by Cecil Beaton
Greta gave a brilliant, glowing performance as a character in a Comédie Française love drama. Her few words of French were used to miraculous effect and she was inspired and made us roar with laughter as she yearned towards the plump, honest and true little Jeanne Marie de Broglie, saying, ‘ma souffrance me mange’. The crew too were fascinated by her clowning and the captain exploded into paroxysms of mirth at her imitations of his radio talks to Athens. It is remarkable that at sixty she still possesses qualities of beauty and naturalness to such a degree.
The Studio at Reddish House: 1965
My discoveries in painting continue throughout the long hours. Apart from the technical problems of keeping a consistency of paint or brush stroke, of doing only what the medium can tolerate, other ineffable problems arise; for example where emphasis should lie, what colours do to one another, how to achieve calm or brilliance, etc. But at the moment my greatest difficulty, and one that I have really only overcome in the John Russell picture, is how to simplify right down to the essentials. This cannot be done at a late stage by adjustments with paint, brush or rag; the amount of work to be done on the picture must be in the mind’s eye at the outset. At the moment I am trying hard to learn that the less one puts on to the canvas, the more successful the result is likely to be, and yet this does not always work.
Venice: August 18th
Yesterday evening a little expedition was made to visit the grave of Diaghilev on the anniversary of his death. It is the nicest thing about Serge Lifar that he comes to Venice each August 18th for this purpose, and he was childish and happy and enthusiastic that Diana Cooper and ‘the boys’ should come with him to pay homage.
I arrived at the cemetery before the others, got a key from a custodian and went into the green garden of the Greek Orthodox cemetery where Diaghilev lay. It was a pretty, calm, peaceful garden of motionless cypresses and a somewhat untidy tangle of shrubs and roses. Diaghilev’s tomb, under a small tree, a domed ceiling above a severe slab of stone with a circle, a cross, an inscription and the name, was a suitable resting place for a great man, exiled from his native land.
I remembered how much he had meant to me in my formative years. It was a lonely sight. Diana in a large picture hat was carrying over her shoulder huge branches of bay leaves. She was dressed in her typical café-crème, and in the kind soft light of evening she looked as she did thirty years ago. She was followed by Lifar and by Simon Fleet looking Edwardian in Henley-on-Thames straw boater. Someone had suggested bringing Diaghilev’s beloved tuberoses, but Diana said ‘No, tuberoses for a virgin, bay for a man.’ Diana threw down her armful with a ferocious gesture; the emotion that inspired her to make this expedition was covered by a bluff jollity. Simon and the boys took a snapshot and, after we had walked about a bit and seen where Gabriel Wolkov was recently laid to rest near his relations, we went back to the water’s edge by the church.
London: September 10th
What a very different opinion Balanchine holds on Pavlova. He told me he thought she was awful. ‘She had bad taste and chose dreadful music. She liked Hungarian composers and dainty, tippety-tip dances. Ta, Ta, Ta, Ta, Ta, Ta; Dimty, Dimty, Dimty — Turn! And her feet were ugly, such large, lumpy shoes. And her dresses! She’d dress up as a marquise with a beauty spot and do the gavotte. It was terrible, but the audiences loved it. They didn’t know any better in those days. They loved the dying swan, just for one reason, there are only about two movements in it and the hands go flap, flap, but the audience know she’s going to die, so they’re all waiting for it to happen. But she wasn’t an artist. She didn’t get along with Diaghilev; she was selfish. Yes, I knew her. She wasn’t interesting. She didn’t inspire men.’
I have worked with George Balanchine (on Swan Lake), but have never felt anything but his coldness and my own inadequacy. Tonight he was at ease and so was I. We talked of the genius of Karinska, of my thrill at the beautiful costumes she has created with my designs for Traviata. George said there is no one like her. ‘When she is gone it will be finished and the same with me and with you too. We will not survive another twenty years, but then something quite different will happen. It will never be the same.’
He told me that nowadays he had to be careful what projects he undertook. ‘You see, I can only teach people by showing them myself how it must be done and it is terribly tiring. I can’t do all this jumping and dancing much longer, and so I must not take on something that will take me four months to prepare, unless it is really worth it; it’s not worth it in opera. I like singers to stand still, but it is much harder to get them to do it than to make dancers dance. Nureyev came to see me shortly after he fled from Russia, but he wanted to dance “on circuit” and make extra money. He wanted to be the star. He didn’t want to be part of a ballet. He is too selfish and a dancer cannot afford to be selfish. You will soon spot a selfish dancer. Nureyev will end up badly, you’ll see. He’ll be like Pavlova.’
New York: November 10th
Five o’clock: the fitting of our ‘Violetta’ in her Karinska costumes was over. Everyone pleased.
People in the streets hurrying like black ants, trying in vain to cross the road; motor cars incapable of moving. I managed to get back to my hotel to continue my work. We tried to telephone to find out what had happened, but there were no lines. There had been a complete power cut which covered the whole eastern side of the country. The revelation came slowly that not only were many people likely to be trapped in elevators and subways, but others would be marooned away from friends and families, and food in frigidaires and deep freezes would thaw. Radio and television were out of commission; hundreds of cities, towns, and villages were plunged into immobility. The boys decided to go down the staircase. A woman in the next suite came out in terror. She lent them a candle for the descent. Impotent and isolated, I returned to my room, sank on to my bed and mercifully slept.
April 11th, 1966
So Evelyn Waugh is in his coffin. Died of snobbery. Did not wish to be considered a man of letters; it did not satisfy him to be thought a master of English prose. He wanted to be a duke, and that he could never be; hence a life of disappointment and sham. For he would never give up. He would drink brandy and port and keep a full cellar. He was not a gourmet, like Cyril Connolly, but insisted on good living and cigars as being typical of the aristocratic way of life. He became pompous at twenty and developed his pomposity to the point of having a huge stomach and an ear trumpet at forty-five.
Now that he is dead, I cannot hate him; cannot really feel he was wicked, in spite of his cruelty, his bullying, his caddishness. From time to time, having appeared rather chummy and appreciative and even funny (though my hackles rose in his presence), he would suddenly seem to be possessed by a devil and do thoroughly fiendish things. His arrogance was at its worst at White’s. Here he impersonated an aristocrat, intimidated newcomers and non-members, and was altogether intolerable. But a few loyal friends saw through the pretence and were fond of him.
KARSAVINA
April 26th, 1966
An ugly little old lady turned out to be Karsavina. It must be ten years since I’ve seen her. She is now eighty-three. The havoc on her face made her unrecognizable. The circles under her eyes have become like porridge spilling way below her cheek bones, and she had in desperation painted a huge pale-red mouth over her own neat little lips.
However, watching her during the meal and across the large circular table (the Kenneth Clarks had invited twelve to a private room at the Ritz), one could still see by her manner that she had been beautiful. With hooded lids and the proud bearing of her head, she was obviously someone who had been much worshipped. As my neighbour, a young woman, remarked, ‘They don’t make them like that any more.’
Later I had a word or two with Madame Karsavina. She bemoaned the fact that she had seen the new moon through glass, so nothing had gone well. The iron gate had come off its hinges, the bath water did not function, a windowpane had been broken, the roof had leaked and a ce
iling was ruined; the list went on. As she bade me kiss her goodbye, she asked me earnestly: ‘Do you still think I am photogenic?’
November 27th, 1966
I have become more and more hunched and conscious of my age. One does not know what one would feel like at eighty, but the present signs are that I would prefer to snuff out pretty soon, rather than continue in the vein of the present. Apart from a painful spine, other factors have caused this depression. I am going through all my photographic files for a book that is to be called ‘The Best of Beaton’. So many thousands of forgotten negatives, mostly bad, cause me to consider why I should add to their number with such effort of body and spirit. So few of them have a life of their own; so many of the subjects are no longer of interest.
What has all this been about? Merely to earn a living? If so, luckily I did not realize it at the time. To occupy the days? As I bend down to the pile of photographs on the floor, afraid of a twinge in the small of my back, I wonder if it is worthwhile ploughing through so many that have not the slightest possibility of inclusion in the book.
Suicides should take a trip before embarking upon their irrevocable decision. An hour’s flight in an aeroplane and arrival in a foreign country can break the tension, or interrupt lugubrious thoughts that could lead to a willingness to drift away or a weakening of the wish to carry on the ever more exhausting fight.
Reddish: January 1967
After six months of pourparlers, a lorry drove up with a lot of ancient stones. These are the beginning of our new plans for the garden. We will pave over some of the flower-beds and have fewer bedded-out plants.
The trees for ‘Little Japan’ arrive next (the prunus and flowering fruits that are to dot the hill opposite my bedroom). We are planning for posterity. It is an act of faith, and I wish it had been done before.
The only thing that prevents my making other major alterations is money. I never know my financial situation. Eileen is in charge. I rely on her to warn me when we have spent too much. I’d like very much to improve the guest rooms, and give each its own bathroom. But Eileen says we must not do this for another two or three years. How she knows this I do not know. But here’s hoping there will be no cataclysm! One can be poor when young, but never later on in life.
Part III: The Younger Generation, 1967
TUTANKHAMUN EXHIBITION
Paris
This week there were several magnets to draw me to Paris: a Turkish Princess (to be photographed), Chanel (to be half-listened to), and the Tutankhamun exhibition to see. The latter proved the most difficult. Although I got out of the hotel early in order to be at the Petit Palais before the gates opened, I discovered that five hundred people had already arrived. Perhaps when the large queue had been accommodated, I could return. But no, half an hour later the queue was longer than ever, and so it remained whenever I happened to pass throughout the day. Even at lunchtime the slow crocodile had advanced only imperceptibly.
However, on the Wednesday evening at 9.30 when Lilia Ralli and I drove past on the way to a late dinner, I saw the doors were still open and with no one entering. Then Lilia remembered there was a late showing on a Wednesday. Thus I was able to see one of the most moving exhibitions of my lifetime.
I don’t know why the shock was so great. Perhaps it was that, without preparation or expectation, I was suddenly confronted with these extraordinary objects. Perhaps it was the fact that they had been brought from Cairo to Paris, and exhibited in a most dramatic way, with extraordinary lighting, that made this strong impact.
Perhaps, too, the fact that they were utterly remote, of an age of over three thousand years ago, and yet fresh and modern, made the delight acutely surprising. I know little of Egyptian art, and had seen none of these treasures when I was in Egypt during the war. But the brightness, the craftmanship, the subtlety and sophistication, struck me as sensational and yet in some way not unlike the contemporary idiom.
That they have been discovered in my lifetime, by these curious and worthy Englishmen, makes them even more romantic and important. One of the greatest moments in modern history must have been when Howard Carter, peering into the darkness of the tomb from the recently dug hole in the wall, said: ‘I see wonderful things, wonderful gold things, and more than you can believe possible.’
Lilia Ralli was an excellent cicerone. She had only two days before been round the exhibition privately with Princess Marina, when they had had the services of one of the very top Egyptologists as guide.
With only half an hour on hand, we could not dawdle, and even now there was a queue to see the jewellery, but from the moment of seeing the huge carving of a head — a fragment from Karnak — high up, beautifully lit, I was as if under a spell.
Lilia pointed out the canework of the seat on the young boy-king’s throne. It was still as firm as when made and could be sat on today. The painting palette of the king’s sister (Princess Meritaton) was an extraordinary souvenir; the small statuettes in wood, and the alabaster figures of animals and birds, had a timeless quality.
In a low, dark room we discovered the king’s bed, fortified by sacred cows of gold — (lit véhicule évoquant la vache primordiale) their bodies dotted with emerald spots and their tails curling like great musical instruments. The golden death-mask of the king is one of the great marvels of craftsmanship of all time.
When faced by the wonderful great stone heads, so serene and calm and time-conquering, my emotion was so great that I suddenly found myself in tears. The emotion relayed from the other visitors may also have had to do with this overwhelming effect. For the objects themselves were not only extraordinary, but they became the more so by the crowds that peered at them with such awe. This scene should have been photographed, for seldom have I seen French crowds so completely taken out of themselves, lost in the tomb of time. Their eyes were wild, their fingers frenetic. Two young lovers, very beatnik, were contorted with their arms and hands interlocked — a sort of unconscious Laocoon.
Often I am critical of myself for being so thick-skinned and immune to emotion, particularly at seeing works of art, but this occasion had been an exception. The experience of the Tutankhamun exhibition had been one of enchantment and enlightenment. For a short while I had been transported out of my normal existence by the sight of great beauty.
A gentleman of quiet Spanish pride and dignity, Balenciaga makes few pronouncements. Therefore it is of special interest when he says there are no elegant women in Paris today.
He explains that he is carrying on doing something that is nothing more nor less than a luxury. It is work with materials, needle and thread. It is not streamlined; it is not efficient. It is completely against the tide of the times we are living in.
AN EVENING WITH THE ‘STONES’
Marrakesh: March 1967
On the Tuesday evening I came down to dinner very late, and, to my surprise, sitting in the hotel lobby, discovered Mick Jagger and a sleepy looking band of gipsies. Robert Fraser, one of their company, wearing a huge, black felt hat and a bright emerald brocade coat was coughing by the swimming pool. He had swallowed something the wrong way. He recovered and invited me to join them all for a drink.
It was a strange group. The three ‘Stones’: Brian Jones, with his girlfriend, beatnik-dressed Anita Pallenberg — dirty white face, dirty blackened eyes, dirty canary drops of hair, barbaric jewellery — Keith Richards in eighteenth-century suit, long black velvet coat and the tightest pants; and, of course, Mick Jagger, together with hangers-on, chauffeurs, and Americans.
I didn’t want to give the impression that I was only interested in Mick, but it happened that we sat next to one another as he drank a Vodka Collins and smoked with pointed finger held high. His skin is chicken-breast white and of a fine quality. He has an inborn elegance. He talked of native music; he had heard a local tribe play pipes like those used in Hungary and Scotland. He liked Indian music too. He said he would like to go to Kashmir and to Afghanistan, in fact to get right away from England, w
hich he considered had become a police state, with harassment and interference. Recently twenty policemen had invaded the house of his drummer in the country looking for dope. The newspapers had published completely false accounts. He was going to sue the News of the World. He maintained that he had done nothing to deprave the youth of the country. Here in Morocco people were not curious or bad-mannered. He liked people that were permissive.
By degrees the shy aloofness of the gang broke down. We got into two cars; the Bentley I was in had been driven from Brian Jones’s house in Swiss Cottage to here, and the driver was a bit tired. The car was filled with pop-art cushions, scarlet fur rugs, and sex magazines. Immediately the most tremendous volume of pop music boomed in the region of the back of my neck. Mick and Brian responded rhythmically and the girl leant forward and screamed in whispers that she had just played a murderess in a film that was to be shown at the Cannes Festival.
We went to a Moroccan restaurant — tiles, banquettes, women dancers. Mick considered the style of decoration gave little opportunity of expression to the artist. He is very gentle, and with perfect manners. He indicated that I should follow his example and eat the chicken in my fingers. It was tender and good. He has much appreciation, and his small, albino-fringed eyes notice everything. ‘How different and more real this place is to Tangier — the women more rustic, heavy, lumpy, but their music very Spanish and their dancing too.’ He has an analytical slant and compares everything he is seeing here with earlier impressions in other countries.
Mick liked the new ballet Paradise Lost, but was bored by Stravinsky’s Les Noces. He is limited in his field of music to what he had studied since he was eleven years old and which is the kind of music he plays now.