RÓŻANE MARCEPANY
wigilijna opowieść o rajskim ptaku

Jazz

Kiedy miałem dziesięć lat, Paryż wyglądał zupełnie inaczej niż dzisiaj. Mieliśmy wrażenie, że całe życie koncentruje się w jednym tylko miejscu, w dzielnicy Montparnasse, na lewym brzegu Sekwany. Powoli przenosiła się tu bohema artystyczna zamieszkująca wcześniej Montmartre, a wraz z nią cała rzesza pseudoartystów, hochstaplerów i ludzi z marginesu. Pamiętam ulice kolorowych kontrastów. Eleganckie kobiety spacerowały bulwarem w towarzystwie wymuskanych dżentelmenów, roznegliżowane tancerki wodewilowe ze śmiechem wybiegały na papierosa z pobliskiego teatru, czasem po ulicy przetoczył się pijany w sztok malarz, który szukał weny na dnie kieliszka. To tu mieściły się słynne w świecie paryskiej cyganerii kawiarnie i restauracje, “Closerie les Lilas” – ulubione miejsce Hemingwaya i Gertrudy Stein, “Café du Dôme” czy “Café de la Rotonde”. Tu mieszkali i pracowali artyści École de Paris. Kiedyś przechodziliśmy obok domu La Ruche, gdy nagle mama pochyliła się i szepnęła mi do ucha “Ten dżentelmen to Pan Chagall, wielki malarz, ukłoń się grzecznie!”. Chwilę potem minął mnie młody mężczyzna o jasnych oczach, dużym nosie i rysach niezwykle szlachetnych, choć ostrych. Z początku jego twarz nie wyrażała żadnych emocji, była chłodna i niema, a oczy utkwione w martwym punkcie, jednak w chwili, gdy ujrzał matkę, rozpromienił się i uśmiechnął do nas obojga.

Stare mieszkanie przy Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle co wieczór gościło wyemancypowane, zadziorne koleżanki mej matki, wystrzyżone na chłopczyce, biegające po domu w kusych sukienkach. Z perspektywy “metra i trochę” – jak mawiała o mnie mama – dało się chwilami zaobserwować widoki naprawdę zapierające dech w piersiach. Pamiętam też, że wszystkie pachniały tak samo, piżmem i lawendą. Stroje matczynych koleżanek wpisywały się doskonale w trendy, jakie panowały wówczas na ulicach Paryża.

Na salonach prym wiodło argentyńskie tango, zmysłowe i eleganckie zarazem, całkiem już pozbawione prymitywnej seksualności swych korzeni. Nic jednak nie dorównywało jazgoczącej jazzowej muzyce, która wyzwoliła się z klatki, jaką były dla niej ściany dansingowych sal. Ten dziwny styl zdawał się odkrywać w mojej matce i jej koleżankach dzikość i patos, których me dziecięce oczy nie powinny były nigdy oglądać. Hałaśliwa muzyka pełna zupełnie nieszlachetnej żądzy, przypominała uliczny kocioł, do którego co rano praczki zlewały brudną wodę pachnącą mydlinami, a potem, przez cały dzień, każdy kolejny przechodzień dorzucał doń coś “od siebie”. Było w niej trochę bieliźniarstwa i coś frywolnego, coś świeżego i cuchnącego, coś ostrego i drastycznego. Był brud i stary werniks, były łzy. Były utopione marzenia i sentymentalne, ckliwe sny o pięknej, bogatej przyszłości. Były też zapomniane smaki, a wśród nich smak jeden, niezwykle intensywny, smak różanych marcepanów, którymi raz w roku pachniało na całej naszej ulicy.

Kiedy miałem dziesięć lat, święta oglądane z perspektywy “metra i trochę” też wyglądały inaczej. Miałem poczucie rodzinnych więzi, których nic nie było w stanie zniszczyć. W salonie rozchodził się zapach kremu maślanego i biszkoptu, składników bûche de Noël, a wszędzie w kuchni można było natrafić na kasztany, którymi nadziewano pieczone indyki. No i te gęsie wątróbki… Matka zawsze przygotowywała je własnoręcznie, według starych, tradycyjnych receptur. Koleżanki od zwiewnych sukienek tuż przed wigilią przypinały srebrne, secesyjne broszki na swym francuskim biuście, który nie wiedzieć czemu zawsze w święta był nieco większy niż zwykle i pijąc wino snuły opowieści, których nikt nie znał lub których dziecku znać nie wypadało. Święta na Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle to długie wieczory w towarzystwie mamy, babki i barwnej menażerii ciotek, okraszone białymi obrusami, zapachem mięty i cynamonu.

Rajski ptak

Mój ojciec był marynarzem. Pływał pod banderą Francuskiej Marynarki Wojennej, a tuż po I wojnie przeniesiono go na rybacki kuter patrolowy przebudowany na potrzeby wojskowe. Niezbyt dobrze go pamiętam, w domu bywał rzadko, nawet na święta wracał sporadycznie. Matka starała się nie okazywać po sobie wielkiej, kruszącej ją od środka tęsknoty, pokazywała mi jedynie drobne prezenty, jakie ojciec przysyłał z różnych egzotycznych miejsc. Kiedyś podarował jej porcelanową figurkę rajskiego ptaka z Wysp Korzennych. Nie była to jednak tylko ozdoba. Figurka służyła do przechowywania nasion muszkatołowca, popularnej przyprawy pochodzącej z tamtych rejonów. Matka nigdy nie pozwoliła mi jej wziąć do ręki, w obawie, że upuszczę, złamię, albo w inny jeszcze sposób zrobię figurce krzywdę i rzecz jasna miała rację. Któregoś dnia podsłuchałem opowiadaną przez ojca historię marynarzy odurzających się gałką muszkatołową podczas długich rejsów do Indii i bardzo chciałem sprawdzić jak wygląda ta wielce intrygująca “gałka”, wdrapałem się więc na blat kuchenny i już miałem dosięgnąć napełnionej tajemniczą przyprawą figurki, gdy nagle wylądowałem na podłodze, a w ręku pozostał mi tylko malowany, porcelanowy ogon rajskiego ptaka. Tamtego wieczora poznałem doskonale smak gałki muszkatołowej. Była gorzka, jak gorycz porażki i kary, ale miała w sobie też domieszkę pikanterii, jaka towarzyszyła odkrywaniu całej tajemnicy.

Podarunek od ojca został przywrócony do życia kilka miesięcy później, dzięki pewnemu artyście z Montparnasse, który z precyzją godną mistrza posklejał zebrane przeze mnie odłamki. Dziś jednak, kiedy myślę o rajskim ptaku, nie porcelanową figurkę mam w pamięci, a kobietę…

Wszystko zaczęło się w dniu, kiedy do Paryża zawitał prawdziwy, egzotyczny ptak. Z obnażoną piersią i liściem palmowym w ręku odtańczył przed oniemiałą paryską publicznością pierwszy godowy taniec w Théatre des Champs-Elysées. Czarnoskóra piękność o ruchach zmysłowych i szaleńczym poczuciu rytmu wkraczała na scenę przy akompaniamencie wibrujących werbli i głośnej jazzowej muzyki. Josephine Baker – “Czarna Perła”, moja pierwsza i jedyna, młodzieńcza miłość.

Oczywiście chłopiec w moim wieku nie zostałby wpuszczony na takie widowisko, jednak dzięki matce, którą w świecie aktorskim znano i ceniono, dziwnym trafem znalazłem się owego dnia we foyer i w chwili, gdy tłum eleganckich francuskich dam i bogatych Paryżan zaczął zalewać schody teatru, nie zauważony przez nikogo pobiegłem do garderoby, w której zwykle widywałem matkę. Ukrywszy się wśród starych kostiumów postanowiłem przeczekać ten dziki najazd gości, by potem niepostrzeżenie wdrapać się nad scenę i z góry obserwować występ rajskiego ptaka, o którym w całym Paryżu opowiadano niestworzone historie. To, co zobaczyłem owego dnia, zmieniło całe moje życie. Do wspomnień tych wracałem potem wielokrotnie, opisałem je nawet w kilku artykułach, z racji młodego wieku, byłem pod koniec lat 80-tych jedną z niewielu osób, które pamiętały francuski debiut słynnej tancerki. Owego dnia miało miejsce jeszcze jedno niezwykłe, mistyczne wręcz wydarzenie. Poznałem Ją.

Marcepan

Przepis pamiętam do dziś. Matka kupowała zawsze na bazarze funt słodkich i cztery łuty gorzkich migdałów. Przez chwilę parzyła je gorącą wodą, obierała ze skórki i starannie przebierała, odrzucając orzechy nadgryzione lub zepsute. Następnie wszystkie migdały rozkładała na dużej serwecie do wyschnięcia, by po chwili utrzeć je na cieniutkiej tarce. Na tej samej tarce tarła potem cukier, a powstałą masę mieszała z cukrem tak długo, dopóki ciasto nie nabierało jednolitej konsystencji. Wtedy właśnie dolewała do ciasta swój sekretny składnik, wodę różaną oraz kilka kropli wody kwiatu pomarańczowego. Tę cudowną, pachnącą różami mieszaninę stawiała na najwyższej półce w kuchni, przykrywając białą serwetą. Dopiero po kilku dniach wracała do dalszej pracy. Przez ten czas marcepan dojrzewał, a po całej ulicy rozchodził się zapach róż i migdałów. Marcepany przygotowywaliśmy zawsze przed świętami Bożego Narodzenia. Gwiazdki, serduszka i półksiężyce z ciasta marcepanowanego wieszaliśmy wspólnie z mamą i ciotkami na choince, mimo, że w tajemniczych okolicznościach znikała gdzieś wówczas połowa wypieków.

Dzień występu Josephine Baker przypadał na czas przedświąteczny. Paryż tonął w bożonarodzeniowych dekoracjach, na ulicach dawało się wyczuć ciepłą, świąteczną atmosferę. Ludzie patrzyli na siebie przyjaźniej, a żebracy wylegli na ulice licząc na grudniowy gest. W domu przy Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle trwały przygotowania do wspaniałej wigilii. Ciotki i babki uwijały się w kuchni, z radio dobiegały dźwięki kolęd. Mama jednak szykowała się do wyjścia. Poprawiała nową fryzurę wpinając we włosy platynowe spinki. Na ten szczególny wieczór przygotowała przylegającą do ciała suknię ze srebrnego atłasu, obszytą gęsto frędzelkami, na zakończeniach których projektant wszył niewielkie diamenciki. Ramiona okryła jedwabną chustą malowaną w japoński wzór, przedstawiający gałęzie kwitnącej wiśni. Ponieważ zima dawała się w tym roku szczególnie we znaki, babka odświeżała mamie czarny welurowy płaszcz, którego poły zakończone były białym futrem układającym się po zapięciu w literę S. Mama wyglądała przepięknie. Miałem wrażenie, że ludzie w teatrze pomylą się i uznają, że to ona jest gwiazdą tego wieczoru. Czułem, że muszę tam być, dlatego pod byle pretekstem wybiegłem z domu tuż po niej.

Josephine

Usłyszałem pierwsze oklaski i domyśliłem się, że właśnie zgasły światła. W tej sekundzie do garderoby, w której się schowałem weszło paru czarnoskórych mężczyzn. Na srebrnej smyczy prowadzili wielkiego geparda. Zwierzę zachowywało się jak duży udomowiony kot, położyło się leniwie na marmurowej posadzce i oblizało, jakby przed chwilą pożarło jakieś inne zwierzę. Zatrząsłem się z przejęcia. Tylko go tu nie zostawiajcie, pomyślałem. Zostawili.

Chwilę potem do garderoby weszła… Ona. Przejrzała się w wielkim, kryształowym lustrze, uśmiechnęła sama do siebie, poprawiła makijaż. Wyglądała jak postać z książeczki dla dzieci o mieszkańcach egzotycznych krain. W jej ruchach zamknięta była cała erotyka świata, jaki znałem. Nie pachniała piżmem ani lawendą, raczej mlekiem kokosowym wymieszanym z bardzo drogimi perfumami. Była prawie całkiem naga. Miałem wrażenie, że każdy fragment jej ciała żyje własnym życiem. Rozgrzewała stopy i nadgarstki. Kiedy się pochylała dostrzegałem naprężone ścięgna i zarysowujące się pod skórą mięśnie. Nie była szczupła, wydawała się masywniejsza od mojej matki, miała szersze od niej plecy i ramiona. Było w niej jednak tyle kokieterii i wdzięku, że nie mogłem opanować uderzeń gorąca. Tancerka zniknęła za drewnianym, indyjskim parawanem. Ze sceny dało się słyszeć dźwięki werbli i tam tamów. Przedstawienie musiało się już rozpocząć. Nagle czarni rośli mężczyźni wrócili. Obudzili dzikiego kota i śmiejąc się w głos wyszli z garderoby trzymając z obu stron Josephine za ręce. Zostałem sam.

Teatr, w którym pracowała mama znałem doskonale, spędzałem w nim całe dzieciństwo. Wdrapywałem się na rusztowania umieszczone nad sceną, krążyłem tunelami ukrytymi pod orkiestrą, znałem tajemne kryjówki w garderobach. Tego dnia bez trudu prześliznąłem się niezauważony i wdrapałem na półkę dla obsługi sceny. Mogłem stamtąd spokojnie obserwować cały spektakl, który był mieszanką tańca, skeczy i gagów o tematyce afrykańskiej. Pode mną wisiały gigantyczne liście bananowca, liany i sztuczne konary drzew. Nagle zobaczyłem ją. Siedziała na gałęzi, niczym dzikie zwierzę szykujące się do skoku. Tancerze w fantazyjnych strojach dzikusów wykonywali jakiś rytualny taniec. Chwilę potem Czarna Perła wiła się na scenie w Charlestonie, stepowała i udając buszmenkę podrygiwała topless w wymyślonych przez siebie zwariowanych pozach, z liściem palmowym w ręku. Taniec Madame Baker był dla mnie egzotycznym triumfem wyuzdania. Zwiewne sukienki ciotek odeszły w niepamięć.

Podarunek

Tuż przed końcem ostatniego aktu wróciłem do garderoby. Wszedłem do środka i gdy tylko zamknąłem za sobą drzwi, usłyszałem z korytarza przytłumione śmiechy tancerzy. Zbladłem i znieruchomiałem. Josephine Baker spojrzała spod przymrużonych powiek, minęła mnie jakby nigdy nic i uśmiechnęła się figlarnie. Stałem jak wryty, gdy tancerka rozpuszczała włosy, spoglądając na mnie w lustrze. Nagle odwróciła się i mówiąc po angielsku wskazała palcem indyjski parawan. – “Fourrure…” wydukała bardzo łamaną francuszczyzną. – Chodzi Pani o futro? Spytałem nieśmiało. Nie zrozumiała. Zgadując o czym myśli, podałem jej wiszącą na wieszaku futrzaną etolę. Baker odwróciła się w moją stronę i zarzuciła mi ją na szyję, po czym końcówką lisa połaskotała mnie w nos. Jej piękne białe zęby rozbłysły na ciemnej twarzy w szczerym, trochę zawadiackim uśmiechu. W tej samej chwili tancerka wyciągnęła w moją stronę otwartą dłoń. – Cadeau! – powiedziała tym razem wyraźnie i czysto, jakby słowo “podarunek” było jej lepiej znane. Krew uderzyła mi do głowy. Co robić, przecież Ona czeka… Nie miałem pojęcia jak mam zareagować, czułem, że robię się strasznie czerwony, a na czole zbierają mi się kropelki potu. Josephine Baker, czarnoskóra piękność, egzotyczny rajski ptak, kobieta, której ruchy wyzwalają we mnie emocje, jakich wcześniej nie znałem, jakich sobie nigdy nie wyobrażałem, siedzi naprzeciwko mnie, uśmiechnięta i prawie naga, jej skóra błyszczy się i pachnie słońcem… Josephine Baker, prosi mnie o podarunek. A ja? Ja przecież nie mam nic! Zamknąłem oczy marząc o tym, by stał się cud. Chciałbym jej dać wszystko, wszystko bym dla niej zdobył. Czułem jednak, że mam tylko tę właśnie chwilę, że okazja nigdy się nie powtórzy. Nie mogę wyjść i wrócić, muszę dać jej coś teraz. Z zamkniętymi oczami sięgnąłem do kieszeni powtarzając w myślach niczym mantrę, “niech stanie się cud”.

Kiedy ma się dziesięć lat cuda się zdarzają. W prawej kieszeni spodni znalazłem ukradzione o poranku z kuchni, świeżo upieczone marcepanowe ciastko w kształcie gwiazdy betlejemskiej, udekorowane białym lukrem, wciąż intensywnie pachnące olejkiem różanym. Gdy położyłem je na otwartej dłoni Madame Baker poczułem, że cały świat zawirował mi pod stopami. Czarna Perła uśmiechnęła się. Delikatnie nadgryzła marcepan. Wtem, zaskoczona słodkim aromatem migdałów, wydała z siebie dziki, teatralny jęk rozkoszy, po czym chwyciła mnie za rękę, przyciągnęła do siebie i dotknęła migdałowymi ustami mojego policzka. Tak. Pocałowała mnie.

To były moje najpiękniejsze święta. Święta z perspektywy “metra i trochę”.

Konrad Piwowarczyk

I figured this was what Mario Andrette McNeill did with Shaniya Davis. He choked her to death and tried to hide the evidence of his crimes under bags of deer carcasses. No wonder he had that flicker of a smile on his face as he was being photographed and videoed. He was famous, even notorious now. No wonder he and her mother, Antoinette Davis, are separated from the jail population for their own protection. That there is honor even among thieves, so to speak, says a lot about how heinous a crime that has been committed.

I am going to say this: black people did not resist slavery in order to visit this kind of thing on our people. We saw so much and were probably reeling from so much even after slavery officially ended. And in some cases, it got worse for us. That’s exactly why our ancestors didn’t talk too much about their memories of slavery, of the days during and after Reconstruction, and of second-class wage slavery and American apartheid to their children and grandchildren; it was too painful on which to linger.

That even as a child of 10, 11 or 12, you could fall prey to a master, a master’s son or other relative, a white manager or worker. Or, to a master’s archaic ideas about multiplying his “herd” or “flock” by putting a ‘tween black girl with a fully-adult black male like horses or mules.

A girl’s feelings about who they are aren’t that well-developed, no matter how people may argue that the current culture has sexualized and desensitized children into thinking that they are mature. Now imagine a girl child of five being forcibly, wrenchingly introduced into that adult world of carnality. She’s not able to process mentally, much less physically, what in the world is happening to her. Shaniya could have sustained massive internal injuries during the rape. Had Shaniya had survived, she may not have been able to bear children. This isn’t anything new either. We have the testimonies of black women like Billie Holiday and Maya Angelou–Holiday and Angelou through autobiographies and memoirs–who were raped as baby girls. It’s just that simple–and horrifying to explain. Those stories were also meant as warnings, not just protest literature. It happened to us; it was not our fault.

Somehow, though, by not teaching and talking about this legacy–making it real beyond simply a school assignment–and by not repeating the poison of self-abnegation, we’ve got some generations who know no limits to dealing despair and cruelty to each other. So slavery too is back with a vengeance. Some 100,000 children of every color between 10-14 years old are sex slaves, some being pimped by their parents, the majority selling themselves on the street as runaways or being pimped by other adults. And there is indeed a market. We know there is, but it could be as distant from our minds like the modern slave trade in Africa. We need to agitate here so we can have some understanding of what is going on over there. A mother, who looks like a denizen from a bad dream, to sell her own daughter for some coke rocks? I thought that I had seen the last of this kind of thing in the Eighties and Nineties.

Even wearing McNeill and Davis wearing their hair in dreadlocks gives a bad name to the hair style. I don’t think Marley meant for his Rasta dreads to be imitative of dope fiends, but of released-from-mental-and-spiritual-bondage, proud-of-who-they are and lionized black people. But there they are on these two wastes of blood and semen. This too is how a legacy is obscured and misused. When I admired a brother’s dreads in New York at a subway station, he cautioned me about touching them because he considered them as nothing less than a sacrament. I had heard about people like this, but when confronted with it, I had to respect him. My curiosity could go no farther. I could not lay hands on him, or anything on his person, without his permission for whatever reason. There are limits about treating things and people that you don’t understand with disrespect, or robbing them of life.

But people like McNeill and Davis feel nothing. They look like they don’t give a flying you know what. All they feel is the rock talking through them. Antoinette in particular seems zombified. And so now, because of their own dreadful choices, they don’t even have their own lives any more because they have robbed this child of life. Did Antoinette feel nothing about the child while she was in her womb at all? What did she feel when she gave the girl to McNeill? Did she really think that she could have sanitized the girl’s absence with her father? All this because of Antoinette’s drug habit. Like I said, the bust in the summer could have been the reason why. Because the cops got his stash while McNeill was living with her sister, Antoinette must have owed him. Did he use a gun or just his physical strength against the mother in order to get “paid”?

Shaniya reminds me of my brother’s girls, my biracial nieces Tasha and her sister when they were little babies and toddlers. I can only look at their photographs as they were when they were five, and shake my head.

Sitting in a corner at a Chicago Starbuck’s, waiting for the Art Institute of Chicago to open, Josephine Baker is on my mind, as is the bisexuality of many infamous seducers and female icons. Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo, Josephine Baker, Frida Kahlo, Georgia O’Keefe, Virginia Woolf… many many writers. It’s as if artistic sensibility makes what has been dubbed sexual deviation acceptable… but much more so for women. The women I write of were powerful, the masses hungered for them, and from the way history wrote them, few were shocked or scandalized by their sexuality. And yet, if Lindsay Lohan is in what’s clearly a complex relationship with a woman, it stirs a media frenzy… not necessarily a negative one, but still, why all the excitement? This isn’t a complete thought, but it is something my Phoeber and I were discussing last night. The straight community sees bisexuality as an outlet of heterosexuality, conducive to threesomes. The gay community often treats it as a step out of the closet for one who wants to maintain heterosexual privilege. It’s an odd conundrum that the quote about Baker toes:

From Wikipedia (Josephine baker article):

There also is evidence to support that she was bisexual. In the book about her life, titled Josephine: The Hungry Heart written by her son and author Jean-Claude Baker, he states that she was involved in numerous lesbian affairs, both while she was single and married, and he mentions six of her female lovers by name. Clara Smith, Evelyn Sheppard, Bessie Allison, Ada “Bricktop” Smith, and Mildred Smallwood were all African-American women she met while touring on the black performing circuit early in her career. She was also involved with writer Colette, and possibly with Caroline Dudley Reagan, who ran the Paris extravaganza La Revue Nègre. Not mentioned, but confirmed since, was her affair with Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. Baker wrote that affairs with women were not uncommon with Josephine throughout her lifetime.

Despite the fact that he was her son, Jean-Claude Baker interviewed over 2,000 people while writing his book. He was quoted in one interview as saying, “She was what today you would call bisexual, and I will tell you why. Forget that I am her son, I am also a historian. You have to put her back into the context of the time in which she lived. In those days, Chorus Girls were abused by the white or black producers and by the leading men if he liked girls. But they could not sleep together because there were not enough hotels to accommodate black people. So they would all stay together, and the girls would develop lady lover friendships, do you understand my English? But wait wait…If one of the girls by preference was gay, she’d be called a bull dyke by the whole cast. So you see, descrimination is everywhere.”

Julian Humphries - with Nettie R. Harris

Fashion isn’t supposed to be politically correct. If it was it wouldn’t be so fun and so daring. And we know that the French especially don’t give a fuck. Which is why I love them. Just last month, my dear friend Jean, creator of the fabulous fashion blog Ledefile, alerted me to a previous issue of French Vogue with pregnant models wearing strappy high heels and smoking cigarettes.

loving the baby stuffed in the handbag

That obviously wouldn’t fly in American Vogue mostly because Americans have sticks up their ass. But I actually enjoyed the pregnancy photo spread. Sans the cigarettes , the photos alleviate the insecure feeling most women have about what pregnancy will do their bodies and how unattractive they may become because those models were HOT.

However, in the October issue of Vogue, in a photo spread, is Dutch supermodel Lara Stone,…wait for it….wait for it…in Blackface.

And a bunch of questions popped in my mind. Is this blackface or is this art? Why not just have a beautiful black supermodel on the cover? Should the French and more specifically other countries who don’t have the same kind of sadistic historical treatment of Blacks like in America, have to tiptoe around racial issues that wouldn’t offend the majority in their country? Do they have to pay for crimes that racist Americans committed? And if they should, should Americans as well be extra-sensitive to seemingly harmless stereotypical portrayals of race when that race does not have a prevalent history of victimization in our own country?

First of all, blackface itself aggrandized negative characteristics associated with blacks. It arose in the 19^th century in the US and Britian, and the characters belonged to the plantation genre. There was the mammy, the mistress, the pickaninnies, the house slave, and they were coons to be laughed at by whites at minstrel shows. The skin color was accentuated, the lips were made more red, the whites of the eyes were emphasized, and the Negro dialect was imitated.

once he puts on the black paint, he becomes an irrational buffoon

But looking at these images in French Vogue, I don’t necessarily see it in the same way I would see blackface propaganda. While even thinking about a white person covering herself in black make-up is shocking, these photos don’t have the same agenda as blackface performance. It is more artistic and beautiful than funny and coon-like. Primarily, in blackface the “ugliness” of blacks is amplified, and in this picture, the woman is beautiful. Beauty and Blackness were not correlations made to buttress racially hegemonic ideals.

But, why do we need a white woman to be in blackface for the image to be beautiful? Vogue already has a history of not putting black models on the covers, or only in the summer issues because the majority of their customers wouldn’t buy them. And in many letters to the Editor after Michelle Obama was featured on the cover, even though it was for politics, many readers were pissed that Vogue would put someone so unmodel-like and fashionless on the cover, e.g. black woman on the cover. Is the photographer saying something about art, or about masks? Is blackness only beautiful when it is false, or is blackness only beautiful when we see there is some underlying white characteristic? Hmmmmm.

Most of the reaction to these images have been shock by the fashion world and its readers. Especially in the wake of the recent reality show in Australia in which white performers sang Jackson Five songs in blackface and called themselves the Jackson Jive. Harry Connick Jr. was so pissed he gave them a zero.

Jackson Jive, just look over your shoulders honey... Oooooh!

But like Australia, France hasn’t had the same intricacies with racism towards African-Americans. France’s hegemonic power was largely enforced in North Africa, sometimes in the Caribbean, and the majority of their racism was geared toward Arabs. Additionally, America is one of the few countries that premised its’ mission of colonization on the assertion that African-Americans were sub-human. However, countries like France and Britian entertained the idea that through education and culture, the “inferior races” could be assimilated and acculturated into their society. In Macualay’s Famous Minute on Education he stated that the British wanted to have “Indians in blood and colour but European in thought and intellect.” Additionally, during the Harlem Renaissance many black writers and activists such as Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, Jessie Fauset, Josephine Baker, and James Baldwin, ex-patriates if you will, left the States for France specifically because it wasn’t racist and they felt free.

are we gonna get in a huff because the french put josephine baker in a banana skirt? is this minstrelcy or art?

So do the French and any other country without a perverse history of racism towards African-Americans really have to be held to the same politically correct standard as the racist Americans who started the whole damn thing anyway? Are we limiting freedom of speech (blackface) because the Americans fucked up?

And if you agree that no country should endorse the use of blackface for art, humour, etc. is it because it is a badge of victimization for blacks or is it because no one should be imitating a different race for humor? A couple years ago when I was teaching a class on Television and Literary Genres which focused on humor, we watched a few Dave Chappelle episodes from “Chappelle’s Show.” We specifically watched the episodes in which he performed comedy in Whiteface.

"since reparations have been paid to blacks the crime rate has fallen to zero, wait that can't be true, did the Mexicans get paid too? Ooops am i still on the air?"

When Dave is in whiteface he speaks in a stereotypically white way, is mildly racist, and is sexually repressed and impotent. After watching the episodes I asked my students if they were offended (they were all white) and they said no. And then I asked why is it that blackface is offensive and whiteface isn’t? They came up with the conclusion that it has to do with the history of victimization of blacks. When people are in blackface it connotes black inferiority, yet whiteface does not do the same because it would be historically inaccurate, because whiteness is seen as superior in America. I was even thinking about racial slurs, and even the one for whiteness, “cracker,” isn’t a term of inferiority per se because it alludes to a slavemaster who cracks the whip on the back of slave. So even the term itself is laden with dominance and power. Hmmmmm.

i am ashamed i did see the movie, but i do love my wayans! -white chicks

Why isn’t it offensive to make fun of a race, and you could even extend this to class or gender, when that race, class, or gender, in respect to its counterparts, is the most dominant, powerful, or not had a history of victimization? Thoughts?

Ever since I discovered Josephine Baker, I’ve had a really strong interest and attachment to her art and her life. My obsession with old, French music and film made loving Baker inevitable, but the more I studied her, the more interested I became. Baker started out in St. Louis as scrawny little girl, forced to play up stereotypes to make a living. And by the time she was 19 she was in Paris, was the highest paid chorus girl on the planet, and was combating racism, misogyny, heteronormativity through her body and a sense of agency that is unmatched to this day. Corny as this sounds, when I get really anxious and stressed out, I think of Baker. I think of what she was doing at my age and how she did it against all odds, on her own, with her chin up. She’s my biggest source of motivation.

Baker’s dancing was revolutionary. She turned European ballet on its head and surprised the French with her crossed eyes, jelly-bones, and overt sexuality. She had people reconsidering what it meant to be beautiful and sexy–when she was younger, she was criticized for being too dark (or too light, depending on who she was speaking to. Huh.), too thin, too exotic, etc., and later she had men  drooling and women paying money to look like her. And sure, it may seem as though she was exploiting her body or fetishizing her ethnicity, but in a way she was really just mimicking and deconstructing stereotypes and expectations. She did what she wanted. She prayed naked, walked her pet cheetah in the streets of Paris, sang when people told her her voice was bad, danced the way she wanted to, loved who she wanted to, and didn’t let anyone tell her otherwise. Strangely enough, however, she also seems so loving. She’s always smiling in photos, she was eccentric, loved animals and children, and was accepting of all people. Her work in WWII and the Civil Rights Movement show how dedicated she was to equality and giving back. I can only imagine what would have happened to the Civil Rights Movement had Baker accepted Coretta Scott King’s request for Baker to take over after Martin Luther King’s assassination.

A controversial review of “The Ziegfeld Follies” from 1936 from Time Magazine. The critic is harsh and seems a little unaware of just how much of a groundbreaker she really was. Then again, you have to consider the fact that racial attitudes in Europe were more progressive than they were in America, and the authors choice to call her a “bucktoothed negro” as opposed to the French’s “ebony goddess,” could just be a sign of the society they were writing in and for. Josephine Baker was different in an incredibly beautiful way, and I don’t think America really realized that until it was too late. In a few words, I admire Josephine Baker because she never strayed from being herself. She is beautiful, funny, controversial, daring, smart, headstrong, determined, honest, caring,  talented, and one of my biggest sources of inspiration.

Read the Time article here.

-K

Fò m ale! Très bientôt je partirai pour Ayiti, pour revoir la famille, les amis, le peyi. J’aimerais m’impliquer, en profiter pour tisser des liens, collaborer avec des artistes de là-bas. Kijan pou nou kontre?

Voici ma petite liste de talents “nouvèl jenerasyon”:

-Tifane

-Belo

-Eud

-Stanley Georges

-Kiko

-Jean Bernard Thomas

-Zing Experience

Ah ! Qui me rendra mon pays

Haiti

C’est toi mon seul paradis

Haiti

Ah ! Dieu me rappelle

Tes forêts si belles

Tes grands horizons

Loin de tes rivages

La plus belle cage

N’est qu’une prison

Oui !! Mon désir , mon cri d’amour

Haiti

C’est de te revenir un jour

Oh, beau pays bleu

Bien loin, bien loin sous d’autres cieux

Je vivais des jours heureux

Mais tout est fini

Seule dans mon exil aujourd’hui

Je chante, le coeur meurtri

Oui ! mon désir mon cri d’amour

Haiti

C’est de te revenir un jour

Haiti !!!

Paroles: Roger Bernstein, Géorge Koger

chanté par Joséphine Baker

Last week I invited my wife Geri to go on a date with me on Saturday night. She accepted my invitation (I did not inquire if she had other options), but she wanted to know where we were going. I told her this is a real date, so I will tell you where we are going when I pick you up.

Geri gave me a you-must-be-losing-your-mind; how-are-you-going-to-pick-me-up-from-our-own-house look.

 Then she asked what time is our date, because you know I have bell-ringer practice at Dr. Johnson’s at 4:30. I told her 6:00 p.m. She said what if we are not finished practicing by then. I said, just tell the other bell ringers and musicians you have to go because you are going out on a date. With your husband.  She said, Right. But that’s what she did. (And the tremor you may have felt last Saturday around 5:55 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, and  which registered at least a “7” on the Richter scale, was directly attributable to the response of the ladies at Dr. Johnson’s jumping up in shocked disbelief, their chairs falling over, the primal scream of  “ A Date?!”, “You’re husband is taking you on a date?! and by their stomping on the floor in gender unity with Geri and  sending a spiritual shockwave that crossed continents and oceans. Even the Starship Enterprise went to red alert).

When I went to pick her up at Dr. Johnson’s I was invited in. Dr. Johnson said the ladies there want to hear all about our date. I told Dr. Johnson and all the other assembled ladies that I was there to pick up my Queen for a date, and that it was nice to see all the other beautiful Queens and princesses present, but that where we were going on our date was a secret. After receiving nodding acceptance of my response, with irrefutable observations about them, someone asked how long have you and Geri been married. I replied that since we are still on our honeymoon we must be in our first year of marriage. Someone else asked Geri, does Ron give lessons in Husband 101, because if he does I’m signing my husband up right now!

Geri and I went home and changed for our date. I told Geri I was going to go downstairs, out the back door and come around the front and ring the bell, and that she should then come downstairs and open the front door. She gave me that look again. Then she started looking all around the floor and adjacent rooms. I followed her and asked her what are you looking for? She replied, your mind. You have obviously lost it. And since we have not gone very far, it must be around here somewhere. Notwithstanding her search, and being in full possession of my mental faculties, such as they are, I executed my plan.

I rang the bell. After about 90 seconds, she came down the second floor stairway, and to the door. She asked, who is it. I responded, your date. She opened the door, and from where they had been hidden behind my back, I handed her the roses I had briefly hidden on the back porch directly adjacent to our kitchen, and  had retrieved on my way to the front door. (I had picked the roses up while she was at Dr. Johnson’s and had started to bring them with me to give them to her when I picked her up. But on reflection, that would not have been congruent with date protocol and structure.)  She looked at me with a puzzled but very big and happy smile. To her unanswered question of why, I told her that when I take someone on a date, I give them flowers. After she put the roses in a vase, we went to the car. I opened the passenger side door for her. As she shook her head in puzzlement, I explained, this is a full scale “ole school date” (ala the Temptations great song “Treat Her Like A Lady”   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPUsQDm-HQY).

We went to dinner at a new Greek restaurant in town. After dinner I headed up Valley Road (which is away from our house). She asked, aren’t we going home? I replied no we are not going home. We are on a date and I am taking you to a place we have not been to before and we need to get there before the curtain… (I almost let the cat out of the bag). She gave me a look like, we are going on a date to look for curtains?

 As we neared our destination I told her we were going to see Looking for Josephine, a new musical about the life of Josephine Baker. http://www.montclair.edu/news/article.php?ArticleID=4192&ChannelID=7

(As we exited our car in the parking garage and we walking toward the theater I saw Dave Brinkley. Dave and I had gone to school from kindergarten through High School and he and I were roommates our freshman year at Rutgers  And Trish Montgomery who had also been at Rutgers when we were. If Dancing With The Stars had been around when we where there, and if  the D.C. Bop had been a dance, and Trish a contestant, there is no way all the judges would not have given her a “10”! That’s one I always wanted to learn to do but never did. But I digress. In any event, what a coincidence.) The musical was great.

 One the way home, Geri and I listened to Whitney Houston’s new CD, and especially liked “I Look to You”. When we got home we had desert: slices of the sweet potato pie I had bought earlier in the day. (That pie was so good, if you had put a slice on your forehead your tongue would have beaten your brains out trying to get a lick.)

 Great dinner, great musical, great sounds, great desert, great night.  We wanted to share this with you as well as the attached, Love Comes First.  http://www.lakerhatersportzcard.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderfiles/lovecomesfirst.pps

Hope this brings a smile.  

 Ron Brown

2006: Odette Toulemonde di Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt

Da ieri visibile su Sky questa “favola dei nostri tempi” (Repubblica) consigliatissima a tutte le fasce di pubblico.

La vicenda è assurda, i personaggi e le situazioni improbabili… Eppure il risultato miracoloso è un gioiellino raffinato e godibile al massimo in cui tutto scorre piacevolmente, lineare e coerente: un film fatto talmente bene che ogni cosa sembra plausibile e accettabile, anche la più inverosimile. Si sta volentieri al gioco e ci si appassiona a una moderna favola, frizzante e commovente al contempo, piena di humour di rara intelligenza, mai banale, lieve ma profonda (“dietro -afferma Il Manifesto- c’è lo sberleffo nei confronti della centralità parigina in fatto di gusto, l’incolmabile distanza tra capitale e provincia, tra intellettuali e piccolo borghesi”). Quasi un musical da camera con tocchi disneyani e surreali, con una bella sceneggiatura e una accorta regia (sembra strano che Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt -anche autore del racconto ispirato al film- sia al suo esordio). Deliziosa e accattivante la protagonista Catherine Frot (in Francia celebre attrice di teatro ma non solo) in un mix riuscitissimo di Mary Poppins Fata Turchina e Amelie (“Odette, che balla la sua vita a ritmo di Joséphine Baker e prende il volo quando è felice, è uno dei personaggi più lievi e affascinanti usciti dal Cinema francofono degli ultimi anni”, Renato Massaceesi), perfetto il resto del cast. Da plauso la colonna sonora di Nicola Piovani, abilissimo -tra l’altro- ad inserire armonicamente, esaltandole, le canzoni della celeberrima vedette afroamericana.

Un film di cui MyMovies ha scritto: “un toccasana per il cuore e per l’anima, come un dolcetto al cioccolato in un momento di tristezza” e Spaziofilm ha detto: “una boccata d’ossigeno, un momento per staccare la spina”,  un film che infonde serenità e ottimismo (“un grido di ribellione alla negatività” afferma Luciana Morelli su Cinemalia), un film che piacerà a chi dal grande schermo pretende divertimento ma anche sostanza (“una commedia che tinge di fantastico surrealismo fanciullesco e dolcissimo romanticismo un messaggio contro i pregiudizi culturali”, MoviePlayer).

p.s.

In Italia Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt ha acquisito notorietà dirigendo Omar Sharif in Monsieur Ibrahim e i fiori del Corano (film tratto da un suo racconto) e per la sua commedia Il visitatore, in cui Freud riceve la visita di un misterioso personaggio che è forse Dio, recitata da Turi Ferro e Kim Rossi Stuart.

Alla presentazione ufficiale de Lezioni di felicità il regista ha dichiarato: “Volevo partire dal mondo com’è per poi passare alla fantasia. Questa storia è tratta da un episodio che mi è realmente accaduto e c’è molto di autobiografico. L’importante era colpire la gente e farla pensare. Io sono un drammaturgo e di solito i miei romanzi sono crudeli ma sempre credendo nella bontà di fondo delle persone… Volevo iniziare con qualcosa che non potesse risultare pesante. Il mio primo rapporto col cinema è stato con Walt Disney e a lui mi sono ispirato nel modo di lavorare. E’ giusto quindi dire che si tratta di una favola che vuol parlare della felicità. La verità è che quando si è felici non ci si chiede cosa sia la felicità. Trovarsi a fare questa domanda a se stessi o agli altri significa che non si è felici” (Luca Svizzeretto, Tuttialcinema).

scheda

sito ufficiale

Den ersten Teil begann ich mit dem Satz: Es gibt keine größere Verachtung, keinen tieferen Haß als jenen, der gegen Schwarzafrikaner gerichtet ist.

Weitere schockierende Belege für den kochenden und brodelnden Haß in jenen, die a la Rudolf Steiner glauben, daß in der „äthiopischen Rasse die Merkurkräfte kochen und brodeln“, bietet Günter Wallraff, der als Somali verkleidet durch deutsche Kneipen zog, sich eine Wohnung mieten wollte oder beispielsweise in Ostdeutschland einem Fußballspiel beiwohnte. Nachzulesen in seinem neuen Buch Aus der schönen neuen Welt.

Wie Wallraff in der Hamburger Morgenpost berichtet, galten ihm, dem vermeintlichen „Schwarzen“, immer wieder Beschimpfungen wie „Affen nach Afrika!“ Jedem Fußballfan sind die Sprechchöre gegen „Schwarze“ in den Stadien vertraut: „Hier, hohl dir deine Banane!“ Wallraff:

Ich war beim Fußballspiel Cottbus gegen Dresden. Wenn da nicht die Polizei gewesen wäre, hätten die mich alle gemacht.

Was in den von Wallraff beschriebenen Massen vorgeht; was diesen mörderischen Haß provoziert, kann man wirklich am besten erfassen, wenn man sich mit dem anthroposophischen Rassismus befaßt. Nirgendwo sonst wird offensichtlicher, was Reich in der Massenpsychologie des Faschismus unter den Stichworten „Rassereinheit, Blutsvergiftung und Mystizismus“ diskutiert.

Der Haß gegen den „Schwarzen“ beruht auf der Angst vor „Kontamination“. Beispielsweise forderte 1922 Rudolf Steiner Schwangere auf, sie sollten damit aufhören, die damals populären „Negerromane“ zu lesen, da durch den geistigen Einfluß dieser Lektüre auf den Fötus ihre Kinder negroid, grau und kraushaarig werden würden. Auch beklagte er ganz allgemein den Einfluß der Negerkultur in Europa, weil es schädlich für die geistig-rassische Reinheit sei. 1926 schrieb die Witwe des inzwischen verstorbenen Geistersehers, Marie von Sivers, in einer ihrer Einleitungen zu Steiners Vorträgen, über „das Blöde und das Negerhafte“, dem der moderne Europäer als letzter Mode huldige, dergestalt würde er zum „Untersinnlich-Dämonischen streben, das wiederum dem Negerhaften entsteigt“.

Aus historischen Gründen, wird der „Schwarze“ mit verführerischer Exotik und abstoßender Minderwertigkeit in Zusammenhang gebracht. Ich kann mich gut an einen einfach nur peinlichen Onkel von mir erinnern, der wirklich bei jeder Familienfeier von Josephine Baker schwärmte, um jedesmal gleich anschließend zum Besten zu geben, daß ihn der Gedanke mit einer „Negerin“ zu schlafen, abgrundtief anwidern würde: „Bahhhh, ich könnte mich schütteln!“

Der Schwarze verkörpert genau das ansteckend „Untersinnlich-Dämonische“, das angesichts der AIDS-Hysterie (Ansteckung!) in ganz besonderer Weise wieder aktualisiert wurde. Er verkörpert die mühsam in Schach gehaltenen Sexualtriebe. Sie zu unterdrücken, macht uns erst zu „Kulturmenschen“. Wir haben Angst uns „anzustecken“, d.h. „Feuer zu fangen“, und so unseres mühsam aufrechterhaltenen Status verlustig zu gehen, zu „vertieren“. Je niedriger der eigene Sozialstatus ist, d.h. je „negerhafter“ man sich selbst empfindet, desto stärker ist dieser Mechanismus ausgeprägt und entsprechend groß ist der Haß.

Die ekelhafte Pest Rassismus wird es solange geben, bis sich Kinder und Jugendliche auf einer Massenbasis werden frei entfalten können und zu Menschen heranwachsen, die eine wirklich erwachsene, befriedigende genitale Sexualität leben können.

Josephine Baker (June 3, 1906 – April 12, 1975) the first black superstar, was a dancer, singer, actress.

She was bigger in Europe than she was in America. Fluent in english and french.

She was definitely ahead of her time. Her dance moves were controversial and very risque in her era.

She contributed to the Civil Rights Movement, became the first American woman to received the Military of France honor, the Croix de Guerre, and she eventually adopted twelve children. Different boys and girls from various countries. Naming them the Rainbow tribe.

She only performed in front of integrated audiences, becoming the first entertainer to integrate concert shows.

Becoming one of the world’s sensational and successful entertainers at the time.

Some wonder if today’s superstars like, Beyonce and Shakira’s dance moves or booty rumps were inspired by the Queen of the booty shake, herself.

Lynn Whitfield portrayed Josephine Baker in her life story back in 1991. Baker did it all.

Very talented. She tore through the typical stereotypes of women of color.

Made fun of them by prancing around with them and teasingly flaunted her sex appeal to her audiences.

She did nude scenes for photoshoots and the stage in front of audiences.

She portrayed a love scene in an interracial film with a white man. Which was criticized and ban.

She was badly ridiculed in the press for it. Also she was one of Frida Kahlo’s lovers.

She went through many marriages and troubles in her life.

The world didn’t know what to make of her at first. It was evident that she was infamous before the word was well known. But people grew to admire her.

She made her banana costume one of her most well-known and signature pieces.

Many believe that stars today, including those video vixens, owe this booty rumpling move to Josephine Baker.

Because she was performing this move talentedly, publicly, before anyone else had the chance to do it.

Through the heartbreaks and triumphs, she will be remembered as one of the first and greatest entertainers in history. Watch Josephine Baker’s infamous booty shake move here.

“Well-behaved women seldom make history.” — Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

“When I’m good, I’m very good.  When I’m bad, I’m better.” –Mae West

Consider the so-called “bad” girl.  Playing by the rules and coloring within the lines are all well and good, to a certain extent.  But what if your dreams and desires just can’t be confined by the contours of a “good girl” life?  What if your vision of the world is bigger than what the world currently has to offer?  What if you just don’t fit into any of the roles society has deemed acceptable for you? 

The “bad” girl shrugs her shoulders and cha-chas forward.  She breaks rules with impunity, fights for what she believes in, and pursues her dreams, no matter what the cost.  She stands up, speaks out, and tears down anything that stands in her way.

Is it any wonder, then, that so many of the women history remembers fondly today were considered “bad girls” in their time?  Here are just a few of the courageous women who pushed buttons and limits, and left a legacy any aspiring “bad” girl can be proud of.

Edith Wharton bit the hand that fed her in the daintiest way possible by satiring the old New York society in which she was raised. Novels like The House of Mirth and The Age of Innocence questioned long-held assumptions about love, marriage, divorce, and women’s rights.  In a time when such things just weren’t done, Wharton rejected her own loveless union  for a life of greater social freedom in Paris.  She was also the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for literature.

Dorothy Day turned Catholicism on its ear by co-founding the Catholic Worker Movement. After reading Upton Sinclair’s novel, The Jungle, Day started questioning the social conditions around her and the political structure she believed contributed to them. Day’s long life of activism included housing and feeding the poor, standing up for labor rights, and publicly protesting, an activity for which she served jail time.  In recognition of her efforts to demonstrate that sincere faith and social action are not mutually exclusive, a movement is afoot to have her canonized.

Although Josephine Baker is most frequently remembered for her scandalous singing and dancing career, she also gained fame and renown as a political activist, both in the United States and Europe. During World War II she smuggled intelligence for the French resistance, passing information to the resistance in Portugal via coded messages in her sheet music. She also persuaded officials in Spanish Morocco to issue visas and passports for Jews in Nazi-occupied Europe. For an explanation of these and many more colorful stories and actions, check out one of the many biographies written about Baker.

These women’s stories are, of course, just the tip of the iceberg.  For books, videos, and more information on more notable women, ask a librarian.  Oh, and don’t forget to nurture your own unique gifts and abilities, gentle readers. Once you go “bad,” you never go back…and the world is a much better place for it.

–Leigh Anne

In turn-of-the-century America when segregation was at its peak, vaudeville defied the convention—it featured all kinds of performers on the same stage. “Talent has no color,” explained Joe Laurie, a vaudeville veteran from the old days. It was actually unusual not to find a mixture of Asians, African-Americans, Jews, and recent immigrants in the typical nine-act lineup, including men, women, and children.

Not that vaudeville life was all kum-ba-yah. Segregation was more evident in the audience, where blacks were routinely banned or relegated to the balcony. In response, blacks-only theaters grew up, particularly in the South, and in 1909, a Negro Circuit of theaters was formed. This was the T.O.B.A. circuit, or Theater Owners Booking Association, It played to all-black audiences throughout the South and also in Northern states until the 1930s when vaudeville itself faded away.

Any black performer from the old days that you can name—Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, Duke Ellington, Pearl Bailey, Josephine Baker, and Hattie McDaniel, for example—started in vaudeville, playing both mainstream and Negro circuits.

Here’s a short 1937 film of two young vaudeville performers who sing and dance—dare I say, better than Michael Jackson? Ladies and gentlemen, presenting for your enjoyment, direct from Philadelphia, the amazing, the sensational, the one-and-only Nicholas Brothers!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmlr3Y33ByI

The narrator of Looking for Josephine, the joyous Josephine Baker revue that ended its American premiere run Sunday afternoon as part of the ambitious Peak Performances series at Mointclair State University’s Alexander Kasser Theater, explains why the American singer was not fully appreciated in her home country: She was too much of a clown. She was too African.

At Saturday night’s performance, I realize that even though Josephine died more than three decades ago, some things haven’t changed. At least one person in the audience last night was put off by the story — its French-ness (“It’s not in English”) and Josephine’s whirlwind free-spirited-ness (“He’s going to strip her?”).

The production by La Compagnie Jérôme Savary is that it is rather conservative. Josephine, played splendidly by Nicolle Rochelle,  is never actually nude — even at her least-dressed she appeared to be wearing pasties. Yet the suggestion of nudity was bothersome to at least a few.

Jérôme Savary

The book is rather slight. It offers a sketch of the life of Josephine told through the eyes of residents of New Orleans just after Hurricane Katrina. The show opens with three characters in an inflatable boat, waiting for the floodwaters to recede. A French theatrical producer, Slap Goldman (Michel Dussarrat, who also designed the costumes) shows up, seemingly oblivious to the damage and human suffering around him, looking for someone capable of playing Josephine in a production of La Revue Nègre that he is staging back in France.

Slap’s eyes light upon Cindy (Rochelle), who’s in the boat with Old Joe (Walter Reynolds) and Tom (Allen Hoist). One thing leads to another, and Cindy goes off to France, where she plays Josephine. The story comes full circle when Cindy gets a break in her performance schedule and returns home to Nola to find that Old Joe died while she was away.

The show is entertaining and has spectacular singing and dancing. But at times it goes off the rails when it tries to tap serious themes, as it does in a disconcerting scene of devil-may-care dancing performed in front of a projected backdrop of filmed Ku Klux Klan demonstrations and cross burnings.

The show is not entirely ven informative at times. After all, how many of us remember Josephine as a paragon of Civil Rights? Yet she was. For instance, a photo of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. flashed on the backdrop serves as a reminder that King’s widow, Coretta Scott King, offered Josephine a leadership role after King’s assassination.

If you missed this show, Peak Performances has plenty of other music and dance offerings this season, including a one-off concert by pianist Mario Formenti this Saturday evening. . All the productions tend to be first rate, and, with tickets priced at a rock-bottom $15 this season, the value is high. Check out the schedule here.

Thank God it’s Tuesday.  That means it is time to unveil the second group of lovely classics for your consideration as members of the Fanatics Dance-Spirit Team.  By popular request, Ms. Linda Darnell is a late but worthy entrant.  In fact, the following portfolios give the Fanatics the best collection of pics of classic beauties in the blogosphere.  Unless you’re a man who is completely dead from the head down, how could you not appreciate such beauty? 

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The other night I watched a DVD with a friend. We just had a few to choose from and between The Triplets of Belleville and some war film we decided to go with the Triplets, not knowing at all what it was. Les triplettes de Bellevilleis the true title as it’s French and made by a Canadian, Sylvain Chomet. It begins with a two-dimensional black and white cartoony animation of three women singing and various characters coming on stage like Fred Astaire and Josephine Baker. Josephine’s famous banana costume is attacked by male patrons from the audience who turn into monkeys.

I was a bit surprised when the movie started to see it was a cartoon. I wasn’t ready to watch a long one but the camera pulls back on the triplets, vaudeville singers to show it is on TV and that we’re in the room of a very short old woman, with mustache hairs, one foot shorter and a lift on her shoe, plus an eye that rolls which she must push up. Her grandson is a melancholy child and she tries to find ways to make him happy. His parents are dead and nothing seems to cheer him.

Although this is French with English subtitles, the main characters never really talk. It is only the background announcers for TV and the Tour de France who talk. The actions and images tell all. The style of the animation changes with the grandmother and her grandson, Champion. It is a painted set, with subtle colors, indicating and idyllic life, and shifts again when in Belleville. Grandma buys Champion a puppy, and he is momentarily elated but saddens again, until she discovers he has an interest in bikes and buys him a tricycle.

Bruno, the young puppy, has a traumatic experience with a toy train, and trains continue to plague him throughout his life, for real, and in black and white dog dreams. If a cartoon character could steal the show, Bruno comes close. This cartoon character displays dogness so well that you can’t help but laugh at his antics and his fat body and spindly legs. In fact, the attention to individual detail in this film is what makes it stand out.

Bruno would have won in the endearing category if it wasn’t for Grandma Souza. She loves her grandson dearly and clearly continues to innovate ways to do numerous things. Years span by in a lovely painted style of animation, where they live in a tall brick house, that is eventually encroached upon by building and expansion, until it’s not so lovely. But that doesn’t stop Grandma from helping her grandson train for the Tour de France. Nor Bruno from barking at every train.

Champion is really a two-dimensional character compared to Bruno and Madame Souza, but then all he lives for is bicycling and he is a passive character. Grandma on the other hand peddles along on Champion’s outgrown tricycle (still the right size for her tinyness) using a whistle to encourage Champion on his training. He is skinny except for massive thigh and calf muscles which she massages with electric beater, hand lawn mower and vacuum cleaners.  She fixes bicycle rims with a tuning fork and the use of a miniature Eiffel Tower. She carries her overgrown grandson up stairs, puts him to bed and sees to his every need. For every problem she finds a way to fix it. But she is a terrible singer.

Eventually Champion goes into the Tour de France only be to be kidnapped along with other exhausted bicyclists by the French wine mafia and stolen away to Belleville. However Madame Souza and Bruno don’t give up and through beautiful scenes find themselves trying to trace Champion’s captors in the big city. Belleville looks like it could be in France but there is a chubby statue of liberty and every person on the street is huge and round, probably a tongue in cheek comment about Americans.

Grandma has no money and as she sits under a bridge she finds an old bent rim and begins to play a tune on it when three elderly ladies, the triplets, appear and hum a tune. They take her in but they seem a bit crazy, not letting her use the vacuum cleaner or read a paper. But they too have a way of surviving. They hunt frogs with dynamite and there is frog soup, skewered frogs, cooked tadpoles and frog popsicles, much to Grandma’s dire dismay.

All of these truly funny antics are for a reason. Every nuance or little quirk ties back into the plot as Grandma discovers the mafia’s nefarious plan. She and the triplets, with the help of Bruno and some ingenuity, rescue Champion.

I can’t say when I saw an animated film that was as charming and truly funny as this. The imagery and design are beautiful and quirky. The mystery of the kidnapping is played out well and without words. The actions truly speak stronger than the words. The storyline is intriguing and complex in its way, and the characters are just so much fun to see. It is endearign to a point that I would see it a second time.

I started out thinking I didn’t want to watch a cartoon and was completely charmed by it. This film came out in 2003 and won numerous awards, including a Genie for best motion picture, and was nominated for many more. If you get a chance to rent this film, it’s highly recommended. I’d give it nine stars (or more) out of ten.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Triplets_of_Belleville

Yesterday I went “Looking for Josephine,” and I wound up completely – and most pleasantly – surprised by what I found: a brilliantly entertaining musical revue.

Jersey girl Nicolle Rochelle captivates as jazz singer/dancer/actress Josephine Baker in "Looking for Josephine."/Credit New York Times

The bonus? It features a star-making turn by Jersey girl Nicolle Rochelle.

The show isn’t so much about the life of singer/dancer/actress Josephine Baker (who, by the way, must be an inspiration for Angelina Jolie: according to a New York Times piece, Baker adopted 12 children of different ethnicities and named them her “Rainbow Tribe”), though. It starts out in 2005 New Orleans, just after Hurricane Katrina has hit. A French producer (a hysterical Michel Dussarrat) arrives in town looking for a young woman to play Josephine in a new show in Paris. He meets Cindy (Nicolle Rochelle), she wows him, wins the role and moves to France. Shortly after the intermission, we’re transported to Paris’ La Revue Nègre of 1925 Paris – and yes, the infamous banana skirt makes an appearance. “J’ai Deux Amours,” “Then I’ll Be Happy,” “Who,” “C’est Lui” and “Ma Tonkinoise” are all performed, and I dare you to not clap or tap your foot during any of them.

At the same time, the show also explores the history and evolution of black music, from Africa to the Caribbean to the United States. It is obvious that writer/director Jérôme Savary, who also appears in the production (and who briefly sung to me and stroked my cheek!), has a deep passion for the subject matter and that makes all the difference.

“Looking for Josephine” is full of fantastic music, dance and a charming cast (which includes an adorable Poodle who almost steals the show). But it is Montclair’s very own Nicolle Rochelle who shines – and considering the company in which she’s keeping here, that’s saying a lot.

If you’re lucky enough to have scored tickets to the show – which plays again next week at the Alexander Kasser Theater at Montclair State University (yes, you read right: the tickets are only $15 each!)  – you’re indeed in for a great time.

A Shaded View on Fashion (Diane Pernet’s weblog) has some great coverage of the Gentry de Paris Revue, which wrapped up September 17.

Revue Press Conference (September 7)

On Monday evening, Diane and I attended the press conference for the opening of the Gentry de Paris Revue at the Casino de Paris in Pigalle. The theater has a rich tradition of striptease and it’s where Josephine Baker descended a lit bakelight staircase for a performance in 1925. My French is not so great (read: nonexistent) so I was relieved to find out that Dita Von Teese’s French is even worse than mine! The Queen of burlesque revival talked (in English) about the special shoes that Christian Louboutin designed for her for the show–and how he said they were “impossible” to wear. “I love challenges,” Dita said. “So of course I knew I would be wearing the shoes in the show.”

The only French I understood during the press conference was when the super-cute and sexy director Philippe Calvario hyberbolically proclaimed that the audience would “experience multiple orgasms during Dita’s performance of The Opium Den.” I think I may have had at least one during this press conference.

Gentry talked about the history of striptease in Paris, while Dita asserted that burlesque was an American invention. (It surfaced during the decline of Vaudeville and as Dita pointed out, was a cheaper–pun intended– and more egalitarian form of entertainment whose audience was comprised mostly of working-class men.) As the girls were busy talking about taking off their clothes, I couldn’t help wondering what the director looked like naked.

Gentry admitted that she and some of the other girls were a bit intimidated by the idea of dancing on the same stage where Josephine Baker performed.

- Glenn Belverio (A Shaded View on Fashion)

Videos One (shown), Two & Three (via ashadedview)

Après une collaboration avec la Fondation Cartier en 2007, l’artiste David Lynch investit les Galeries Lafayettes (GL), boulevard Haussman à Paris, du 8 septembre au 3 octobre 2009.

Le célèbre cinéaste, photographe, musicien et plasticien s’attaque à la perception des consommateurs urbains au travers de onze vitrines mises en scène. D’autres œuvres de l’artiste sont également exposées au premier étage du magasin dans le cadre de l’événement organisé par les GL, Femmes d’influence. A l’extérieur, un petit train électrique voyage au travers d’une tête de femme. Dans une cuisine, un œuf géant se met à pleurer, plus loin, une sculpture abstraite de rouages…Ces différentes installations constituent une partie de l’exposition intitulée Machines, Abstraction and Women, un « hommage à la femme ».

Construites tel un film, ces vitrines-scénarios invitent à la contemplation d’un univers onirique, parfois glamour, tout en mouvement. Le travail des compositions, des décors des vitrines fait surgir une vision poétique de l’artiste sur le boulevard Haussman qui est désormais un espace d’interpellation, de partage où le passant (potentiel consommateur) s’arrête dans sa marche et s’abandonne un instant. L’art lynchien entre dans la rue en créant l’instabilité du flâneur. Nullement merchandiser, le travail de l’artiste efface le produit surexposé habituel de ces vitrines. Néanmoins, la touche commerciale des œuvres se laisse entrevoir… Pour l’occasion, trois personnages féminins dans leurs vestiaires sont présentées au public : Audrey  Hepburn, Madonna et Joséphine Baker. Ce street art marketing incite à entrer et poursuivre l’expérience de l’art, de la mode, du luxe et du bon goût parisien. Une série de lithographies est également exposée au premier étage. Des produits dérivés dont des vêtements et des accessoires en séries limitées ont également vu le jour. Et pour faire « comme » un centre d’art dynamique, les GL ont su organiser autour de l’événement, forums et conférences, en lien avec la thématique de l’événement. Art à consommer, il n’en fait aucun doute : les œuvres de Lynch feront aussi partie d’une vente organisée par Christie’s au profit de la Fondation d’entreprise PPR pour la dignité et les droits de la femme….

Actuellement, les Galeries Lafayette parviennent à mettre en place une nouvelle stratégie de relation avec le consommateur. Celle-ci est ponctuelle et implique de regarder différemment le magasin, valorisé, pendant une période donnée. Les GL proposent ainsi une forme de voyage, de découverte sur quelques mètres, signée de la main d’un artiste médiatique. Elles donnent alors à rêver, plus encore…Mais, le public percevra-t-il le discours sous-jacent ? Le message autour de la femme ne restera-t-il pas en surface, et le geste de Lynch retenu comme du divertissement ? Les détails de l’exposition comme l’interrogation des corrélations entre « les machines, l’abstraction et les femmes » (titre de l’exposition) restent donc à explorer au travers des récits et témoignages de chacun…

The news that Elton John and his civil partner David Furniss want to adopt a Ukrainian child raises yet again the issue of the rights and wrongs of celebrity adoption. Elton intends joining a long list of stars from western nations adopting children from countries and cultures other than their own – Maddona, Mia Farrow, Angelina Jolie, Ewan McGregor, Johnny Halliday and most fabulously, Josephine Baker who adopted twelve children whom she called the “Rainbow Tribe”.

This phenomena gives me a sensation of moral queasiness but which I find difficult to pin down. On the one hand it sounds rather like buying babies; but on the other a child removed from destitution to be brought up in affluence isn’t likely to complain. Maddona, who has adopted two children from Malawi, has also set up a community centre and a charity for orphaned children there. This may have helped facilitate her adoption applications but, whatever the motives, it will mean that many more children than just the two she has adopted will  benefit from Madonna’s maternal drive.

One of the children Mia Farrow adopted with her then husband, André Previn, Soon-Yi later became the lover of Mia’s next husband Woody Allen. After the divorce Woody and Soon-Yi married in 1997. As far as I know Soon-Yi remains with Woody in the USA and has shown no desire to return to poverty in South Korea. Adding another twist to the tale, Soon-Yi and Woody have themselves adopted two children – Bechet Dumaine Allen born in China and Manzie Tio Allen who broke the pattern by being born in Texas.

A question I ask myself is if I were rich and famous and applauded everywhere I went and if I desired to adopt a child would I choose to go to the adoption department of my local UK Children’s Services at Loamshire County Hall? Would I choose to fill in forms, attend training sessions and group meetings; go through all the palaver of a Form F assessment, CRB checks etc., etc., all taking months and months before getting to be patronised at a meeting of the Loamshire Adoption Panel so as to just possibly be permitted to meet some poor child who has been  the care system and waiting for a family for the past couple of years? OR would I choose to go to another country where my desire to adopt a poor orphan baby would be enthusiastically welcomed?

It would be very interesting to know how these sort of celebrity adoptions turn out in the long term. Here is a picture of two of Josephine Baker’s adopted children; Jarry and Jean Claude at a party held at Chez Josephine, Jean-Claude’s New York Bistro in 2006 to mark the 100th anniversary of their adoptive mother’s birth. Looks as though they turned out OK.

So, am I right to feel queasy about international celebrity adoptions or am I just envious of the freedom which comes with stardom?

AOL BlackVoices site did a countdown on the sexiest African American Actors and Actresses of All Time

5. Josephine Baker

4. Meagan Good

3. Halle Berry

2. Dorothy Dandridge

1. Pam Greer

*Others on the list included Angela Basset coming in at #6, Jada Pinket Smith #8, Sanaa Lathan #10, and #16Diahann Carroll, The complete list>> http://www.blackvoices.com/entertainment/top-30-sexiest-actresses

Top Finest Brotha Actors

5. Djimon Hounsou…I didnt realize how good he looked until he started dating Kimora Lee Simmons

4. Shemar Moore

3. Denzel Washington

2. Idris Elba>>yes Lawwd.

1. Will Smith>>Now he is cute but they wrong for using the picture they used for him though.

Others included Common #25, Taye Diggs #20,Tupac #13, #7 (drumroll)Morris Chestnut!    http://www.blackvoices.com/entertainment/top-30-sexiest-actors

Now I did have some disagreements with this list..I thought some of the numbers coulda been switched around a lil bit. And then some of the people they included, I thought it was a little bit far fetched to call them actors/actresses like Lisa Raye.I couldnt believe they put Leon on there..ole dude that was in the Five Heartbeats…that negro look like Rickey Smiley.  But overall, I really enjoyed this list bc they included some old school actors/actresses that paved the way for the Meagan Goods and Denzels today..And with not only their good looks, but also their talent, would really put today’s Black Hollywood to shame.