The Restless Years (1955-63)

by Cecil Beaton

  These two new friends bubbled with such enthusiasm and brimmed over with so much information that I suffered an acute bout of inferiority. Why hadn’t I been informing myself all these years on the subjects that are close to me? How was it that I did not possess the power of enjoying and enthusing as they could? I felt doltish and hidebound.

  It often gives one a sea change to be in the presence of a highly individual artist for suddenly one can see the world through his eyes. To be with Dali is to discover that the fire-irons are strange surrealist spiders; in the company of Jean Cocteau one finds that almost everywhere, even in the most prosaic surroundings, there are curious neoromantic phenomena. On this walk one suddenly saw Henry Moore bowls and holes in the thick trunks of trees; the trees themselves became like Moore figures. Once or twice the sculptor leant down to pick up a small gnarled root or a stone with a striking shape that interested him sufficiently to put in his pocket and preserve for possible future use.

  Determined not to be left out of the party, though very much in third place, I at last broached my subject. ‘How and when did you decide to become a sculptor?’ The answer was pat. ‘When I was a small boy, living with my family in a small mining town, twenty thousand population, Castleford in Yorkshire. I was the seventh of eight children. We were sometimes sent off on Sunday afternoons to listen to some lecture at the school house. The main purpose was really to give us something to do, keep us away from our home, and allow the parents a bit of a rest. One Sunday someone told me a story about Michelangelo who was carving a figure of an old fawn, and a local farmer’s lad who came along to watch him at work. After a few minutes the lad commented that so old an animal would not have all its teeth intact — whereupon Michelangelo took the chisel and knocked out a few teeth.’ The point of the story was to show that even the greatest can learn something from the simplest; but for Henry Moore the story was important for, having heard it, he knew somehow that he wanted to be a sculptor. From that moment on, whenever asked, ‘tinker, tailor’ fashion, what he wished to be in life he always piped up ‘sculptor’. Fortunately he was sent to Castleford Secondary School which was run by a remarkable man whose ideas of education were so unconventional and imaginative that the parents and the Board of Governors were always fighting him and trying to get him sacked. They disliked the way that suddenly all lessons would be stopped, and the whole school would assemble to listen to classical music. One day the young Henry Moore was whistling an air of Mozart as he went down a corridor. The headmaster rushed out at him. ‘Whistle that again,’ he commanded. The little Moore was then made to whistle the piece to the whole school, to prove a point.

  A wonderful woman, half-English, half-French, the art mistress (Alice Gosdick), showed little Henry the Studio magazines, and the ‘arty-crafty’, art-decorative pictures fashionable at that time (1911). These set the fuse to work, and he became more than ever determined to sculpt. Miss Gosdick gave Moore his first job of carving (the School Roll of Honour).

  As we walked up steep hills, past cottages made of the local grey stone, the talk passed on to other more diversified subjects. Among the opinions expressed by Bertie was that there should be a tax on illegitimate babies, a tax on a third child and a heavy fine for venereal disease; there should be public brothels, all women forced to wear a pessary, and certainly the laws on homosexuality relaxed and made civilised enough for us not to be the laughing stock of other countries. Bertie also opined that no one could understand works of art if they had only eaten filthy food and had no taste for wine. He was inspired to be his most exaggerated self, the acme of refinement, Olympian, perhaps a bit decadent, a far cry indeed from Henry Moore, whose face was becoming quite pink as he hurried along to keep up with Bertie’s enormous strides. Although Henry could not quite agree with some of Bertie’s more high-flown fantasies, the two of them were fundamentally in agreement. Art has no barriers and these two figures, in their diversified ways, are both artists.

  Bertie, always diffident about showing his works of art to others and deprecating his possessions, was fired by Henry Moore’s enthusiasm to bring out all sorts of objects that perhaps even he had forgotten. Henry did not seem to light up at the sight of some early classical fragments, his John of Bologna, or even his prize Donatello. Henry dismissed the Pajou and Carpeaux, and only when he saw the Rodins did he burn with genuine enthusiasm. Bertie wondered why modern sculptors ignore the past: ‘Most of them are really only interested in the sexual organs, and they’re so terribly boring!’ Henry laughed loudly.

  The weekend continued in a most effervescing spirit of camaraderie. Henry played croquet wearing a ridiculous hat. We visited a strange pile of monolithic stones dating, it is said, from two thousand years before Christ. The stones are of such mammoth size that one cannot imagine how primitive man placed them one on top of the other; an impressive place. We looked at a variety of works of art chez neighbouring Norman Colville (drawings of Fra Angelico, Tintoretto, Michelangelo, sculpture by Verrocchio, etc.). We drank champagne and acted ridiculous charades, in which Henry was at first somewhat backward but soon warmed to the game. Later he became extremely funny when acting out the word ‘enthusiastic’, and gushed: ‘Oh, I do so love sculpture! I just adore going out into my studio and, taking my chisel and hammer, going “bang! bang bang!”’

  In the railway carriage on our way home we kept up continuous conversation. Henry was unable to contain his enthusiasm for the beauties of the springtime landscapes of Somerset. He kept jumping to his feet to point out as it rolled by some particular vista or phenomenon bathed in blue mists.

  Henry considered carving to be soothing work, not too strenuous either physically or mentally. It was more exciting than digging in the garden, but not so exhausting. Much of the time the work was automatic; he could work for eight or twelve hours a day. But drawing, or inventing new shapes in small model form, was creative and took a greater toll.

  By the time the train had arrived at Salisbury, where I had to leave the party, I noticed how Henry’s face had quite transcended its contours. It had become lively and sparkling, rippling with laughter, the hair blown into a natural shape, the mouth no longer parrot-like. A complete transformation had overcome the rather steely façade that he had presented on his hurried descent from the local taxi.

  Part III: Far Eastern Adventure, 1957

  January 1957

  Two days after Christmas, Truman Capote and I set off on our expedition. Truman never slogs on after he’s tired; he says no when he has had enough and evaporates from a conversation that bores him. He has complete knowledge of himself and his limitations, and is a totally integrated human being. He says: ‘I’ve got the exact formula. I’ve worked it all out.’ Whether it be his capacity for drink, his feelings about loves, friends, acquaintances, or strangers, he knows what he is about.

  Truman can remember facts, dates, sums of money with an uncanny sharpness. Someone can hold forth about the economic situation, and three days later he can repeat it word for word. His powers of concentration are greater than any I’ve known; he is interested in many aspects of life, and has a great sense of humour. Above all, he is a marvellous travelling companion.

  On the aeroplane to Honolulu the stewards giggled a lot, showing rows of excellent teeth. They were lanky and lean, their complexions poreless and magnolia-textured. The stewardesses were extremely pretty in a delicate, doll-like way. They served us with circles of white rice with black fish-skin sprinkled with pink and green crystals, and raw fish covered in batter.

  Leis of carnations, ginger, tuberoses and orchids were put round our necks when we landed on this island on a breezeless evening. The palm trees were motionless, and birds with very small heads were twittering in the branches.

  The sky was blue, the sea a paler blue. The people have a beauty that is so perfect that there is little sex appeal, and they all wear clothes of brilliant colours — scarlet, scarlet and white, scarlet and yellow.

  It is the ideal climate; throug
hout the year it changes only twelve degrees.

  KAUAI

  The island, half an hour from Hawaii, looked very beautiful as it sped by the car windows in a pink fluff of swaying, sugar-cane tassels. The wind blew hard and the sun shone on the tassels and made them appear of spun silk. Pineapples, growing in strict formation, created a very sophisticated colour effect.

  Robert Allerton, 85, a rich farmer formerly of Illinois, with his friend, John Grieg, an architect, disciple of David Adler, discovered this little house, once lived in by Queen Emma, at the foot of a mountain range. It is at the water’s edge, where a river runs into a blue sea. The soil is of the richest red; the rainfall is plentiful; twenty years ago they decided to buy the property, build a house and make a garden.

  On arrival we walked under an archway of enormous trees of every colour of grey and every variety of texture and shape. The ground was carpeted with exquisite moss. Everything was still and nurturing; an extraordinary, green tapestry-cathedral.

  It gave one the kind of thrill that is experienced on going into a quiet forest. Chinese pavilions and white trellis summer-houses were hidden among towering trees and walls of pale maidenhair fern; a vine with waxen turquoise and sapphire-blue blossom flourished; orchards of pale delicate grasses gave way to groves of bamboo and woodlands of trees with coloured barks. Allerton and Grieg have succeeded in making what must be the most beautiful tropical garden in the world.

  FLIGHT TO TOKYO

  The flight, through a night that seemed endless, and during which we lost one whole day — it seems we will get it back when we return — eventually came to an end. After flying over a boundless, periwinkle-blue sea, we saw the jagged mountains and seashores of Japan, and the sea formally patterned with rows of what turned out to be nets for oyster fishing.

  The international airport was the first I had ever seen that had its own personality. There was no bustle or restlessness. The staff, all of distinguished appearance, stood quietly awaiting the arrival of the passengers. Some of the women wore rugged-looking coats over their kimonos against the cold; but to us the cold was only that of a fine crisp spring day.

  I noticed a girl at a souvenir stall, at her side a few precious orchids. She looked very exotic with her face heavily coated with white paint, her cheeks made pink and her lips brilliant coral. Appearing to be startlingly inhuman, she had all the fantasy and intrinsic thrill of the stage.

  The city outskirts were so vast that it took one hour to get through to the centre.

  ASAKUSA

  Asakusa — Japan’s Piccadilly Circus or Time Square. Artificial flowers — scarlet, magenta, silver, puce — hanging in bundles outside shops; yellow and scarlet garlands of cellophane decorating restaurants; birds, butterflies, stars announcing a cabaret or newly opened business; tall bouquets on poles; lilies and chrysanthemums of the most vivid colours draw attention to new cinemas. All glitter and gloss. Despite its carnival aspect visitors to Asakusa make time to visit the Kwannon Temple to pray to the Goddess of Mercy. They throw money and pray fervently that it will come back a hundredfold.

  DINNER AT A RESTAURANT

  This Japanese restaurant, where the service is so discreet and the décor so restrained, is the height of refinement; a flower arrangement of three iris, a rose, a spray of freesia; soothing sounds of trickling water coming from the garden.

  Shoes must come off at the door; the meal is served in a room of sliding screens on lacquer tables eight inches high; the presentation of sake wine in blue and white bottles is a ritual. The meal ends in an ante-room where the chairs are covered in immaculate, white linen loose-covers, almost starched, with dark burgundy-coloured velvet cushions on top; strawberries, three inches long, highly-glazed, of brilliant cerise, and of an unimaginable taste.

  KABUKI

  Kabuki is a more ‘debased’ form of theatrical art than the classical Noh plays or Bunraku puppets. Sentimentality is often likely to intrude on a programme of plays which the audience knows by heart.

  Kabuki actors lead a life utterly dedicated to the theatre. Like monks, they hardly stir outside the walls and can be found in their dressing rooms from early morning until late evening. A performance begins at eleven in the morning and goes on until four in the afternoon.

  Utaemon, the great female impersonator, was pleased tonight at my flattery. He was gracious enough to receive visitors in his dressing room, empty except for two orchids. He is much respected as a leading actor, and yet much feared for his black humours.

  GEISHA HOUSE

  The Geisha girl appeared, aged twenty-two. Like a little sugar mouse, she had been trained for ten years to be the perfect entertainer of men and was by now witty and pretty, exquisite, beautifully dressed, the hair lacquered like black liquorice, and with delicate soft hands that have never known work. She must be able to play the samisen and to dance.

  TEA CEREMONY

  Mr Sen seemed extremely worried that the edge of a lacquer table, on which a red lacquer pot was placed, was scratched. It was wiped with much vigour and anxiety. I have seldom seen anything so immaculate or pristine. Mr Sen, whose knowledge of O-cha-no-yu comes from a sixteenth-century ancestor, participated with his son in this ceremonial act, which makes of tea-drinking a spiritual experience of great aesthetic significance.

  The master with the surgeon’s hands started in deep silence, with lowered lids, to fold a brown linen napkin across the back of his hand. Then the implements employed in the ceremony were wiped clean. The beauty of each object was unparalleled.

  Tealeaves were placed slowly in a pot, hot water poured from a kettle with a burbling, gurgling sound, gently stirred with a little broom, then violently whisked with a wooden spider. Every gesture artfully considered. The tea is drunk in shockingly loud sips, the empty cup admired for its beauty. The ceremony took an eternity.

  OBSERVATIONS

  The Japanese can be cruel, that is true, and I dislike their ideas of democracy. They love their tradition, which is a feature of their ancestor-worship, so that the past and its customs may not be forgotten or broken. They like peace and quiet, yet their traffic is the noisiest in the world. They love noise too. Drivers drive on the horn although hornblowing is supposed to be prohibited.

  Many of the Japanese women, unexpectedly, have ruddy, robust English country-girl complexions and frizzy, late-Victorian hair. Many of the men, too, have quite a flushed hue. The women hurry down the village street wrapped in shaggy woollens over their kimonos, their legs shabby in white, creased wool socks.

  Their children are adorable, quiet and pretty and gay. They have great respect for beauty, and yet many have absolutely no aesthetic sense whatsoever. Side by side is the best in taste together with the worst.

  Japanese seem never idle. Mothers hurry with their babies; old women trot, even if only across the road; but no anxiety on faces, no frown.

  GION

  Tokyo

  The old crones look quite distinguished, with hair piled high. They sit huddled in shawls; some have fallen asleep, but that would matter very little for business seems bad tonight, judging by the number of men’s shoes exhibited in the little hallways.

  A young Japanese boy reels down the street in an exaggerated display of drunkenness. He wheels to the left and, without a crash, bolts straight through the lighted door in front of him. The elderly hostess cackles with laughter as the boy falls backward on the tatami, his legs high in the air. She pulls his legs down. He lies prostrate. But the old woman tugs at his overcoat with one hand and with the other pulls back a paper door to reveal an apple-cheeked girl who will look after this poor besotted boy, and eventually extract from him the requisite fee.

  THE SUMIYA

  In the ‘gay’ quarter, where the poor man’s brothels are situated, there is the old eighteenth-century whore house, the Sumiya. It is now considered a national treasure. To preserve the traditional Japan it is said to be under the care of the government.

  A grandly dressed lady in scarlet and g
old brocades, and wearing a towering headdress, appeared in the gloaming; her face-powder dead white, her lower lip dark red, her teeth black. She was not beautiful in the accepted sense. She was small-eyed, her face bladder-shaped, but she possessed a sense of mystery which was exciting. She never spoke but summoned her two attendants. These were little girls with black silk hair cut in fringes, and bobbed. Their faces painted chalk white; both wearing scarlet.

  She walked on high wooden platforms that announced with a clack her every step. She was preceded by a man with a lamp, then flanked by her two scarlet-dressed diminutive attendants, she tottered majestically under a huge umbrella held aloft by a scantily dressed man in blue.

  The prostitute now knelt. With the assistance of her acolytes she went through the serious business of the tea ceremony. Supposedly this was so that she would be put into the necessary receptive state of mind of aesthetic inspiration to enjoy our company. I believe if we had asked for it, an elaborate mock marriage could have been staged.

  To Japanese eyes Europeans look extremely old. It is true that often Japanese appear ten years younger than we would guess their age to be. Their bones are prominent and the skin stretched tightly over the frame seldom sags. The old may have a web of wrinkles, but their faces rarely fall out of shape.

  HONG KONG

  Old women eating their bowls of rice, looking like dowager empresses, and the children like dolls. Streets of hanging dried fish, grottoes of pale silver and yellow fish. Tall balconies overhanging the crowded thoroughfares, stalls of flowers, orange-coloured chicks, and flattened ducks covered with grease. Chinese calligraphy on the pillars of arcades forming an enfilade like the wings of a theatre. Rickshaws in red lacquer, and trams of dark green enamel.