La mia amica Viola sta leggendo (o ha appena finito di leggere) La schiuma dei giorni di quel geniaccio che era Boris Vian. Romanziere, poeta, musicista, cantautore, critico musicale e cinematografico, patafisico d’eccellenza, Vian rimane dentro. Quando lessi (il passato remoto è voluto, si parla di più di dieci anni fa…) La schiuma dei giorni , tenerissima e surreale storia d’amore, ero molto innamorato di quell’amore romantico che poi, con gli anni,  lascia il posto a qualcosa di diverso, più tranquillo, e tutte quelle cazzate lì, eccetera eccetera…

Ricordavo di aver scritto una poesia ispirata a lui. L’ho ricercata in vecchi files di sola lettura, l’ho trovata.

Questa poesia è  dedicata a Viola, cha all’epoca non conoscevo, che invidio molto perché, avendo un 7 invece di un 6 nella data di nascita, è indietro di dieci anni di letture e scoperte folgoranti.

La poesia si intitola Boris e fu scritta per il mio amore. A rileggerla mi fa sorridere.

Boris

Amore,

nessun dobloncione

con cui comprarti.

Tutta questa letteratura

ci confonde

e ci fa sentire

piccolini.

Ti porterò così

nella tasca della mia giacca,

come ho sempre voluto.

Starai buona con me?

BORIS VIAN : l’écrivain, le compositeur, le chanteur, le trompettiste, l’inventeur…

UNE DES FIGURES MARQUANTES DE L’EPOQUE D’APRÈS-GUERRE

DE SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS

Archives Ina sur Boris Vian

Le texte de cette vidéo c’est ici !

Cette année 2009 nous fêtons le cinquantième anniversaire de la mort de Boris Vian. Son nom est désormais associé au quartier de Saint-Germain-des-Prés à PARIS, accolé aux autres noms célèbres comme Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Juliette Gréco, Raymond Queneau, Jacques Prévert, Albert Camus, Jean Cocteau, Jean Genet, Alberto Giacometti, Simone Signoret, Les Frères Jacques…qui ont fait la renommée de ce quartier en pleine effervescence intellectuelle et artistique dans les années d’après-guerre (années 50).

Boris Vian (1920-1959), grand adolescent, était ce qu’on appelle un “touche-à-tout”. Grand Passionné de jazz, trompettiste  dans une boîte de jazz du quatier de Saint-Germain-des-Prés “le Tabou”, il a excercé plusieurs métiers, et s’est essayé à plusieurs genres artistiques avec succès (les romans, les chansons, la poésie, les pièces de théâtre). Adepte aussi de la pataphysique (la science des solutions imaginaires créée à l’origine par Alfred Jarry -écrivain auteur du célèbre Ubu roi- ou science qui consiste à ne rien prendre au sérieux).

Vivant dans l’urgence, à cent à  l’heure, ne voulant pas perdre de temps car il savait qu’il était condamné à mourir jeune à cause de problèmes cardiaques  (Voir la vidéo ci-dessus).

*********************

Dernière biographie de Boris Vian

  

 

 

. “J’irai cracher sur vos tombes”(1946) (extrait chapitre I)

C’est un livre qui a fait scandale à sa sortie en 1946 (best seller en 1947 !), sur le racisme aux Etats-Unis dans les années 50. Boris Vian a écrit ce livre sous le nom de Vernon Sullivan (il avait l’habitude de changer de nom, il semblerait qu’il en ait utilisé plus d’une cinquantaine comme Bison Ravi -anagramme de Boris Vian-). Vernon Sullivan avec pour traducteur Boris Vian ! (malgré un très grand succès, il a été très déçu de ne pas être reconnu sous son vrai nom d’écrivain Boris Vian mais sous celui de Vernon Sullivan).

Ce livre a été interdit en 1949, considéré comme pornographique et immoral. Boris Vian a été condamné pour “outrage aux bonnes moeurs”.  

Un film (1959) réalisé par  Michel Gast et Christian Marquand a été tiré de ce roman et c’est lors de la première projection de ce film que Boris Vian est mort d’un malaise cardiaque (Voir vidéo ci-dessus). Plus de renseignement sur ce film auquel Boris n’a pas participé, ce qui l’avait fortement contrarié. Il est mort après le générique du film mais il semblerait qu’il n’ait pas apprécié le choix de l’acteur principal pour jouer le rôle du blanc aux origines noires.

 J’irai cracher sur vos tombes

 Texte de la vidéo c’est ici !

. “L’écume des jours” (1947) 

Univers absurde proche du rêve. Colin, personnage principal, qui a assez d’argent pour vivre sans travailler. Chick son ami, qui lui n’a pas de chance, il est ingénieur et très pauvre (contrairement aux ouvriers !). Colin a un cuisinier Nicolas. Chick tombe amoureux de Alise et Colin de Chloé…

. “L’automne à Pékin”(1947) 

L’histoire de ce roman ne se déroule ni en automne ni à Pékin…voilà ! Ça c’est Boris Vian ! Je vous laisse jeter un coup d’oeil sur le lien du titre ci-dessus (Les Editions de Minuit)

. “L’arrache-coeur” (1953) - son dernier livre –  

Pris sur Wikipédia

 ”L’Arrache-cœur” est un roman où se mêlent la poésie, la fantaisie, l’émotion et l’absurde. Il est divisé en trois parties et narre le parcours de Jacquemort, psychiatre nouvellement arrivé au village, et de Clémentine, mère de triplés (“trumeaux”) qui éprouve pour ses enfants un amour qui deviendra possessif et obsessionnel. 

.  “L’herbe rouge”(1950) 

Pris sur Wikipédia

“L’Herbe rouge” narre les aventures d’un ingénieur nommé Wolf, créateur d’une machine pouvant lui faire revivre son passé et ses angoisses pour les oublier.

Boris Vian y insère ses notes habituelles d’humour noir, tout en laissant transparaître ses propres inquiétudes.

. “Le Manuel de Saint-Germain-des-Prés”

 C’est en quelque sorte le guide touristique du Saint-Germain-des-Prés de cette époque écrit d’une manière sérieuse mais aussi fantaisiste. Boris Vian décrit ce quartier avec talent et légèreté avec ses lieux devenus célèbres comme le café “Le Flore”, “La Rhumerie”, “Le Tabou” (la cave humide mais animée où Boris Vian jouait de la “trompinette”)…Evidemment ces lieux n’auraient pas existés sans la présence de Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone Signoret, Simone de Beauvoir, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker et tous ceux déjà cités ci-dessus et bien d’autres encore. 

Quartier bouillonnant sur le plan artistique et intellectuel. Qui mieux de Boris Vian aurait pu décrire cette période d’après-guerre ?

Je vous laisse regarder et écouter ce site consacré à Boris Vian

“Le Livre de Poche” vient de faire paraître le “Manuel de Saint-Germain-des-Prés” (voir ci-dessous explication de ce manuel) - Un site accompagne cette parution qui coïncide avec le cinquantième anniversaire de la mort de Boris Vian – Cliquez sur l’image !

Article dans ce même blog sur le Boris Vian, poète et écrivain -ici- !

Écoutez le sur Deezer  

 Site sur Boris VIAN

Hommage à Boris Vian sur la chaîne Arte (chaine franco-allemande)

2 vidéos tirées de “Bulles de Vian” – Film hommage à Boris vian

- Pot-pourri chansons de Vian I (Bulles de Vian)

- Pot-pourri chansons de Vian II (Bulles de Vian)

Chanson interdite 

Pendant la guerre d’Indochine, trois mois avant la chute de Dien Bien Phu, Boris Vian écrit le déserteur. À la sortie, la chanson fait scandale, et pire encore, en novembre 1954, à l’heure du déclenchement des hostilités en Algérie, elle est interdite à la radio pour anti-patriotisme.

Le Déserteur (1954)

Version 1977 de Maxime Leforestier

Monsieur le Président,
Je vous fais une lettre,
Que vous lirez peut-être
Si vous avez le temps,
Je viens de recevoir
Mes papiers militaires
Pour partir à la guerre
Avant mercredi soir.
Monsieur le Président
Je ne veux pas la faire
Je ne suis pas sur terre
Pour tuer des pauvres gens.
C’est pas pour vous fâcher
Il faut, que je vous dise
Ma décision est prise
Je m’en vais déserter.

Depuis que je suis né
J’ai vu mourir mon père
J’ai vu partir mes frères
Et pleurer mes enfants.
Ma mère a tant souffert
Qu’elle est dedans sa tombe
Et se moque des bombes
Et se moque des vers.
Quand j’étais prisonnier
On m’a volé ma femme
On m’a volé mon âme
Et tout mon cher passé
Demain de bon matin
Je fermerai ma porte
Au nez des années mortes
J’irai sur les chemins.

Je mendierai ma vie
Sur les routes de France
De Bretagne et Provence
Et je dirai aux gens,
Refusez d’obéir
Refusez de la faire
N’allez pas a la guerre
Refusez de partir.
S’il faut donner son sang
Allez donner le vôtre
Vous êtes bon apôtre
Monsieur le Président.
Si vous me poursuivez                  
Prévenez vos gendarmes
Que je n’aurais pas d’armes       -  1ère version – Que je tiendrai une arme
Et qu’ils pourront tirer.                                                 Et que je sais tirer

 Fais-moi mal Johnny

Interprétation Magali Noël      

Ou celle-là d’étudiants en médecine anonymes !

On n’est pas là pour se faire engueuler  (= se faire disputer fortement)

  

Version dessin animé

Chanté par Serge Reggiani

 Mon oncle, un fameux bricoleur
Faisait en amateur
Des bombes atomiques
Sans avoir jamais rien appris
C’était un vrai génie
Question travaux pratiques

Il s’enfermait toute la journée
Au fond de son atelier
Pour faire des expériences
Et le soir il rentrait chez nous
Et nous mettait en transe
En nous racontant tout

Pour fabriquer une bombe A
Mes enfants, croyez-moi
C’est vraiment de la tarte                         (c’est pas de la tarte : ce n’est pas facile)
La question du détonateur
Se résout en un quart d’heure
C’est de celles qu’on écarte

En ce qui concerne la bombe H
C’est pas beaucoup plus vache
Mais une chose me tourmente
C’est que celles de ma fabrication
N’ont qu’un rayon d’action
De trois mètres cinquante

Y’a quelque chose qui cloche là-dedans  (qui cloche = qui ne va pas)
J’y retourne immédiatement

Il a bossé pendant des jours                       (bossé = travailler dur)
Tachant avec amour
D’améliorer le modèle
Quand il déjeunait avec nous
Il avalait d’un coup
Sa soupe au vermicelle

On voyait à son air féroce
Qu’il tombait sur un os             (tomber sur un os = avoir un problème)

Mais on n’osait rien dire
Et puis un soir pendant le repas
Voilà tonton qui soupire
Et qui nous fait comme ça

A mesure que je deviens vieux
Je m’en aperçois mieux
J’ai le cerveau qui flanche
Soyons sérieux, disons le mot
C’est même plus un cerveau
C’est comme de la sauce blanche   (sauce blanche dans la cuisine)

Voilà des mois et des années
Que j’essaye d’augmenter
La portée de ma bombe
Et je ne me suis pas rendu compte
Que la seule chose qui compte
C’est l’endroit où ce qu’elle tombe         (ou elle tombe – parlé paysan)

Y’a quelque chose qui cloche là-dedans,
J’y retourne immédiatement

Sachant proche le résultat
Tous les grands chefs d’État
Lui ont rendu visite
Il les reçut et s’excusa
De ce que sa cagna                                  (petite maison – ne se dit plus)
Était aussi petite

Mais sitôt qu’ils sont tous entrés
Il les a enfermés
En disant “Soyez sages!”
Et, quand la bombe a explosé
De tous ces personnages
Il n’en est rien resté

Tonton devant ce résultat
Ne se dégonfla pas
Et joua les andouilles
Au tribunal on l’a traîné
Et devant les jurés
Le voilà qui bafouille

Messieurs, c’est un hasard affreux
Mais je jure devant Dieu
Qu’en mon âme et conscience
En détruisant tous ces tordus
Je suis bien convaincu
D’avoir servi la France

On était dans l’embarras
Alors on le condamna
Et puis on l’amnistia
Et le pays reconnaissant
L’élu immédiatement
Chef du gouvernement

La complainte du progrès (1955)

.

A year ago today, I found out that I was, in fact, happy.

Not that I suddenly became happy. It’s just that, at that moment, I realized that I had reverted back to my happy self. After about twelve years of forgetting how to be happy.

Here’s the backstory before the story itself…

In the summer of 1987 began the first period of intense happiness. At age 15, I became happy. Not joyous, pleased, chirpy… Profoundly happy. Happiness as a process in which I was able to cope with almost anything. Every second of my life, I felt good. Even when I was sad or hurt. There was an underlying feeling of well-being. Serenity. Then.

It started very simply, but the start of that process was the end of another one. For a few years prior to that moment, I was having something that others might have considered a somewhat typical “adolescence crisis” but which was, in my mind, a full-fledged existential crisis. I was literally digging into existential issues through tools like philosophy classics and existentialist literature. As I was reading, say, de Beauvoir, Heidegger, Vian, Maupassant, Camus, Descartes, Sartre, Nietzsche, and Freud, my own approach to Life, the Universe, and Everything began to emerge. It may seem that my reading was necessarily naïve and superficial, since I was a teen at the time. But, to this day, I feel awed at how profound the process was. Nowadays, I can’t read as deeply as I did then. I understand most of what I read, of course, and it’s much easier for me to read stuff which is deemed difficult. But my “comprehension” isn’t nearly as thorough as it was then.

I didn’t necessarily feel unhappy, at the time. But I was going through a specific kind of crisis. I felt troubled by the fact that I was unable to make sense of the many things about which I cared, including such “trivial” things as the meaning of life.

Then, things changed rather radically. It all made sense. In the sense that life not making sense suddenly made a lot of sense.

This, to me, was a lesson from one of the least-acknowledged existentialists: Boris Vian. Vian, who died almost fifty years ago, isn’t usually considered a philosopher. But I read him as one. I gained as much insight through Vian’s work as others might through Foucault’s œuvre. To me, there was (and still is) deep wisdom in quotes like this one, my favourite:

«Doué d’une naïveté maladive, il vivait plus que les autres.»

“Compulsively naive, he was living more than others were.”

Not sure I read this quote before or after that 1987 moment, but Vian was clearly at the back of my mind as I first found out my happiness, on that fateful day.

Here’s how it happened.

I had been spending some time in Switzerland with my father, his companion, and her daughter. The first part of that trip was mostly devoted to social activities which were somewhat dismissed as «mondanités» (“fashionable gatherings,” “niceties”…). To me, these were a period of fascinating discovery, especially in terms of food and drinks. As a proto-hedonist, I was “tasting” life in a new way. We were also having an intense social life, which suited my sense of social well-being. As a child, I was often ostracized, despite my sociocentrism. This period, during the summer of 1987, was an occasion for me to feel accepted.

The second phase of our Swiss stay was devoted to hard work. My father and I were collaborating on setting up some things for my grandmother. My father’s mother is one of my rolemodels and the notion that I was contributing to her well-being certainly played a part.

So is the fact that I discovered coffee at that time. This one may seem, again, trivial. But it clearly had an impact on my life. I can live without coffee (I’ve done so, for extended periods of time), but being a coffee lover is an important part of my life. That summer, coffee was a way to get a “boost” so that we could work efficiently after waking up at dawn, my father and I. But it also became a part of me: my hedonism, my social life, my intellectual stimulation, my personality.

Something I haven’t thought about much until today but which was probably significant as the onset of my first happy phase is the fact that I was able to spend some quality time with my father. In the US, the stereotypical equivalent would be the father-son baseball session. In a Swiss context, it’s fitting that it had to do with work.

So, the time I spent in Switzerland had prepared me for something. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but it was there.

Switzerland helped me be happy. And I have the t-shirt to prove it.

What’s funny is that, at the time, I was suffering from a series of ailments which were later diagnosed as hepatitis A. A few years prior to this, I got mononucleosis. My memories from that time have more to do with the comfort of sleeping all the time than with any malaise. My hepatitis was fairly similar.

And, as I got back from Switzerland, I got what I tend to call an “airplane cold,” a common cold which comes from the closed environment associated with air travel. Though I know it makes no sense in terms of epidemiology, I tend to think of “airplane cold” as if it were a specific type of virus.

But I digress…

I got back to Laval, Qc, with this benign cold. And I felt, generally, really tired. Possibly because of the hepatitis, jetlag, and the hard work I had been doing over the latter part of my Swiss summer.

So I slept for something like 28 hours over the course of two days. Seriously. I don’t remember the specifics but I remember waking up after something like 16 hours to do a few things before going back to sleep for another twelve hours or so.

When I finally got up, I felt very rested, obviously. But I still had that cold.

While I was in Switzerland, my mother was in Greece. From there, she had brought back a blue and white striped cotton sweater that I tend to associate with mariners. It’s quite possible that those sweaters aren’t typically worn by mariners, in Greece. But it was my «pull de marin grec».

This was during the dog days of summer and I had a cold. Based on an idea that sweating is a way to get rid of some symptoms of the cold, I decided to wear my sweater as I went out of the house to run a few errands in downtown Montreal. Though it was made out of cotton, that sweater looked much warmer than it actually was.

So, there I was, in downtown Montreal, wearing a sweater on a very hot day. As I was walking on Crescent toward St. Catherine, I remember thinking that others might find it strange to see someone in this attire. Maybe someone even looked at me in a strange way. That, I don’t remember.

But I do remember my realization: I simply didn’t care about people thinking about me as strange. After all, this notion wasn’t hurtful to them. The only their opinion might affect me is if I let it affect me. And I really didn’t mind it if their opinion of me were based on how strange I looked. My empathy for humankind was even enhanced in this whole notion that I was allowed to be strange. I wouldn’t try very actively to be as strange as possible, but it was then possible for me to take people’s opinion of me with “philosophy.”

Which made me realize that I was happy. I felt “good in my skin” («bien dans ma peau»).

And I remained happy until the summer of 1996.

This 1987-1996 backstory I’ve been telling on several occasions. In a way, this is almost the “canonical” version, even though I don’t care for canons.

But there’s more.

Briefly on the 1996-2008 period….

I didn’t really become unhappy. At least, it didn’t feel as if I were unhappy because I was “too busy being happy all the time.” But I forgot how to be happy. For twelve years. From the period surrounding my 24th birthday to a few months after my 36th.

Which gets us back to September 23rd, 2008, at 10:24. The point at which I broadcast the fact that I got my groove back.

What’s the story for that one? Come to think of it, I’m not sure this is the right time to expand on it much. But it does involve a sense of purpose, despite all signs to the contrary. It also involves coffee. And a set of social relations. Contrary to the “Greek sweater” episode, the triggering event wasn’t that straightforward. It was actually a set of circumstances including a colloquium on intersubjectivity in ethnographic disciplines, contacts at Café Myriade and at Brasserie Benelux, the Podcamp Montreal unconference,  a teaching workshop, and a bunch of amazing people.

The awesome thing is that I found my soulmate almost exactly four months after finding my personal happiness. Which means that, in the same week, I get to celebrate our eight months “anniversary” (I call it “mensuversary,” because it’s in months) and my happiness anniversary.

Who could ask for anything more?

Tag Heuer is a leading brand when it comes to wristwatches. The best thing is that they have recently launched a watch that marks sophistication and preciseness. Inspired by motor racing, Tag Heuer adds Grand Carrera Grande Date GMT for its users.

This watch uses the Tag Heuer Caliber 8RS automated cause, which has found its inspiration from the GT engine rotating system with Cotes de Geneve. The masculine vintage silver watches are made of stainless steel with a diameter of 42.5mm and thinness of 13mm.

It is incorporated with sapphire crystal that secures it from any possibility of having scratches. The dial is available in brown colour with circular guilloche patterns. The brand logo is hand applied and faced in a curved shape with double finishing. It is completed with a comfortable 8.5-inch long strap, which uses clasp with push buttons on it.

Rolex cannot be overlooked when it comes to wristwatches collection. People wait eagerly for Rolex to establish what they have been manufacturing for a particular season. Rolex Cosmograph Daytona 116520 has the capability of achieving precision and accuracy with only being equipped with 290 components, which is much less than other such watches.

le_vian_duo_newsilverwatches

Silver Automatic Watch

The New Style

Il était une fois, un marchand de bonheur.

Sa boutique caressait sous un toit en carton des petites fioles, et des bidons. Tout ça ne marchait pas très fort. C’est qu’on n’y croyait pas. Du bonheur à vendre? Ha! Tout le monde savait que ça ne s’achète pas. Y avait donc des yeux sarcastiques qui frôlaient la boutique, ou qui lui jetaient des oeufs: “Jaune!” Et puis c’est tout.

Un jour, à la radio, il entend parler d’un fou. Un fou puissant et pas très drôle, pour le coup. Avec ses petits pouvoirs officiels, il a décidé d’un truc, qui fait ding dong dans la cloche du marchand. Mesurer le bonheur. Ha! Voilà qui est intéressant. L’idée fait son chemin. Et il propose un truc lucratif allez hop. Vendre le bonheur au centimètre, au poids, au ruban, au volume. Douze centimètres de bonheur, pour 500 doublezons, à consommer avec précaution.

L’idée d’un bonheur-quantité fait son chemin propagandement. Les gens lorgnent la boutique la bave aux dents. Le p’tit commerce roule ma poule. Le p’tit marchand grossit grandit. Il remplit ses fioles d’eau directement extraite du robinet du coin, personne ne se rend compte de rien. Mais le bonheur mesurable, lucratif, tintintin, ne fonctionne plus très bien. Les gens ne sont pas plus heureux. Mais le marchand lui, la fortune lui sourit. Ses poches sont fat comme des patates. Sa boutique brille comme un flétan.

Mais tant va la cruche à l’eau, qu’à la fin, elle se casse. Nous l’allons montrer tout à l’heure.

Pendant ce temps…

Un passant agacé a décidé d’agir. Aux grands maux, les grands moyens: il s’est mis au chocolat. Ben oui: langage universel, magnésium, endorphines: rien de tel pour faire la nique à n’importe quel remède à la con. Au début, rien. Et puis, l’intelligence du nez a tourné ses moustaches dans la direction pralinée. Hmm… Dix millilitres de bonheur pour 40 doublezons, ou une tablette de chocolat pour 1 doublezon? Tic tac tic tac tic tac CHOCOLAT! Blanc, lait, noisettes, amandes, orange, menthe, nougat, on a vite préféré l’caramel au carat. Les mains tachées de chocolat, le sourire repus et cracra, le ventre plein, et la glycémie jusque là, les clients désertent le marchand.

Le marchand, alias, la cruche, à force de couper le bonheur avec de l’eau, se fait doubler par un vulgaire marchand de chocolat, et se casse.

Réponse à la question posée par Vian au provéditeur-éditeur du Collège de ‘Pataphysique en 1953 sur le sens du proverbe “Tant va la cruche à l’eau qu’à la fin elle se casse”. CQFD. Première énigme résolue. C’est bien parti.

Lettre de Boris Vian, du Collège de ‘Pataphysique, à André Parinaud, directeur de l’hebdomadaire Arts, avril 1953 :

Un robot poète ne nous fait pas peur.

[...] Nous luttons contre des moulins à vian : rendez-vous compte que tôt ou tard, les robots feront des trucs que nous ne pourront pas faire. Nous n’avons qu’une chose pour nous : négligeons tout le reste et cultivons, cultivons notre polyvalence.
Il y aura des robots poètes, d’autres cuisiniers, d’autres calculateurs, bon ; mais pour être les trois à la fois, il leur en faudra du volume !
Nous ne sommes pas parfaits, mais très adaptables. Nous pouvons faire l’amour, lire, jouer du piano, nager, et même construire des robots. Nous pouvons cogiter, donc être, et précéder l’essence.
Nous pouvons rire.
Oh, je ne le nie pas, des robots riront mieux ; mais sans doute pas les mêmes. Le monde est aux mains d’une théorie de crapules qui veulent faire de nous des travailleurs, et des travailleurs spécialisés, encore : refusons, Parinaud. Sachons tout. Sachez ce qu’il y a dans le ventre de ce robot. Soyez un spécialiste de tout. L’avenir est à Pic de la Mirandole. [...]

La pregunta es simple, concreta: ¿puede uno ser muchas cosas a la vez? Apunta a saber si se pueden tener varias profesiones al mismo tiempo, pero profesiones de esas que definen una identidad, la ‘vocación’, digamos. Un wiki a modo de ejemplo:

Alejandro (Alexandro) Jodorowsky Prullansky (Tocopilla, Chile, 7 de febrero de 1929), es un artista polifacético chileno de origen judío-ucraniano. Entre sus muchas facetas destacan las de escritor, filósofo, dramaturgo, actor, poeta, director de cine, guionista de cómics, instructor del tarot, mimo, psicoterapeuta y psicomago.

Está bien, algunas profesiones son casi hermanas (escritor-dramaturgo) y hasta podría decirse que uno está chapeando, pero otras suenan algo disímiles (guionista de comics-psicomago). La respuesta, entonces, parece igual de simple: se puede. Y en jerga artística, parece que a eso se llama polifacético.

Pero como es tan simple, casi por inercia surge otra: ¿se debe? El saber popular dice que quien mucho abarca, poco aprieta. O sea, podés hacer muchas cosas pero a riesgo de ser chotísimo en todas. La primera objeción es la avalancha empírica, la lista de casos de gente que tomó múltiples caminos y que los atravesó bastante bien. Al ejemplo de Jodorowsky se puede sumar el de Boris Vian (escritor, cantante, actor, y un largo etc).

Al margen de eso, creo que en este caso está mal interpretada la segunda pregunta, porque asume que el criterio para saber si se debe es el éxito (comercial o artístico, en caso de que este razonamiento contemple la diferencia). En ese sentido, es muy probable que alguien que no disponga del tiempo necesario tendrá menos chances ante alguien que se especializa en la materia (siguiendo la lógica del mercado y la competencia).

Pero bueno, hoy en día pienso que uno debe, como experiencia al menos, y sin joder a nadie. Tanto quilombo para decir que me anoté en un taller de stand up! (uno de esos volantes que dicen “sos gracioso?”). Así que ya veremos qué tan gracioso soy, qué tanto se puede completar un buen monólogo con una interpretación digna. Todo en la misma persona.

A la vez, intento sacar en piano este tema.

Polifacético, señores, po-li-fa-cé-ti-co.

Infernal Wrath, One of India’s biggest BIGGEST Death Metal acts released their long due debut album “Inside of me” on Counter Culture Records without much fan fare. Even though  ‘INSIDE OF ME” was released with out a ‘launch gig’ the album is slowly creating buzz on social networks as one of the best Death Metal albums by an Indian Band (even by International Standards). The myspace page of Infernal Wrath describes the album as

‘ The band speaks about the path of self realization that is set to a backdrop of the events preceeding the Apocalypse which has been foretold in various scriptures which form the basis of various religions & sects all across the globe. As a part of the events that will take place, one of the key figures is that of the ‘messiah’. This expected chosen one is given many different names by various religions of the world. Through the journey of the album, one will realize that the ‘messiah’ is not some third person but we are our own messiah.

Picture source www.myspace.com/infernalwrath

Infernal Wrath comprises of  JP on Drums, Percussions , Pradeep on Guitars (ex-Demonic Resurrection), Amnish – Guitars, Sushan – Keyboards, Sampler, Vian on  Bass, and  Afaque Azad on Vocals

Comme vous pouvez vous en douter, je suis un ferru de lecture. J’ai lu pas mal de livres et d’aussi loin que je m’en souvienne, deux m’ont profondément marqué. “J’irais cracher sur vos tombes” est l’un de ces deux livres. Lorsque je l’ai lu, je suis resté scotché, ébloui et quand même un peu surpris du style et de l’écriture. Je ne connaissais pas du tout cet auteur, et c’est au détour d’une bibliothèque que mon père m’a presque forcé à prendre le livre. J’avais 16 ans, j’étais jeune, et je préférais lire des romans d’Agatha Christie et de Conan Doyle, mes deux auteurs fétiches en policier. Mais, bon gré mal gré, je l’ai lu, et je n’ai pas décroché. L’autre jour, parcourant les rayons d’un grand magasin - qui commence par un F et se termine par un C, avec un AC au milieu – pour aller chercher les deux tomes suivants de Millénium, je suis tombé par hasard sur une édition de poche de “J’irais cracher sur vos tombes” et je me suis dit que l’occasion était trop belle pour la laisser passer. Et donc, me voilà, ici sur ce blog, à vous faire partager mes impressions sur cette fabuleuse histoire qu’a écrite Boris Vian.

Mais tout d’abord, ne perdons pas les bonnes habitudes, une petite fiche d’identité :

Titre : J’irais cracher sur vos tombes

Auteur : Vernon Sullivan aka Boris Vian

Date de parution : 1946

Synopsis :

Lee Andersen. On ne sait pas grand-chose de lui. Il débarque un beau jour à Buckton, petite ville conservatrice du Sud des Etats-Unis, en pleine ségrégation raciale, pour reprendre une librairie. Pour tout bagage une lettre de recommandation d’un certain Clem. Immédiatement, nous savons qu’il a un secret et un but « Cela devait marcher, il fallait que ça marche. ». Qui est véritablement Lee Andersen, cet homme aux « épaules tombantes de boxeur » et à la voix de « Cab Callaway » ? Pourquoi est-il venu se perdre dans ce trou perdu et que cherche-t-il au juste ? Et qui est ce « gosse » dont la mort revient le hanter entre deux saouleries au gin et coucheries avec les bobby-soxers du coin ? A Buckton il s’intègre vite dans un groupe des jeunes et ils se retrouvent tous les soirs dans un bar.
Sachant jouer de la guitare et offrant à boire, il séduit la plupart des adolescentes de la ville. Il fait la connaissance d’un homme très riche qui s’appelle Dexter mais qui semble voir clair dans son jeu…

Comme je le disais, ce livre m’a surpris. La quatrième de couverture annonce le ton:

Il n’y a pas beaucoup d’écrits de Vian dont il ne suffise de lire trois lignes anonymes pour dire tout de suite: “Tiens, c’est du Vian!”

Et pourtant, on est loin du style habituel de Vian même si on peut remarquer quelques clins d’oeil à son univers. Dans ce court roman – à peine 200 pages – les ingrédients ne sont pas bien difficile à relever: colère/rage, gin/bourbon, sexe et enfin sang… C’est un roman noir, loin des contes de fée ou des histoires à l’eau de rose. Vous ne trouverez là dedans pas de belles histoires d’amour, avec un noir qui épouse une blanche fortunée. Non, non. Bien loin de ces clichés presque féeriques, Vernon Sullivan nous dépeint un monde beaucoup plus proche de la réalité de son époque. Un monde noir, inégalitaire, raciste et bien triste ma foi.

Ce roman, devenu best-seller après avoir été écrit en deux semaines, a aussi connu un procès épuisant. Finalement, en 1949, il a été censuré et qualifié de roman pornographique, violent et comme “portant atteinte aux bonnes moeurs”. Ce livre “maudit” est devenu mythique pour les mêmes raisons qu’il a été décrié. Le scandale que sa parution a fait, lui a rendu un fier service, et lui a fait une publicité sensationnelle. Vous l’avez compris je pense, la toile de fond utilisé dans ce livre, le racisme, n’est pas une chose dont on peut parler à la légère à cette époque. J’ai juste adoré ce livre, ce style cru, dénué de forme. L’auteur raconte et n’omet rien. Il n’essaie pas d’enjoliver ou d’embellir, au contraire. Il durcit le ton, raconte certains détails, raconte cette haine, cette colère du personnage principal. Ce nègre blanc, accepté par ses semblables de peau, n’en est pas moins noir à l’intérieur. L’auteur décortique ici chaque sentiment humain et nous en offre une vision pour le moins effrayante à certains moments: amour, haine, racisme, sexe, violence…

Je terminerais cet article en précisant que l’auteur, Vernon Sullivan, n’est autre que Boris Vian qui utilisa ce pseudonyme pour publier des histoires sombres, tournant autour de la ségrégation, du racisme et de la violence qu’entraînaient ces attitudes aux Etats-Unis. Un livre que je conseille fortement et qui, dans certaines situations, nous montre que la réalité de cette époque est parfois encore présente aujourd’hui…

“Der Flur vor der Küche war hell, er hatte auf beiden Seiten Fenster, und auf beiden Seiten schien eine Sonne, denn Colin liebte das Licht. Überall glänzten sorgfältig blankgeputzte Messinghähne. Das Sonnenspiel auf den Hähnen brachte zauberhafte Effekte hervor. Wenn die Strahlen mit hellem Klang auf die Wasserhähne prallten, vergnügten sich die Küchenmäuse damit, zu dieser Musik zu tanzen, und wenn die Sonnenfäden wie gelbes Quecksilber am Boden zerstoben, jagten die Mäuse hinter den kleinen Kugeln her. Colin streichelte im Vorbeigehen eine der Mäuse; sie hatte sehr lange schwarze Schnurrhaare, war grau und winzig und hatte ein wunderbar schimmerndes Fell. Der Koch fütterte die Mäuse reichlich, ließ sie aber nicht zu fett werden. Die Mäuse machten tagsüber keinerlei Lärm und spielten nur im Flur.”
Auszug aus Boris Vian – Der Schaum der Tage
Die Mäuse sind die heimlichen Helden in diesem surrealen Roman von Boris Vian, einem Schriftsteller, der nicht mehr der neuesten Mode entspricht. Und tot ist.

Monday – June 29, 2009

The Roman Catholic World

Marielena Montesino de Stuart

The following article by MARIELENA MONTESINO de STUART appeared on the front page of The Wanderer online, on Friday, June 26, 2009.  (This is the July 2nd, 2009 edition).

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In recent months, Giovanni Maria Vian, the editor- in- chief of L’Osservatore Romano has been increasingly criticized for his unusual opinions as he con­tinues to paint President Barack Obama in a palette of gentle hues.

In a recent interview with the National Review we are cautioned to first consider Gio­vanni Maria Vian’s background and religious education, before issuing judgments about his opinions, as editor of L’Osservatore Romano. The objective of this consideration is that we are not to assume that he has “ dropped in from left- field.”

THE WANDERER - JULY 2nd, 2009 EDITION - FRONT PAGE - FURTHER REFLECTION ON THE HIJACKING OF L'OSSERVATORE ROMANO by MARIELENA MONTESINO de STUART

Well, if we apply this norm, I would say we have cause to be quite worried — consider­ing the following record and common thread among several Communist leaders of the 20th and 21st centuries: religious education and socialist ideology. While this by no means represents that one leads to the other — it is nevertheless, worthy of note that:

Joseph Stalin ( former USSR) attended a Georgian Orthodox Seminary; Fidel Castro ( Cuba) educated at a Jesuit boarding school; Kim Il-Sung (North Korea) educated at a Prot­estant mission school; Pol Pot (Cambodia) at­tended École Miche, a Catholic school; Ho Chi Minh ( Vietnam) was immersed in Confu­cian home- schooling; Bela Kun ( Hungary) at­tended a Reformed church boarding school; Khorloogiin Choibalsan ( Mongolia) studied at a monastery of Lamaist ( Buddhist) Monks.

Why do I mention this? Because the reli­gious education of an individual can only bear good fruit if the individual is well formed to discern and combat a secular environment that is intrinsically hostile to goodness.

Religious education, in and of itself, cou­pled with originality, philosophical sophis­tication, literary genius, and intellectual pow­er, is no guarantee in the formation of a good human being — unless there is clear understanding of good and evil, in their most subtle manifestations.

As Catholics in America grow deeper in despair about their government, it would seem obvious that they would look to the Vatican as the legitimate center and source of all things clear, when it comes to political issues, free enterprise, and the defense of human life. The Vati­can, after all, has refined the system of corporations which allowed the average individual to pursue economic freedom within a set of guidelines that encompass the protection of a free market economy, and the individual’s freedom to pursue it. The Vatican, after all, has also been the lone voice in the wilderness, in defense of moral imperatives that others consid­er mere options.

The economic and social horizon contin­ues to narrow in the U. S., and economists and sociologists have begun to express their outrage at the increase of government fi­nancial takeovers, brought about in part by the overwhelming control and planning from the Federal Reserve. We are also faced with the menace of a state that will control who will live and who will die, un­der socialist healthcare systems.

Given this grim scenario, it would also seem obvious that we, as Catholics, should hear through the newspaper which acts “at the service of the thinking of the Pope” a firm and clear message from the Vatican regarding the benefits of natural law — both in terms of the economy and in the non­negotiable defense of human life.

Yet, if one considers his recent judgment of Obama, Vian would have us think that these are times for reflection on the possi­bility that inherent evil, may not be so. That our perception of the threat to human life may not be true. This sense of re- enlight­ened misinformation is at its best subtle, and at its worse, misleading. A dangerous game indeed, with issues that are consid­ered categorical imperatives — issues that admit no exceptions.

Which begs the question: Is Vian issuing his opinions in consultation with the Sec­retariat of State? Yes, says Vian to the Na­tional Review, and insists that the Secre­tary of State, Tarcisio Cardinal Bertone, is fully aware of his editorial excursions. Vian also claims that L’Osservatore Romano is “the newspaper of the Pope” and that his “editor, in the Italian sense of the owner of the paper, is the Pope, via the Secretary of State,” and he goes on to say that he “could not possibly create a paper in disagreement with the owner.” He added that “the Pope and the Secretary of State have so far given me and the newspaper their full confidence,” and “we work in full autonomy except in a few areas of particular interest on internation­al questions, and then we work in close col­laboration with the Secretariat of State.”

Well, either Vian is saying the truth, or there is a key ingredient missing in this sauce: accurate facts. If Vian enjoys full au­tonomy on everything except “international questions” — then, does this mean that nu­clear disarmament, Iran, Korea, China — are more important to Benedict XVI than the destruction of civilization through the extermination of over 50 million human beings through abortion — in the U. S. alone? Does this also mean that the Pope, as “ the owner” leaves the discus­sion of abortion in L’Osservatore Ro­mano in the hands of Giovanni Maria Vian, so that Vian can refer to it as a “ del­icate matter”?

Vian goes on to say that L’Osservatore Romano “is mis-used by everyone for their own agenda.” Well, this is probably true, and it confirms that L’Osservatore Ro­mano is not following a clear path of un­derstanding and reflection of the opinions of “ its owner” ( Benedict XVI); therefore, it’s time that Vian stop playing pirate in the high seas of journalism — and that a new editor be ushered in al più presto possi­bile.

Vian defines himself as a European. An Italian. Well — what an existential discov­ery! He claims that he is not a liberal, nor a socialist. What he clearly leaves out of his existential equation is the word “Catholic.” Well, Mr. Vian, you are the editor- in- chief of the world’s most prominent Roman Catholic newspaper. As such, your most prominent identification should be as a Catholic, which would then naturally involve a true and SOLID representation of “ the owner’s” thinking — who after all, is the successor of Peter ( remember “ the ROCK”?).

One can imagine that the Vatican, which moves in God’s time, would not like the idea of a scandal and expulsion of the ed­itor- in- chief, of a newspaper which acts “ at the service of the thinking of the Pope.”

Vian ends his interview with the National Review, by taking a cheap shot at news re­porters and bloggers — and referring to them as “ going to the bar where everyone has their own opinion.” Does this mean that Vian’s opinion is the only one that counts? He also alludes to the fact that Americans don’t really understand ­L’Osservatore Romano because they cannot read every arti­cle in Italian.

Well, Mr. Vian, in this bar of ideas I can read you in Italian, very well and between the lines — and reflected in my cup of no­ble wine I see your words and opinions as nothing but a cosmic game of heads or tails.  Cin cin.

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Marielena Montesino de Stuart is an observer of the Roman Catholic world.  She expresses her views as a journalist for The Wanderer and for www.TheRomanCatholicWorld.com For questions or comments regarding this article please write to her at ContactTRCW@aol.com

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© All Rights Reserved. www.TheRomanCatholicWorld.com  

The first part of  The Hijacking of  L’Osservatore Romano is available at: http://romancatholicworld.wordpress.com/2009/06/09/losservatore-romano/

Är det värt att uppmärksamma att en samtida filosof som Jürgen Habermas fyllt 80 år eller att det gått 50 år sedan den franske författaren Boris Vian dog?

Svenska Dagbladet är bra på att genom sina understreckare påminna om den typen av bemärkelse- och minnesdagar. Med all rätt tycker jag. Det finns verkligen anledning att i ett ökande och ofta likgiltigt mediebrus lyfta fram sådant som består.

Ulf Jonsson skrev häromdagen om just Habermas och påminde om hans betydelse för debatt- och kulturklimat på den europeiska kontinenten. I tyska medier fick födelsedagen stort utrymme men här i vår filosofiska avkrok var det väl egentligen bara SvD som uppmärksammade milstolpen i hans liv.

Det samma tycks gälla Boris Vian, låt vara att jag på minnesdagen inte hunnit kolla alla eventuella artiklar i andra tidningar. Men Lena Kårelands understreckare i SvD påminner om att Vian hade ett bredare litterärt register än vad många föreställer sig. Han debuterade bland annat som romanförfattare 1946 med den provocerande titeln: “Jag ska spotta på era gravar”.

Vi som var med på 50-talet kan hur som helst aldrig glömma det vibrerande patos med vilken Ulla Sjöblom  sjöng Lars Forssells svenska version av hans odödliga klassiker Le déserteur:

Jag står här på ett torg.
Ett cirkuståg passerar.
En clown, en vind passerar.
Men jag är full av sorg.

Mitt hjärta är en sång.
Den handlar om hans läppar.
Den handlar om hans ögon
som spelade en gång.

O, säj, Ni som är här,
vad skulle Ni då höra,
vad skulle Ni då göra,
om den som som Ni har kär

blev borta i ett krig
till ingen, ingen nytta
där mänskor blev förbytta
som djävlarna med dig…

På en franskkurs som jag deltog i på 90-talet i Paris fick vi ha den franska texten som övningsexempel:

Monsieur le Président,
je vous fais une lettre,
que vous lirez peut-être,
si vous avez le temps.

Je viens de recevoir
mes papiers militaires
pour partir à la guerre
avant mercredi soir.

Monsieur le Président
je ne veux pas le faire,
je ne suis pas sur terre
pour tuer de pauvres gens…

Lars Forssells klassiska översättning var förstås inte särskilt trogen mot originalets text även om dess grundstämning ändå lyste igenom.

Är det någon sång som kan spegla de postkoloniala krigens verklighet under 50-talet så är det Le déserteur. De som ivrar för en västerländsk kulturell kanon borde absolut ta med den på listan som ett monument över samvetets uppror mot makten.

A lire avec l’air du Déserteur dans la tête :

Monsieur le journaliste

Je vous fais une lettre

Que vous lirez peut-être

Car elle n’est pas trop triste

Oui, une lettre ouverte à Nathalie Crom de Télérama, François Busnel de Lire, Michel Picouly, Hubert Artus et quelques autres.

Pas pour me plaindre, mais pour les réveiller. Eux, les journalistes, chroniqueurs, garçons de café littéraire… Parce que, entre les succès de Bragelonne/Milady, la floraison des Ligues et l’arrivée prochaine du label Orbit, la Fantasy, la SF, le Fantastique, toutes les littératures de l’imaginaire se bougent. Sans eux.

Si ceux qui lisent et en parlent tournent le dos aux genres de l’imaginaire alors qu’ils deviennent l’un des marchés les plus juteux, qui va aider le grand public à voir plus loin que la masse des succès reproductibles ? Pas moi (n’en déplaise à Silvana Bergonzi), je n’ai pas assez d’influence. Mais je ne déserte pas : il y a de l’espoir !

La liront-ils, ma lettre ? Y répondront-ils ? Je vous dirai ce qu’il en est.

Favole per gente comune di Boris Vian

Verità? Non ci ho capito una cippa….

Ny dag med nya möjligheter. Idag kommer Vian och hälsar på och kollar på lägenheter. Hon är den första som jag kommer att anställa, så det känns som ett stort steg för verksamheten. Men även som ett måste för att vi ska fortsätta utvecklas. Hon kommer framför allt att bidra med ännu bättre kvalité och att jag får mer tid till ha utveckla företaget. Eftersom vi har långt kvar tills vi är nöjda.

je voudrais pas crever 

…..

Claridge’s, Paillard’s, The Clover Club, Club Daunou, Chez Fysher and the Folies Bergere.

 Thursday 21^st September

 I am having lunch with Monty in the very Italian Gennaro’s in New Compton Street, relishing their amazing saffron rice that accompanies a rather delicious baked chicken dish.

“Lets go to Paris tomorrow for a long weekend.” he says “Dolly is going for the opening of a new show that she has dressed and I have got some business meetings I could arrange. She has already booked passage by aeroplane.” We race back to Monty’s flat. “I have to tell you Monty that I am rather nervous I have never been in an aeroplane before.” 

“Oh you will be fine dear boy. It is by far the quickest way and such fun”

“But what about accidents? You must remember about the two aeroplanes that collided in April?”

“Oh that was a terrible tragedy. These things happen but it is very rare and they have sorted out the routing issues so it will not happen again Fynes I am sure. Trust me.”

Monty makes some calls and books the last two seats and our rooms in Paris. I make calls too and arrange to meet Mimi and Cécile. Mama is not happy “That boy is smug and far too nice” she says. I have to say I very much enjoy Monty’s company. He is jolly, witty and affable. He is also knowledgeable about everything, observant and a clever writer. More importantly he is also very dashing like me which makes us both a perfect combination on our nights out – one dark and one blond – and both handsome. By the way; he derives his smouldering dark good looks from his Italian ancestry.

Friday 22^nd September

Very early the next day the three of us get a cab to Croydon Airport. We fly with Daimler Airways who operate the service to Paris with de Havilland DH.34 single-engine biplanes. With ten passengers, the cabin is full and we are all wrapped up with rugs as we take off. We fly low enough over the mosaic of the green countryside to see a fox run off across a field. I hate the time over the water and feel very ill, especially when two other lady passengers are sick with continued turbulence. The smell of the oil and other stuff eventually gets to me too. Dolly is really sweet and takes my hand and squeezes it. Thankfully, within two hours we land at Le Bourget airport on schedule.

Dolly by then is as white as a sheet as Monty helps her out of the plane. Monty says “Well that wasn’t too bad.”

“You have got to be kidding. I am well and truly shaken just like a cocktail” she snarls.

“Me too.” I reply  ”So, they put you in a box, they shut the lid, they splash you with oil, you are bumped around all over the place, you are sick, and then you are in Paris. Tres bon Monty.”

We get a cab into Paris and arrive just in time for lunch. By then we are feeling much better after our ordeal. We dine at one of Monty’s favourite Yankee hangouts, a tiny but lovely place called Vian at 22 Rue Daunou that has made a name for itself by pleasing Americans with corn on cob, corned beef hash, hamburgers and other dainty morsels.

Later, we check into the calm sophistication and glamour of Claridge’s on the Champs Elysees. This is my favourite hotel in Paris and we stop here if we do not stay at Aunt Mimi’s huge house nearby in the Etoile. I like the excitement of being here. Dolly disappears for dress fittings with clients and meetings at several costumiers. Monty also makes himself scarce. I take a nap.

Aunt Mimi arrives at 5pm for the The dansant which takes place every day between 4 and 7pm in the sumptuous ballroom, although the dance floor is not huge. As usual she is wearing a sublime ensemble from Lucile – like Mama, her favourite couturier – a chic little silver sequin coat over a cyclamen georgette frock dipped at the back.

‘Tu es beau” she says as she kisses me, holding my face in her jewelled hands.

She is radiant and charming when, a little later, Cécile and her mother arrive. Cécile is wearing a striking gown of silver cloth with a clever geometric design in black and white which I am told came from Patou and her mother in an exquisite creation from Worth.

We dance for what seems like ages. “Ooh la la Fynes, tu es un si bon dance” she says “combien fabuleux avoir eu des leçons de Leonara Hughes et Souers Dolly.”

At 6pm there is a display of exhibition dancing from a wonderful couple whose names escape me. After cocktails, taken in the Grill Room, we move on for a quiet and intimate dinner at Paillard’s on the corner of the Boulevard de Italiens and Chaussée d’Antin. This is Aunt Mimi’s suggestion”It has a discreet but rich looking exterior which is an indication of the excellent food inside” she says as we congregate outside. The veteran owner M. Paillard greets her personally and we are clearly assured of an amazing feast. The white walls with their bas reliefs of cupids and flowers and the green panels in the white pillars convey an impression of luxury and repose.

Monty and Dolly arrive late and join us in taking an apertif. Dolly arrives wearing an incredible Egyptian-inspired gown of rippled lamé in colours of orchid, mauve and leaf green that presents an effect of rare loveliness as she moves. The under bodice is of gold tissue and the overdress opened at the front secured with a central clasp of jewelled stones.

Cécile was clearly entranced and after introductions she says in perfect English “Miss Tree your gown is divine. Where is it from?”

“Oh I have been at dress fittings and couturiers all day. One of them was Péron Couture and this is a new model. I simply had to have it.”

“Ah I can understand why. We have heard about Péron but have never been there. Now I think we might.” Says Cécile.

“I have been working with them for a while” Dolly says “they have created quite a few of my more modern stage dresses and I might even begin to design couture for them. Perhaps if you have time tomorrow I can take you there and introduce you?”

“Oh that would be lovely. Thank you”  replies Cécile.

As we browse the menu Mimi tells us ‘This was King Edward’s second best choice after the Café Anglais you know.” We eat our way through all the delicious specialities including Poulét a la crème with white Morille mushrooms, Potage Chicago, Sole Ravelias and Canard Paillard.

We move on to the modest yet well-appointed Clover Club at 25 Rue Caumartin formerly the theatre Caumartin for the height of our evening entertainment. We are there for the grand re-opening gala night. “I have been here before’ says Cécile ‘this is run by Oscar Mouvet and his brother Maurice and Leonara Hughes danced here in the Spring. And of course you know Leonara Fynes….”

We have a superb table and champagne and dance for a while to the White Lyres an excellent jazz band led by Bill Henley who played a series of tango numbers as well as the usual jazz numbers.

“Bill Henley was in the American Air Force during the war and based in Paris” says Monty “and when Jed Kiley, the dance hall proprietor, needed a band Bill recruited one from his colleagues. They became the first American Jazz band in Paris.”

The cabaret is dominated by the dancing of Fay Harcourt and Harry Cahill, who we saw at Deauville in August. Dolly is ecstatic as her gowns created by Péron for Fay receive marvelled gasps and applause, especially the exotic creation of rose pétales de soie.

Fay Harcourt and Harry Cahill

The amazingly original Duncan Sisters (Rosetta and Vivian) from America are in audience and are persuaded to take to the floor and sing The Argentines, the Portuguese and the Greeks. They are dinky, look like girlish Mary Pickford’s and made their name when still young in vaudeville in America featuring childish voices, close harmony and plenty of mischief. They polish off a rather wonderful entertainment with a great deal of fun and frivolity.

The Duncan Sisters

Saturday 23^rd September

Our day is leisurely – breakfast, sight-seeing and lunch. Dolly meets Cécile at Péron Couture early afternoon while Monty and I have a gentleman’s shopping spree. Once again it is the same group as the night before and we take an early dinner at Viel, an elegant restaurant on the Boulevard de La Madéleine with grade A food, wine and service in the most comfortable dining terrace in Paris.

Dolly has used her influence to get us a box at the glorious Folies Bérgere music hall. The current show Folies Sur Folies was launched in February and has been a terrific success. She has already seen it several times since she has costumed most of it! It stars Constant Remy, Nade Renoff, Madeleine Loys and many others, But the British girl Jenny Golder and the energetic American dancer Nina Payne, whose character dancing is extraordinary, have become the toast of Paris.

The programme for the Folies Bergere

There are numerous spectacular scenes but what stood out for me were the lace costumes in Les Dentelles Lumineuses (All Kinds of Lace) and the flower, feather and fur costumes – a jazz band of colours and a whirlwind of styles – in Pour Que Les Femmes Solient Jolies (Let Women be Beautiful). Erte’s costumes in Le Culte des Baisers (Kisses Kissing) and Le Palaises Hindou (The Hindu Palace) tableaux were also equally stunning.

Dolly leans over and tells me “All the bird costumes have been sold to the Shubert brothers in New York and will appear in their new Passing Show shortly. I will be seen in New York darling!”

One of Dolly Tree's costume designs for the Folies Bergere

We decide it is not quite time to retire to bed yet and whisk off to 21 Rue d’Antin, not far from the Opera, to Club Fysher, on Aunt Mimi’s suggestion. She knows the owner Nilson Fysher of course. “He is an amazing songwriter of British origin but born in Turkey and equally famous in New York and London. However, he has always held Paris in the palm of his hands” says Mimi affectionately ”his little cabarets are always cozy and intimate and although he does not have much of a voice he sings with point and intelligence. If we are lucky he might sing his signature song Un Peu d’Amour.” He does but the star of his petite boite is the wonderful singer Mlle Gaby Montbreuse, regarded as the Parisian Marie Lloyd.

We finally head off round the corner to the bustling Rue Daunou and the Club Daunou at number 7 above the Theatre Daunou owned by actress Jane Renouardt. Mimi of course knows everything and comments quietly “Miss Renouardt is the mistress of the Belgian financier Jacques Wittouck and he gave her this theatre which she opened late last year. She actually has made a great success out of it. The nightclub is new of course.”

The interior decorations of the ballroom are in laquer red and royal blue and were designed by Jeanne Lanvin who besides being a celebrated couturier is also a clever interior designer. The club is buzzing with a very young, lively and bohemian crowd and is more to my liking than the Clover Club last night. They have two first rate bands and the cabaret featured the dancing of the American couple Irene Hammond (wearing some amazing gowns by Lucile) and Charles Stuart.

Cécile and I dance. She whispers “You know Fynes you are a better dancer then Charles Stuart. And, you are certainly far more handsome.”

Dolly and I dance. She whispers “I rather like you Fynes.”

Monty is dancing with a very delectable jeune fille and smiles at me from afar and I smile back.

I dance with Irene Hammond. I can see from her expression that she is surprised. “Hmmm, you are rather dapper dear boy.” I am amused and thrilled. I am finally dapper!

When I sit down Aunt Mimi says to me “Admiration is like champagne.”

I am perplexed but I know she has been watching me intently “Stimulating, you mean?” I ask.

“Yes – when it is fresh, but it soon goes flat.”

Parce qu’un artiste engagé doit s’engager. Ou pas.

CINTAILAH NEGRIMU SENDIRI
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