and
vagrancy.
One night he sat in the Paradise Inn kitchen, like a souffle which had not succeeded.
It was late and he was eating some of his own dinner. Renate saw him, and
smiled at him through the open partition. He was talking to himself, grumbling.
“Anything troubling you?” asked Renate.
Henri said: “People have lost their palate. All
they say is ‘More.’ It is all those fiery cocktails. They kill the taste. And
then they never say the right thing, the kind of thing that puffs me up like a
souffle, the kind of compliment which makes me cook each day better.”
“They haven’t lost their palate,” said Renate,
“they have lost their tongue. They haven’t lost the power to appreciate your
cooking; what they have lost is the power of words. They have never learned
culinary language. We live in an Era of Basic English.”
“Basic, basic, what is more basic than
excellent cooking. You console me, but I still need words, you know, as actors
need applause.”
“Words have grown scarce. Is that why you so
often think of the past? Was it better then?”
“Yes, people had a literary appreciation of
cooking. They could describe their sensations and they were eloquent about
them. Poor Henri. He does see too many empty chairs. The people who come now
are of a different breed. They are sulky and half-mute. They say: ‘It is good
Henri.’ But how good, how does it compare with other recipes, there are so many
nuances!”
“It’s only language that has grown poor.”
“You may be right. Did I ever tell you about
Diamond Jim Brady and the twelve oysters? He once ordered me to serve twelve
oysters in each of which I was to place a pearl. He was giving a dinner for
twelve Ziegfeld girls. He wanted me to do my very best. While I prepared the
oysters I noticed I had only eleven pearls, and I got very worried. I called
him up and he said: ‘Don’t worry, Henri. It was done on purpose. The girl who
does not get the pearl in the oyster will get a marriage contract from me. You
announce it. I can’t bring myself to make such a silly announcement as a
marriage proposal. I just can’t bring myself to say the words.”’
VARDA LIVED ON A CONVERTED FERRY BOAT in
Sausalito and sailed the bay in his own sail boat; so it was surprising to see
him arrive at Paradise Inn in an old station wagon bringing his newest collages
for an exhibition: “Collages are not sea-faring.”
He unloaded them at the entrance and stood them
up against the rocky banks in the sunlight. They eclipsed the sun, the sea and
the plants. The laminated blues dimmed the refractions of the ocean and made it
seem ponderous and opaque. His treble greens vibrated and made the plants seem
dead and the flowers artificial. His shafts of gold made the sunrays pale.
With small pieces of cotton and silks, scissors
and glue and a dash of paint, he dressed his women in irradiations; his colors
breathed like flesh and the fine spun lines pulsated like nerves.
In his landscapes of joy, women became
staminated flowers, and flowers women. They were as fragrant as if he had
painted them with thyme, saffron and curry. They were translucent and airy,
carrying their Arabian Night’s cities like nebulous scarves around their lucite
necks.
Sometimes they were masked like Venetian
beauties at masquerades. They wore necklaces of solar meteorites, and earrings
which sang like birds. Velvet petals covered their breasts and stared with
enticing eyes. Orange tones played like the notes of a flute. Magenta had a
sound of bells. The blues throbbed like the night.
After his scissors had touched them, his women
became flowers, plants and sea shells.
He cut into all the legendary textiles of the
world: damask of the Medicis, oyster white of Greek robes, the mixed gold and
blue of Venetian brocades, the midnight blue wools of Peru, the sand colors of
the African cottons, the transparent muslins of India, to give birth to women
who only appear to men asleep. His women
vagrancy.
One night he sat in the Paradise Inn kitchen, like a souffle which had not succeeded.
It was late and he was eating some of his own dinner. Renate saw him, and
smiled at him through the open partition. He was talking to himself, grumbling.
“Anything troubling you?” asked Renate.
Henri said: “People have lost their palate. All
they say is ‘More.’ It is all those fiery cocktails. They kill the taste. And
then they never say the right thing, the kind of thing that puffs me up like a
souffle, the kind of compliment which makes me cook each day better.”
“They haven’t lost their palate,” said Renate,
“they have lost their tongue. They haven’t lost the power to appreciate your
cooking; what they have lost is the power of words. They have never learned
culinary language. We live in an Era of Basic English.”
“Basic, basic, what is more basic than
excellent cooking. You console me, but I still need words, you know, as actors
need applause.”
“Words have grown scarce. Is that why you so
often think of the past? Was it better then?”
“Yes, people had a literary appreciation of
cooking. They could describe their sensations and they were eloquent about
them. Poor Henri. He does see too many empty chairs. The people who come now
are of a different breed. They are sulky and half-mute. They say: ‘It is good
Henri.’ But how good, how does it compare with other recipes, there are so many
nuances!”
“It’s only language that has grown poor.”
“You may be right. Did I ever tell you about
Diamond Jim Brady and the twelve oysters? He once ordered me to serve twelve
oysters in each of which I was to place a pearl. He was giving a dinner for
twelve Ziegfeld girls. He wanted me to do my very best. While I prepared the
oysters I noticed I had only eleven pearls, and I got very worried. I called
him up and he said: ‘Don’t worry, Henri. It was done on purpose. The girl who
does not get the pearl in the oyster will get a marriage contract from me. You
announce it. I can’t bring myself to make such a silly announcement as a
marriage proposal. I just can’t bring myself to say the words.”’
VARDA LIVED ON A CONVERTED FERRY BOAT in
Sausalito and sailed the bay in his own sail boat; so it was surprising to see
him arrive at Paradise Inn in an old station wagon bringing his newest collages
for an exhibition: “Collages are not sea-faring.”
He unloaded them at the entrance and stood them
up against the rocky banks in the sunlight. They eclipsed the sun, the sea and
the plants. The laminated blues dimmed the refractions of the ocean and made it
seem ponderous and opaque. His treble greens vibrated and made the plants seem
dead and the flowers artificial. His shafts of gold made the sunrays pale.
With small pieces of cotton and silks, scissors
and glue and a dash of paint, he dressed his women in irradiations; his colors
breathed like flesh and the fine spun lines pulsated like nerves.
In his landscapes of joy, women became
staminated flowers, and flowers women. They were as fragrant as if he had
painted them with thyme, saffron and curry. They were translucent and airy,
carrying their Arabian Night’s cities like nebulous scarves around their lucite
necks.
Sometimes they were masked like Venetian
beauties at masquerades. They wore necklaces of solar meteorites, and earrings
which sang like birds. Velvet petals covered their breasts and stared with
enticing eyes. Orange tones played like the notes of a flute. Magenta had a
sound of bells. The blues throbbed like the night.
After his scissors had touched them, his women
became flowers, plants and sea shells.
He cut into all the legendary textiles of the
world: damask of the Medicis, oyster white of Greek robes, the mixed gold and
blue of Venetian brocades, the midnight blue wools of Peru, the sand colors of
the African cottons, the transparent muslins of India, to give birth to women
who only appear to men asleep. His women
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