's head.  For me, I can't think of a 'new' book that is so important.  The loss of identity or to question such a thing, is very much part of 20th century literature.  And I have to admit it is very much part of my work as well.  "The Thief of Talent" is for all those who create something, and the need to say au revoir.  

July 12, 2014

July 12, 2014

I have been writing poetry for my whole life. Yet it is difficult to describe the horrors and put that on paper.  I usually write with green ink, because for me, that color represents desire and hope.  But to be honest, it is futile to think that I can change the world with my writing, and whatever it’s green or black ink, it comes out white on white piece of paper, and barely readable. I’m intrigued by the art of the sentence, the way the lines break on a page with respect to poetry.  It is these little pleasures that keep me on the page and holding onto my pen. On the other hand, I don’t see much hope for the world outside my studio or writing space.

I have always been fascinated by a world that I wasn’t allowed to see.  As a small child I pretty much learned to read by devouring “Famous Monsters of Filmland” edited by Forrest J Ackerman, especially articles on Tod Browning.  As a ten-year old, I had a favorite filmmaker, yet I never saw any of his films.  I just loved the film stills I have seen in the magazine, such as “Dracula, ” and anything with Lon Chaney.  I was intrigued with Chaney due that he wore the most bizarre and scary make-up.  The photograph of him dressed up as the Phantom of the Opera, scared me, but everything he did with Tod Browning as his director, seemed impossible to see, especially when you are ten-years old, and this was all before VHS video or DVDs.  The one film that seemed taboo was Browning’s “Freaks.” Quite often, “Famous Monsters of Filmland” would have articles and images from this film, and it truly captured my imagination.   I couldn’t draw, but I could write, so I started writing poems devoted to the images I have observed in the magazine.  As a teenager I started to read French surrealist poetry, and I was struck with the image of filmic horror and the surrealist imagination, as being married, or perhaps connected to the hip, like the Dolly Sisters.

As a poet, I strived to be as cold as Richard Stark’s “Parker, ” in that I want to plan out the poem as a route on a map, or at the very least a destination from there to here.   To take everything that is out there and make it into my home, or at least in a position where I can control or contain a world that I can call my own.  Like my favorite poet, Max Jacob, I’m often at odds with the world, which in turn hates me.   Everything I have done in life has ended up as failures, on the other hand, I wear ‘failure’ as a badge of pride.  Like Thoreau, I’m interested in the idea of survival in the face of hostile elements, historical change, and the most important, natural decay.   I think this is exactly what I sense with respect to the figures and characters I saw in “Famous Monsters of Filmland.” To survive in a world that is hostile to the monster, the vampire, and best of all, the side-show circus freak, captured my imagination and my soul.

A lot of my childhood friends played with toys like G.I. Joe, and I think later they were in a position to join a culture that was open and friendly to them.  I, on the other hand, was on the side of the mad poets and monsters.  As a young adult, I became attracted to the work of Alain Cuny, a French actor who was likewise a close friend of Antonin Artaud. He appeared in numerous films made by Fellini, but the role that I am mostly impressed with is the character that he played in “Emmanuelle.” He played an older man named Mario who convinces Emmanuelle that monogamy will die out, and that lust will win out over guilt or reason.  He leads Emmanuelle to one sexual adventure after another, and like the characters in the monster magazine, I have found another hero.

The sad thing in life is that I just have notebook after notebook with writings in green ink, that is barely readable. Yet I continue, because as I said, the destination is just a direction, in which I don’t think will bring me to a conclusion.

March 5, 2014

March 5, 2014

I'm at the Lion Cafe in Shibuya, which is in a perfect location, among its sexual slime of love hotels, relaxation clubs, and the water trade.  Here one can avoid the outer world to lose one self into the exquisite world of recorded classical music.  Volume is not so loud but loud enough to drift into a blissful state.  They don't allow photos to be taken and rightfully so. How can an image penetrate the magic that is the Lion Cafe?

When you walk in one notice the mixture of Rocco and post romantic setting of the coffee shop.  It was launched in 1926, and I doubt they have changed the decor over the years.  All the tables and chairs are facing two massive speakers and various turntables as well as a pair of CD players.  The speakers are built-in wooden cabinets in between two poles with a bust of Beethoven's face facing the coffee drinkers.  Along the bust is two decorative candle holders and at its end are two electric fans.  The building is old and looks very much like it was built in the 1920s.

The tables and red velvet chairs seem antiquated as well, but still in good condition.  The only drawback is the smokers that come here.  The smoke lingers like a needy ex-lover you just hope that they will go away.

Overall the lighting is on the dark side, but one can still have enough light to read.    But the best thing to do is meditate and allow yourself to be pulled into its seductive charms.  Before the waiters take out a record to play, they softly make an announcement of what they are about to play.  Servers are in black and they move around the cafe like ninjas in the jungle.  They take your order for coffee in a low volume voice.  Talking, even when ordering drinks, is reduced to a bare minimum.  

The windows facing the street are frosted, so one can only see the dim lighting of the outside world.  No one outside can look in.  It is just like a church but instead of worshiping Jesus or Buddha, one admires the speakers.  On the middle of the woofers, it says "3D Sound System."

The only sound I can hear besides the music is the sound of pen on paper. Behind me is a writer looking over his manuscript.  It's in Japanese of course and his writing paper is horizontal with tiny squares where he writes his kanji in.  I just wonder what he's writing and even more important will he dedicate his book to the Lion Cafe.

 In my notebook, that is only devoted to writings that took place a the Lion Cafe, is focused on the fantasy of the actor Dean Stockwell working with the great Italian poet and filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini.  I imagine them working together for some reason, due to the nature of passion spent on modern times.  One of my favorite novels by Pasolini is “”Ragazzi di vita, ” which can be translated to “Boys of Life” which could be read as “hustlers."   I imagine Dean playing a Pasolini character as he roams around Rome to look for trade or adventure.   But the way I would write it, the location would be in Tokyo, and to be more exact the same area where the Lion Cafe is located. 

 I often like to hang out in this neighborhood, because one, the girls here are cute, and two, the mixture of neon lighting for the water business as well as the nervous middle-aged men that haunt this location are an inspiration for me.   Yet, while sitting here, and listening to J.S. Bach’s “The Well-Tempered Clavier Books 1 and 2, ” I find myself approaching the entrance or gateway to a depression.   All of sudden the writer behind me got up from his table, and whispered in my ear, “I wrote this narrative already bud.” He then sat down, gently and in low volume, ordered another cup of coffee, and then started to work on his manuscript.  

I left the cafe, with a heavy heart, and thought of Max Jacob’s great collection of poems, written sometime in the late teens, “The Dice Box” and thinking that it always picked up my spirit, but alas, being in Tokyo, it will be very difficult to find a copy here.  Nevertheless I headed towards the Shibuya station to locate another setting, where I can write, think, and be something that is not me at this moment.