Paris. Wednesday, April 23, 1969
The Dalís came to lunch. Met in the Ritz bar. Salvador Dalí, a splendid figure with his joke mustache, his goldheaded cane (belonged to Victor Hugo), his diamond stickpin (Alfonso XIII’s), and his ruffles and velvets from the marché aux puces. Gala, his wife, demure and restrained at first. We spoke about crows, as Tom‡ said Dalí had suggested that they write a book together about crows. Lunch at L’Espadon. Gala provocative: “Vous êtes courageux? Mais, vraiment vous êtes courageux? Alors aidez-moi à manger ces pieds de porcs.” [Are you brave? Really brave? Then help me eat these trotters.] Also provocative with the waiter. Described how she goes off, leaving Dalí, for a trip to Italy, which she is crazy about. Audrey§ asked me why I wasn’t using my asparagus tongs. Instead of telling her that I preferred the sensual feel of the vegetable, I said I wasn’t sure how to use them. Should have known better, as she immediately gave me a demonstration. I clacked them, and Dalí launched into a brilliant account. “Ah vous faites ça. Est-ce que vous connaissez Chypre? [Ah, you do that. Do you know Cyprus?] And what was the greatest event that ever happened there? Yes, the birth of Aphrodite. And when she came up out of the waves, you know what she did? (Venus pudica?) Yes, she covered herself, but she was also very cold, chicken flesh all over, and her teeth were chattering. On the shore where everyone had gathered to watch her, they chattered their teeth in sympathy, and the next year, when they commemorated the event, they repeated this, and every year they did the same. Then this spread into the country, inland. On the shore to make more clatter, they had collected seashells and made a noise with them. Inland there were no shells, so they imitated them in terra-cotta, and these went all over as the cult spread, and they came to Spain, and that is how we got the castanets—crotalas, they are called.” A girl came up and asked for his autograph. He was pleased. I asked Gala whether she had known Iris Tree* at Cadaqués, on the Costa Brava, where I know they spend most of the year. “Ah, vous savez, je n’aime pas tellement les poétesses et les poétesses britanniques” [Well, you know, I’m not too fond of women poets, nor of British women poets]. Dalí heard this and said he remembered her. She worked all winter on some poems. Then in the spring she took them down to the beach. A wind blew up and carried off the sheets, and she went running down the beach after them. On the student protests, he began to reminisce about a visit to the art school in Madrid, where he was a student, by King Alfonso XIII. All the boys had decided to ignore the king, as they were anti-monarchical— anarchists and communists. The king came in, asked for a cigarette, chatted for a while, and then to dispose of the butt took aim with his fingers and flicked it across the courtyard into a spittoon. His skill brought down the house. They whooped with admiration, and the visit turned into a success. He is a big personality; I did not imagine that I would like him so much.
London. Thursday, April 24, 1969
At 6:00 to Hyde Park Hotel to pick up Harold Acton†. Full of his state dinner at Windsor. To Kensington Palace, where there was much more about the dinner, urged on by Princess Margaret and Harold. I was amused at the thought that Harold wouldn’t be too pleased to know that it was my suggestion that he should be asked. Tony [Snowdon] came in, excited as usual by something he has cooked up. A souvenir for the investiture of Prince Charles [as Prince of Wales]. It is a mailing tube in shiny black paper with a legend in white saying that it is a souvenir of the investiture at Caernarfon Castle. Inside are silk-screen repros of old prints of the castle. Gave us a set. Meanwhile, Pcss M was showing Harold her photos taken at his house last summer. “J, come and look.” “I’ve seen them, ma’am.” “Yes, but you haven’t seen them bound.” She had had them bound in black leather stamped with gold fleurs-de-lis. Tony again excited—about a trailer he had been given to try out. It was in front of the door. Would we come back and spend the night? Pcss M said she wouldn’t spend the night in the trailer. We all went out, except her, and swarmed over it, getting into the beds, which Tony let down. Even poor stiff old Harold. Pcss M appeared and made angry comments about it being late for the accountant. A dignified fellow was drawing up in a Rolls. Accountant!
Notes:
‡Thomas B. Hess (1920–1978), editor of ARTnews for almost a quarter of a century. One of Gendel’s closest friends.
§Audrey Hess (1924–1974), New York civic leader, active in politics, education, and the arts; wife of Tom Hess and granddaughter of the philanthropist Julius Rosenwald.
*Iris Tree (1897–1968), British poet, actress, bohemian. As a model, she was photographed by Man Ray, sculpted by Jacob Epstein, and painted by Vanessa Bell and Amedeo Modigliani.
†Harold Acton (1904–1994), Anglo-Italian writer, historian, and aesthete; the character Anthony Blanche in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited is based in part on Acton.
Just Passing Through (FSG), edited by Cullen Murphy, is out now.
