by Mark Forgy
Elmyr liked to say, “Le fromage n’est pas bon si ça se promene pas.” (Cheese is not good if it doesn’t walk!) This lot was definitely at a gallop. He dutifully opened the various foil-wrapped delights with brown liquid oozing from their seams. Like a desensitized surgeon who lost his nose to leprosy, he judiciously whittled away at the decaying matter. I no longer recall if the tears welling up in his eyes were because of the noxious fumes or his lost hope of salvaging some edible remnant. Alas, we had to discard every bit of our comestible variety pack shortly after its long-delayed arrival. The recalcitrant odor, however, lingered like a guest who didn’t know when to leave. We each, like Lady Macbeth, washed our hands with OCD vigor, all to no avail. For having touched the organic goo, we could rid the stench from our hands only by using some of Elmyr’s mineral spirits, no longer used uniquely for cleaning the oil paint from his hands and brushes.
Disposing of the aromatic surprise was another matter. The early seventies might well have been an ecological awakening of sorts for some people, but it was not the widely embraced cause célèbre we know today. In Ibiza, at least, it was not. Garbage collection was selective, and outside the towns it had changed little since Roman times. People burned or buried their refuse. When I began living at La Falaise we were scrupulously neat and clean. The house had every civilized amenity for which the twentieth century had shamelessly spoiled us. When household debris filled the white plastic bags in their small containers, I would remove them, tie them closed, take them outside down the steps, and casually throw them over the cliff. Some of their contents were jarred loose from their sacks and became lodged in clinging cliff-side vegetation and rocks, creating a giant collage of multicolored garbage. The sort of thing the artist Cristo might do if he were a slob.
In many ways Elmyr was like the proverbial absentminded professor. Shortly before my arrival, he made the trek to the short stone wall that encircled the house, making it a kind of medieval rampart for pygmies. At its lowest point, below the swimming pool, he stood with the bag of trash in one hand, his eyeglasses clenched in the other. Then, with the deliberate move of a shot-putter, he launched his glasses into space, only for them to plummet downward among other errant reminders of conspicuous consumption. Upon hearing his account of the incident, I thought it was enormously funny. Enjoying my laughter less than I did, he reminded me that if I had been present two weeks earlier, he would have had me go look for them. Far from being an annoyance, his occasionally spacey lapses of concentration were part of his charm and, though unwittingly, a source of amusement. For example, one ritual of personal hygiene he regularly enjoyed was washing his feet in the bidet. He had just finished filling it with warm water for his footbath when the phone rang one morning. Rushing to answer it, he then became engaged in a long, distracting conversation. When he finished his animated dialogue, he promptly returned to his bathroom and then immersed one foot into the toilet.
When I began helping him with the ever-increasing demand on his time by responding to requests from people for his paintings, he often asked me about sentence structure, spelling, or other mystifying quirks of the English language. There were some things that I would repeatedly tell him, but they defied his remembering. Although he was fluent in the language and possessed a wealthy vocabulary, there were just some things that would cause a cerebral hiccup for him. For no apparent reason he would consistently refer to the “kitchen” door as the “chicken” door. After a few corrections, I thought the little malapropism was too cute to change. When feeling overwhelmed he would also say, “I can’t scoop with it” instead of “cope.” He would then turn to me for affirmation, asking, “Is that right?” to which I always said yes.
His French, German, and, of course, Hungarian were flawless. He basted English in a slight Hungarian accent but not appreciably. I forever marveled at the ease of transition with which he moved from one language to another. With no forethought or notice, he glided effortlessly among them. Spanish was the outstanding exception to this rule. They commonly say younger minds more easily learn languages. I am not sure why this linguistic skill failed him when it came to Spanish. Maybe it was due to his age, or brain fatigue, when he went to Ibiza. More likely it was because the island boasted a large contingent of foreign expatriates with whom he could already converse in English, French, German, and even Hungarian. Most of his Spanish friends spoke first French and then English as second and third languages.
After nine months of intense study, I spoke French fluently. Knowing a foreign language goes deeper than simple communication. It is a key to unlock an entire culture and vehicle to transport you easily within it. When we would read in the evening and chat about things, the conversation could migrate to French. My accomplishments were his accomplishments, and, with noticeable pride, he asked me to talk to his friends in French. Along with my French lessons, Elmyr gave me his books to study. They, with his constant insights, eased me into the world of visual arts, a world enlivened in his company.
Mark, Elmyr, and Fernando Madurga at the gallery
Given Elmyr’s newly acquired high-profile status, a friend suggested he open his own art gallery in Ibiza town. The idea held considerable appeal and would afford him the civic benediction he had always struggled to attain. It made sense. It would offer him a personal forum in which he could not only promote his own work but also the sizeable community of artists on the island, many of whom he had already helped. He found a suitable location. It was a first-floor space (meaning second floor) that was formerly a small residential apartment about a block off the end of the Vara de Rey, Ibiza’s principal boulevard and pedestrian thoroughfare. Over our morning coffee at the Montesol, he turned to me and asked what I thought of his new adventure in business. His face signaled what seemed an irresistible billing on the old marquee, “Elmyr—Galeria de Arte Contemporáneo.” In his mind’s eye he could see himself garnering the same cachet as those Mayfair mavens with real Monets in their gallery windows. While Elmyr thrived on the flurry of social activity of an art exhibit, and he fancied the notion of further legitimizing himself in everyone’s eyes, he was really looking to give me a raison d’etre. My new job would be running the gallery, organizing the exhibitions, and seeing if we could make money conventionally and—honestly. It was what he was grooming me for, and, just as important, he wanted to elevate my status from personal aide/bodyguard/gardener to something more respectable. After all, appearances were important to him. Moreover, it worked for the next four years.
As Elmyr juggled success and its side effects, I moved easily between two disparate worlds, one of glamorous society, the other of earthy simplicity and counterculture values. While I smoked hashish with Elmyr that first evening at La Falaise, it was not a routine indulgence for him. Given the precariousness of his past, he thought it wise to avoid blatantly illegal activities. I, on the other hand, was not much inclined to curb my hedonist impulses, being a child of the ’60s’ psychedelic lifestyle I embraced while in college in California. There was a huge colony of my contemporaries on Ibiza, and I soon made friends with many of them.
Most rented fincas (farmhouses) in the countryside. These primitive dwellings starkly contrasted the luxury and creature comforts that quickly became second nature to me. Traditionally, fincas had no indoor plumbing. One fetched water from a well and calls from Mother Nature led one to a latrine away from the house. It is as precariously close to camping as I have ever been and a bit too earthy for my liking. Some friends had family money cushioning their back-to-nature forays; many were artists, artisans, or writers who, to my great admiration, demonstrated a self-sufficiency of mind, body, and spirit. All, I believe, thought the trade-off of modern conveniences for a more rustic lifestyle was more than worth it.
This is what they gained: once off the narrow and sporadically maintained ribbons of blacktopped highways, one drove over potholed, switchback roads through pine-covered countryside. Ancient stone terraces followed the contours of the hillsides up to or be
yond the paths that ended at the small, secluded houses. Grape vines, and almond, apricot, fig, olive, orange, or lemon trees stippled stair-step swaths of cultivated earth. The fincas often had domed bread ovens covered with chalk-based whitewash resembling layers of phyllo dough. The alwayswhite structures had flat earthen roofs laid on a combination of reeds and wood base, supported underneath by large hewn timbers spanning the room’s width and darkened over centuries from fires on a stone or earthen hearth. If one lived in a valley or a plain, the soil had a distinct rust-colored hue. This was the desirable land for cultivation and handed down to the first-born males of the family. Those farther down the pecking order often inherited the useless waterfront property. With the advent of tourism, that didn’t seem to be such a raw deal after all. Without exception, every one of these homes offered uninterrupted views of pastoral tranquility and, frequently, vistas of the Mediterranean. We felt privileged having the camaraderie of our friends and a spiritual sense of peace and unspoiled nature around us.
In an uncanny act of natural defense, wild asparagus grew within the root base of thorny thickets—tricky to pick but a succulent organic delight. Rosemary, fennel, garlic, and other herbs grew wild. Many of my friends, with the aid of composting, had organically raised kitchen gardens. All this presaged the mainstream acceptance of these formerly funky notions. They read Mother Jones Magazine, the Whole Earth Catalogue, and lived off the land. Joni Mitchell visited Ibiza in the early ’70s and referenced the island in the song “California” on her album entitled Blue. The lyric is, “Went to a party down a red dirt road, there were lots of pretty people there readin’ Rollin’ Stone, reading Vogue…” While the counterculture thrived then, it has been supplanted by more materially minded folk, but it is still known as the party capital of Europe. I just do not know if drugs are as prolific as they were then.
Elmyr was tolerant of my foibles and simply asked that I exercise a modicum of discretion and do nothing to reflect poorly on him. It was our understanding, so I tried to be mindful of his wishes. By most appearances, I succeeded. If not, I kept them out of view. While I felt a natural gravitation to my less-formal friends, I gradually absorbed his old-world standard of how a young man should conduct himself. I therefore observed Queen Mary’s famous maxim as my guiding rule. She said she didn’t care what anyone did so long as one didn’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.
There were occasional lapses and my incaution had its consequences. After a summer night fling with a young French woman, I contracted lice. Upon discovery of this, I went directly to the pharmacy. In simple, unambiguous Spanish, I whispered, Yo tengo peqeños animales abajo, simultaneously pointing to my genital area. A knowing, Mona Lisa smile fell across the pharmacist’s face. He returned with a small bottle of liquid, Aecete Inglais—“English Oil.” This abhorrent new adventure worsened when I lavished my pubic region with the medicinal-smelling stuff (not at the pharmacy of course). Its blowtorch sensation prompted a spontaneous war dance. Directions on the bottle suggested using it more than once a day and I am sure their author, probably familiar with the manufacturer’s laboratory tests, had good reason to smile as he penned them.
The curious product labeling also spoke to the high regard the Spanish had for the English. It was then apparent why a friend of mine and I had such difficulty getting rides when hitchhiking to Barcelona. He had a Union Jack flag on his backpack that was akin to wearing a “kick me” sign on one’s back. I was oblivious of the longstanding antipathy between Britain and Spain. Sure, we all knew about the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588 in their miserably failed attempt to invade England to get that lot of bandy-legged heretics back into the Catholic fold. Oh, and that Henry VIII was unforgivably nasty to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, but still feeling chippy after 380 years? Never mind that they also helped lighten the Spaniard’s ships of some very heavy New World gold and silver. Furthermore, that little issue of the Brits stealing Gibraltar from them was still working through their system like a Tabasco enema. In addition, weren’t the British gracious enough to admit countless Spanish laborers into the UK to seek work as nannies, house cleaners, chauffeurs, and the like? Truly, it was difficult to understand why they were still so miffed.
Writing these recollections, especially when I revisit my less-thanprudent behavior, it is remarkable that so many of us survived our youth. Perhaps because Ibiza was an island with a constantly moving tide of people, a subculture of illegal pursuits flourished in the midst of an Orwellian police state. Franco’s dictatorship was rigid and unforgiving of those who broke the law. Drug possession of, say, a pinch of hashish could be punishable by six years and one day in prison. They added one extra day to demonstrate an institutional sense of humor, a gift from the Spanish Inquisition, I suspect. Our abject disregard for the dire consequences of immediate arrest should we be caught by the police for getting a little high, has now been better explained by recent research into brain function. Apparently, the frontal lobe that governs emotional development and behavior like risk-taking and impulse control does not mature until one reaches the age of about twenty-five. This would explain my own blunders in judgment—before that age, anyway.
Café Society
For as small as Ibiza was, I marveled at the variety of its inhabitants, this species we call Homo sapiens. If someone told me a carnival caravan of sideshow oddities overturned somewhere on the island, releasing them to procreate with the local population like rabbits on Ecstasy, I could better understand the confluence of this human circus. The only difference was that the sexual activity of many I knew made the furry critters look less libidinous than geriatric monks. However, instead of paying for a peep at these Barnumesque curiosities of nature, one only had to occupy a chair at any sidewalk café or bar and they would inevitably parade by. It was great entertainment for the price of a beverage. There, gossip was the common currency, and the exchange rate generous. One of Elmyr’s favorite haunts was the terrace of the Hotel Montesol. It occupied a strategic corner on the Vara de Rey. It was like the pass at Thermopylae, where almost everyone was obliged to pass by on the way to the port, old city, or the heart of Ibiza town. “Here,” Elmyr explained, “everyone minds everyone else’s business very intensely. They read each other’s mail, their love letters, and they tell who slept with whom and how they did it”—ever the champion of an open society. One of the island’s best conduits of this vital information was one of Elmyr’s friends, Arlene Kaufman.
Like Elmyr, Arlene exhibited a thirst and salacious curiosity for the tawdriest current news. She was Jewish, a feisty former public schoolteacher from Brooklyn who, like many diminutive and inviting-looking creatures, when irritable, could remove your face like a wolverine. She was smart, articulate, and favored rude language for emphasis. We thought her remorseless candor and bare-knuckle invective were part of her charm. In any event, Elmyr savored the intellectual nexus in her company. While sipping a coffee during their morning rendezvous at the Montesol, their conversation topics careened from Kierkegaard, Spinoza, Hemingway, Proust, or world politics to a subject for which she demonstrated untiring interest and personal experience—orgasm. Never before, or since, have I heard someone so compelled to expound on this bodily function with the same wonder and respect. Furthermore, Elmyr had no difficulty following the focus of their chat as it headed south. I always listened, hoping to improve my mind. Maybe it was the deliberate cadence and polished haute Brooklyn accent that intoned a note of unimpeachable authority in what she said. She reminded me of Eliza Doolittle in reverse. As owner of La Tierra, the island’s most popular bar, Arlene was a celestial body around whom all manner of Ibiza society orbited. In her role as queen of the night scene, she took herself seriously. Consequently, it may have been this perception of self-importance that imparted an oracular flair to her diction. Nevertheless, amour was a domain where most everyone possessed predictable expertise.
Ibiza was a lively Petri dish where people enjoyed sex first and asked f
or names later. From Elmyr’s garden at La Falaise, one could see the flat profile of Formentera, Ibiza’s neighboring island. When showing visitors his villa, he often pointed it out from his poolside and asked if they knew what it was. Most responded with a bewildered no. This set up his delighted reply. “It is a secret laboratory where they are trying to develop new strains of venereal disease unresponsive to antibiotics,” he informed his guests. We all laughed, impervious to the truth in his joke. Ibiza remains a training camp for hedonists and, I suspect, the least likely place to see an apparition of the Virgin Mary.