Liberation: Diaries:1970-1983

by Christopher Isherwood

  Guy is a tall very well-built boy with a rather puffy red face—the kind one describes as “meaty” and associates with football players. He wears his hair longish. Though not exactly handsome, he is extremely attractive and also intelligent. He projects quiet confidence and an air of intention; you feel that his works express just what he wants them to. Among the most self-revealing of them, perhaps, are some early “objects”: these are old faded adventure books such as you would find on the twenty-five cent tray outside a used bookstore; Guy has tied them up like parcels with black insulated wire (which has cruel-looking spiky knots in it, suggesting barbed wire) and has thrust jagged pieces of glass between their pages. They are astonishingly ugly, and they really made me react to them. I felt curiously outraged and almost scared. (Would the effect have been stronger if the books had been valuable, and/or sacred (Bibles, for instance)? I’m not sure. Maybe that would have seemed merely corny.) On the surface, Guy is nice mannered and friendly. He was really pleased to see us, I think.

  Charles Hill and Paula have their studio in the building which is rented by Billy Al Bengston; it used to be a (semigay) bar. It is now a very tall room because the bar’s false ceiling got burned in a fire and had to be taken down. Charles and Paula sleep on a platform which is about three-quarters of the way up the wall. The place is untidy because Charles is using every inch of it. His tattered paper paintings—most of them at least as big as flags—look like mummy wrappings. Charles buries them in the earth, so that the dye runs and they turn pale and moldy; if they show signs of falling apart—and they all seem about to—he stitches them onto a paper backing. Lately, however, he has switched to making tangled cutout designs like winding creeper-stems within an oval outline. To us, the most interesting items in the studio were a collection of photomat pictures for which Charles has posed—he somehow got the use of a photomat machine in privacy for a week or two.90 In many of the pictures he is naked to the loins, camping in dance postures, sometimes with a female wig and makeup. He has a terrific ally sexy lithe smooth brown body, and a whole new aspect of him seems revealed. He also makes films in which he is the only actor, but we didn’t see any of these.

  Then we went to have supper up at the Alexanders’ house. On the way back, just as we got to the bottom of Las Tunas Canyon, the brakes of Don’s Fiat began to seize. He had barely enough mobility to get us across the highway—otherwise we might easily have been hit and killed. Then the car wouldn’t budge an inch. Don walked to the Las Tunas Isle Motel and phoned the Auto Club. The repair truck came quickly; it had been in the neighborhood. Two big youths, one of them sweetly pretty, jumped out and put a dolly under the car, since it couldn’t be towed otherwise. Both boys seemed to be enjoying their job, although they are on the all-night shift and sometimes get called out of their beds. They kept laughing and joking and clowning, but they knew exactly how to handle the situation. The pretty one’s name was Morgan. They drove us to Adelaide, and there we found that the wheels had somehow come unlocked! The boys asked for ten dollars and we tipped them an extra five, for making this tiresome experience so pleasant. Later we realized that they had never asked Don for his club card or given him the usual form to sign. Were they going to pocket all the money? If so, bless them and preserve them from being found out.

  On the 15th, I got a cable from Stephen Spender, telling me that Jean Ross died last month and giving me the address of her daughter Sarah Cockburn. It was truly considerate of Stephen to do this. Have written to Sarah.

  That afternoon, an Englishman named Winston Leyland came to interview me for the San Francisco paper, Gay Sunshine.91 He is maybe Jewish, and looks like Gavin Lambert somewhat, but I fear he’s a slob. He used to be a Catholic priest but has given all that up and is now deeply into gay lib. I warned him, before we even met, that I would not discuss my sex life in relation to any other named person, and he agreed. But today, when he came again, he announced that he had been disappointed when he listened to the tapes of our previous talk—in a word, he wanted names or nothing; specifically, he wanted me to discuss Auden’s sex life in relation to his poetry. I said absolutely not. He pouted, but stayed on to waste another of my hours. When he left, he still wasn’t sure if he would use the interview in his paper or not. The gall—especially since Dobbin had waxed eloquent on Love (“Love is tension, not fulfillment, not some sort of an insurance policy”) and actually brought tears into the slob’s eyes! The insulting suggestion behind his behavior was that old Drub alone wasn’t interesting; you have to serve him garnished with gossip and newsy names!

  June 26. Two days ago, on Sunday, the guild met and voted to end the strike, except against the networks, ABC, CBS, NBC. Which reminds me that we’ve just heard, from someone at NBC, that our “Frankenstein” is definitely scheduled to be shown on NBC television in two parts, Saturday November 17 and Monday November 19. So that’s the end of our hopes.

  Tomorrow, the house is to be fumigated for termites. We shall have to spend tomorrow night in the studio and won’t be able to get back in until the next afternoon. They can’t put a tent over the house, it’s too big, so everything must be sealed up.

  [Don’s London friend] is in town and has written to both of us, asking if he may see us. Don doesn’t want to see him but is torn by doubts—wonders if he ought to and then tell [his friend] frankly how he feels about him. We both feel [the friend] will make mischief if he possibly can. What he actually wants, as of now, is the German version of the Wedekind Lulu plays, edited by Wedekind’s daughter. But I’m certain I sent the book back to him years ago.

  Howard Kelley called last night, slightly drunk and sentimental, to tell me how much he had loved Kathleen and Frank. He also told me that Wallace Bobo has had his leg amputated just below the knee. The bone has been infected a long time and there have been several operations on the leg already. I felt really pained by this news but much of the pain was guilt because I don’t see them and maybe I never will again—Manhattan Beach is psychologically farther than Australia and the welcome they would give me would be more embarrassing than a reception given by Reagan. . . . (Having written this, I have almost succeeded in shaming myself into visiting them!)

  Talking of embarrassing receptions—on the 23rd we had Swami’s Father’s Day lunch, which had been postponed from the 16th because of his health. This time, Swami was well enough to go through the whole ceremony, from the Grand Entrance to his speech. The entrance out from his room into the garden was particularly solemn this year. First came Swami, then Pavitrananda supported by Krishna, then Chatanananda, then Asaktananda. And we had to pause, as first Swami and then Pavitrananda stopped to face the massed cameras of the devotees. I was standing respectfully to one side, but Asaktananda took my arm as he passed me and firmly included me in the procession. I felt exactly as if we were getting married. At last we were all seated amidst the flowers, under the colored parachute-silk awnings. Ananda coyly reminded me, in Chatanananda’s presence, that I should get on with the recording of the Upanishads.92 Swami reproved the monks for starting to eat before he did. Then came some very tough meat, and some of the usual blush-making songs by Sudhir, Sat and their ensemble.93 And then Swami spoke. It was astonishingly long and rambling—a sort of history of his doings in America, largely in terms of the sums of money donated or paid out for the building of the temple, Trabuco real estate, etc. Swami also talked about Huxley, Heard and me, saying that, “although I am nothing,” these famous men had sat on the floor in his presence. There was a vanity in all this which I (and Don) minded not because it was vanity but because it seemed so senile. I have never heard Swami talk quite in this tone before. When it was over he was obviously exhausted. He went to his room saying that he wanted to be alone. (But since then he has seemed fairly all right.)

  Then I went to see poor Mary Herbold (in a nursing home on Vermont). She was attacked from behind by a burglar. He crushed her ribs and hit her on the head. She was knocked unconscious and bled so much that he must have feare
d he’d killed her, for he ran out of the house without stealing anything. (He had been asking where her money was and she’d been telling him that she’d show it to him if he would let go of her.) But already she seemed quite recovered and was so pleased to see me and so lively and gay that I loved her and didn’t even mind her torrent of talk. Most of it was about her wonder-sons, John, who’s the greatest high-school baseball coach in America, and Tony who has seven children and has taken a poorly paid post at a college in Maine because the fishing and hunting is so good in that neighborhood. What interested me much more was her speech about the beautiful love which has sprung up between David Nelson, the slightly cute Finnish boy who was a monk for a short while, and an older guy named Joe.94 They are now living together and Mary seems to think this is most inspiring. I must try to find out more about them.

  July 12. Today is Don’s big day. This morning we went down to the Barnsdall Park gallery to see how his pictures look on the walls. They look splendid—truly an oeuvre, a human comedy ranging from Norton Simon to Gregory Evans, from Mrs. Reagan to Candy Darling.95 And Opliger96 has lit it intelligently, not using what he calls “the garage lights,” the big glaring vertical lamps in the roof, and thus keeping the middle of the gallery relatively dark and the drawings featured. Oh, I felt so proud of my darling. How happy we are together now, happier than ever before.

  Opliger, who was so stuffy and grand with Don at the beginning, now treats him quite respectfully. Irving Blum’s also provisionally back in my favor because this morning he told Don that he has definitely arranged a show for him in New York next spring.

  Chris Wood had nearly all of his prostate removed at the end of last month. When they got it out, they found cancer in it; but now they say that the cancer hasn’t spread. Chris was marvellously brave and calm while he was waiting for the result of the tests. Now he’s at Peggy’s, much against his will, because he has to keep quiet for a while and isn’t allowed to drive a car.

  The other day, a woman phoned to tell me that Guttchen is dead. She was his landlady. It seems that he had left the names of two friends who were to be called in case of emergency. I was one of them. The landlady kept saying that she hoped he had repented and accepted Jesus. I got the feeling that she was afraid I would claim some of his belongings; it seems that he had some Chinese pictures which she thought were beautiful. Since then, I’ve heard nothing from her.

  On the 6th, we went to see Rita Hayworth. We had arranged to take her to supper at the Chianti and were a bit worried that she would be drunk when we arrived. She was drunk, quite, but, to our delight, she admitted she hated going to restaurants. So we stayed with her in her rather spooky house (Don, who went into the back part of it, said that it had a terribly sinister atmosphere) and drank wine and ate cheese and listened to a record which had been sent her from England, made by the New Vaudeville Band. The words of the song began, “Dear Rita Hayworth; I just saw your picture in the daily press. . . .” and went on to say that the singer had “loved you every way I can” and wanted her to come and visit him in England. Rita played this over and over, and danced to it. She also played the castanets, with extraordinary coordination, so that they purred, or clicked like rattlesnakes. Rita’s dancing got progressively less steady, but she was charming and touching and even oddly beautiful.

  (I’ve just realized that I left out a most significant detail: Rita didn’t say immediately that she didn’t want to go to the Chianti. First, she told us that she had lost her key and therefore couldn’t leave the house because she wouldn’t be able to get back into it. She let us hunt around for the key a bit, then she said that, in any case, she would rather not go. She never admitted that the losing of the key was just playacting. Maybe she really had lost it.)

  Rita says she often spends weeks in the house without seeing anyone, except her two dachshunds and (I suppose) her maid. She made like she was delighted to see us, indeed she kept saying so and hugging us, but still, behind the drunkenness and the little-girl clowning and little-girl pathos, there was a suspicion of hostility. When she saw us to the door, she was anxious that we shouldn’t stumble in the darkness on the way to our car. “Are you all right?” she called, from the doorstep. We called back that we were. Then, as she shut the door, we heard her voice from inside, strangely ironical and mocking, saying to herself and/or the dachshunds, “I’ll bet!”

  July 15. Don’s invitation to his show called forth one of Joan Crawford’s memorable letters. She is truly The Last Great Lady: “Don dear, thank you so much, etc. etc. . . . I wish I could be there but I am in New York. . . . The drawing on my invitation shows such beautiful strength in your lovely face, Don. Bless you, and my best wishes to you. . . . My love to you and Christopher. As ever, Joan.”

  The opening was certainly a success. Hundreds came, including a few stars—Julie Harris (who scuttled in like a mouse as soon as the doors opened), Elsa Laughton (less bitchy than usual), Joan Didion (who had to be pressured and made a martyred face when she was photographed), George Cukor, Roddy McDowall, John Huston (who all behaved perfectly), Glenn Ford (full of reproachful glances, like a jilted lover), Virgil Thomson (who came down especially from San Francisco and was the life and soul of everything). There were probably others I’ve forgotten. No-shows included Jane Fonda (excused because she’s just had a baby), Lance Loud (excused because of lack of transportation from Santa Barbara), Jennifer and Norton Simon (not excused). Don was at his best—he blazed with manic brilliance, greeted everyone, knew everybody’s name and submitted to much photography by a fumbling amateur. Later, there was a supper party up on the open-air roof of Ceeje’s Upstairs Restaurant, hosted by Billy Al Bengston, Joe Goode and Nick Wilder. This was delightfully relaxing—except that I had to talk to Leslie Caron (another of our stars, whom I’d forgotten to mention) and Michael Laughlin about the picture which Michael produced and Leslie played in; we had seen it that afternoon, in a wild rush, just fitting it in before Don’s opening. Well, at least we could both say truthfully that Leslie’s performance was probably the best she has ever given, a sort of Lady Macbeth. “That’s what I’m really like,” Leslie said. The picture itself has some beautiful photography but it is arty and hopelessly muddled and adds up to nothing. A dramatic event of dinner was the behavior of Charles Hill. Perhaps because he was nervous about his show in San Francisco next day, he began to eat and drink immensely. After a while, he went to the men’s room and passed out cold. They had to get an ambulance and take him to the hospital. But next morning he insisted on leaving for San Francisco by car on schedule!

  William Wilson, who has always praised Don, had been to see the drawings early on the morning of the show. On July 13, the Los Angeles Times published his piece about it. It is the strangest mixture of panning and praise, self-contradictory and double edged. Irving Blum says that the nastiness in it is probably due to his not having been invited to the supper party. Here are some extracts:

  One of the cheapest shots at artistic fame is the flattering society portrait. . . . Today the genre is so debased that its mere mention is enough to make the cognoscenti nudge each other’s padded ribs. Last week an exhibition of such portraits opened at the Municipal Art Gallery. . . . If it were Bachardy’s purpose to arrive on the wings of social maneuverings, his selection of subjects could scarcely have been cagier. Many luminaries of Venice’s art mafia are represented . . . etc. etc. . . . Igor Stravinsky and Virgil Thomson stare from Bachardy’s characteristically smooth pencil and brushstrokes. . . . The entire exercise borders on the sort of inbreeding that used to make idiots out of Egyptian pharaohs. There are serious technical flaws in Bachardy’s basically academic contour drawings: shapes of heads get lost in masses of expressively messy hair (a device used successfully by Ingres in his portrait of M. Bertin). Fussy concentration on internal shadows around eyes, noses and mouths threatens the premise of dimensional, modelled drawings. Yet the Bachardy exhibition remains among the most absorbing socio-psychological documents I have ever
seen in an art gallery. The artist flatters his sitters with a suavity of style often resembling that of the great fashion illustrator René Boucher. Bachardy is mesmerized by glamor but he is not blinded. One perceives his sitters with a shock of recognition that has nothing to do with his regular achievement of simple physical resemblance. He responds with sympathy, detachment and an unnerving stainless steel insight. We see a handsome young artist being slowly engulfed by satanic madness” (Peter Alexander?!), “a millionaire collector who has seen too many tragedies” (Norton Simon), “the shrewd stare of a hip dealer” (Nick Wilder?), “the wistfulness of a faded actress” (too many candidates to permit a guess), “all presented without a hint of sentimentality or satire. As a total experience the large exhibition is a panoramic view of a slightly faded aristocratic subculture as fascinating as Huxley’s Point Counter Point.

  What emerges from all this verbiage is Wilson’s desperate fear of seeming to be unsophisticated. Of course you can’t praise “flattering society portraits,” so his praise of Bachardy, such as it is, must be severely qualified. However, by the time he is through, he has tacitly admitted that Bachardy’s sitters aren’t “society” and that his portraits aren’t “flattering”—you can’t flatter your sitter and show him being “engulfed by satanic madness”! The word “suavity” is also used in a pejorative sense, yet Wilson says it is a quality of Boucher, whom he calls “great.” The “device” of covering the heads with “messy” hair is said to be a serious technical flaw; yet Wilson declares that Ingres used this device successfully. (Admittedly, this contradiction is just sloppy writing, but Wilson nevertheless fails utterly to prove his point.) I have no idea what the next sentence means. Nor do I understand the distinction he makes between the metaphors of being mesmerized and blinded. . . . I suggested to Don that he should send Wilson a drawing of some great movie star, completely bald!