“There Is No There There” — Gertrude Stein

Gertrude Stein (1874 –1946) was a free soul, a giantess of gay history and the arts (photo 1). As a novelist, poet and playwright, she eschewed the conventional narrative and the linear in her writing and in her choice of artworks, widely acknowledged as an important advocate/patron of Modernist painters. She understood the work of the Matisse and Picasso, when collectors turned up their nose. After Picasso delivered a portrait of her (photo 2), this exchange followed between artist and subject: “After a while, I murmured to Picasso that I liked it. Yes, he replied, everybody says that you don’t look like it, but that doesn’t make any difference – you will.”

She dared to be unapologetically butch, but had to live in France to do that. Her childhood home was Oakland, California (the “there” of the quote above, from “Everyone’s Autobiography”, 1937). On that subject, she said, “America is my country, but Paris is my hometown”. She was in every way married to Alice B. Toklas, who was herself much more than a lifetime partner.

Gertrude and Alice are known for their famous literary and artist salon, held at their residence on 27 rue de Fleurus (photo 5), in the 6th arrondissement, the heart of the Left Bank in Paris. Their regular attendees included the artists Picasso, Braque, and Picabia, and many writers, including Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, who flocked to Paris after the end of WWI (she called them the “Lost Generation”). (photo 6 – Gertrude and Alice at home)

On my many journeys to Paris, I spent considerable time on the Left Bank (photo 3, view of St. Suplice), the heart of progressive intellectualism, tarrying in bookstores (photo 4, Shakespeare & Co. books), funky shops, college cafes, the historic buildings of Saint-Germain-des-Prés (surrounding the Abbey founded in the 6th century), street markets, my day topped off with afternoon tea and madeleines at the Bon Marche. I sat watching children shove their little sail boats from the edge of the circular pool at the Jardin du Luxembourg. And sometimes I passed by 27 rue de Fleurus and gazed up at the memorial plaque. America sadly seldom honors the residence of artists, writers, and activists who stood up for their sexual truth.

Gertrude was fortunate to have progressive German-Jewish parents who encouraged her to speak multiple languages and learn about art. College followed at Radcliffe, where she developed a lifelong interest in psychology and became a pupil of William James. She almost finished medical school but decided instead to join her brother in Paris in 1903 and took up residence at Number 27. She would spend the next 43 years in France.

She liked to mess with your mind in her writings, especially the landmark memoir published in 1933, an “Autobiography” of her partner. She was interested in the color, sound, and rhythm of words, which has earned her a unique place in literature.

After France fell to the Nazis in 1940, the couple lived in the country near the Rhone, as Gertrude was liable to be transported at any moment to a death camp, being a woman of Jewish descent, plus a lesbian. After Liberation, Stein became seriously ill in 1946 and died in the American Hospital at Neuilly. She stayed firmly in character to the end. From her hospital bed, she asked Alice, “What is the answer?” and getting none, laughed and replied, “In that case, what is the question?”

“Your work is very organic,” an interviewer remarked to Barbara Hepworth (photo 2) late in her life. “It’s meant to be. I’m organic myself!” was the British sculptor’s succinct, though revealing, reply.

Hepworth (1903-1975) has been characterized as an artist totally in tune with herself and with nature. Her sculptures evoke the play of wind and air, sunlight and sea spray on the Cornish coast — calm, strong, true. In her elemental, sensuous ovoid forms, I find a spirit evocative of the artist Georgia O’Keeffe.

The Barbara Hepworth Museum (photo 1) is located in the artist colony and fishing village of St Ives. It preserves her studio and garden much as they were when she lived there. The studio is typical of local, stone-built houses. Her workshop remains full of her tools, materials, and part-worked pieces still waiting for their moment of completion.

Despite an impressive list of works and accolades, she has never been credited to her full worth internationally, as art was (and still is) a man’s world. She was very much aware of these obstacles. Hepworth began to introduce color into her woodcarvings from her drawings made during WWII. She utilized driftwood she found during long walks along the beach. I especially like a piece called “Pendour Cove” (photo 3), which conjures up a Cornish myth in which a man is enchanted by a mermaid and beckons her from the sea by singing.

Daphne du Maurier (1907-1989) was a fascinating writer, whose life was intimately connected with Cornwall (the moody place where most of her works are set). Her parents were prominent stage actors, comfortable and well-connected. Du Maurier, although very shy and reclusive, did what was expected of her by marrying and having children.

Although her novels, most prominently “Rebecca” and “My Cousin Rachel” (both made into films), are labeled “romantic”, they are far from that. They delve into the paranormal and hidden lives with wild, twisted plots. Although the Rebecca character appeared to be the paragon of kindness and beauty, she was a malevolent fake. The book ends grimly with her Cornish stately home in flames (the thinly disguised actual home of Du Maurier’s in Fowey, Cornwall). Although in real life, her home was not burned down, her life there was lost by legal wrangling and her husband’s affairs.

Du Maurier (photo 5) never wanted the masquerade of femininity — dresses, children, the template of a woman’s life. She liked rain-lashed walks on the coast (photo 4), to be scruffy, perpetually in trousers, messing about in boats or living in her own head. She locked herself in a box, as she called it; but right after the end of WWII, she opened up and let her “Venetian tendencies” out, as she called it, by falling very much in love with two women (notably Gertrude Lawrence, a great Broadway actress). All the while, she believed she was stuck in the wrong body but stayed married.

I have wondered why her characters, so winning and charming externally, turn out to be sinister shapeshifters, very capable of destroying others. In her writing, I see a strong parallel to the American author, Patricia Highsmith (1921-1995), whose five novels about the charming murderer, Tom Ripley, were made into film thrillers. She too turned her buried life into a murderous imagination.

I wonder — what would they have written in a different world, where gender identity and sexual truth were respected, not shamed?

My Passage to India
Keoladeo National Park, Rajasthan

I thought long and hard about traveling to India — the difficulties of the journey, health and safety concerns, the thought of being immersed for ten days in a totally unfamiliar society and culture, whose people have suffered so much poverty and exploitation, where suppression of women and minorities still the way of life. The death toll from Covid plague in India today must be beyond counting, stretched to breaking by limited medical resources. Only the well-off can afford to buy oxygen on the black market. Surely other countries can do much more to help.

A friend and nature enthusiast said I would regret missing a very special nature trip. Our guide had outstanding knowledge of migratory birds and was an expert photographer. She talked me into it. I didn’t regret going, but it was difficult and more. I can still remember the utter destitution I saw in cities and villages, the graft and corruption of authority at every turn, the air pollution like muddy storm clouds. However, the local people were very kind and seemed bemused that our group was more interested in birds than the Taj Mahal (which we did visit).

Situated at the confluence of the Gambhir and Banganga rivers in the Bharatpur district of Rajasthan, Keoladeo was originally open land that seasonally flooded. The Maharajas of Bharatpur created a system of freshwater marshes, bound by earthen dykes, that attracted a large and diverse population of migratory birds. The princely family and their British overlords loved the “sport” of shooting ducks by the thousands.

Finally in 1982, the government agreed to recognize Keoladeo’s value for tourism and created a national park; the duck shooting finally stopped. In 1985, it was recognized as a world heritage site because of its incredible biodiversity of plants and animals.

The time to visit Keoladeo is in early November when birds from distant places like Siberia and Central Asia arrive, like cranes, pelicans, geese, and ducks, mingling with the resident species of eagles, hawks, shorebirds, warblers, flycatchers, larks, and much more for over 450 species have been recorded.

One of the rarest, endangered birds is the majestic Siberian Crane (shown in 2nd photo), also known as the snow crane. Siberian cranes are nearly all snowy white, except for their red face mask and black primary feathers visible in flight. The western population migrate to Iran, India and Nepal during winter. Amongst the cranes, they make the longest distance migration. Habitat loss and hunting are major problems for the cranes. Other amazing birds we saw included Painted Storks, Oriental Ibis, Spotted Owlet, and Oriental Darter (shown in photos). In one day, we encountered with our expert guide over 100 different species.

I went to India in the 1990’s and sadly a friend told me that the dwindling population of Siberian Cranes that wintered in India are now extinct. Other than reintroduction and conservation, there’s no way back for the rest.