Culture Zohn: Sex and Love; Valentines Day Plus One

Now that the holiday whose only religion is the worship of love has safely passed, that proposals have either been proffered (or not), accepted (or not), that jewels and flowers and bistro meals have been surrogates for every tongue-tied cupid, I feel we can once again safely take up the matter of true love and whether it exists. Artists, writers and other creative types often make themselves the guinea pigs in the search for an answer.

Anais Nin, a writer whose personal revelations about the intimacy between men and women made her infamous, spent a lifetime trying to figure this out. Nin, who sometimes earned her living in the early years as a purveyor of erotica but whose real calling was as a diarist, was honored both for her audacity and talent by a group of her old friends and colleagues who came together this week to reminisce at the Hammer Museum, the occasion of her would be 105th birthday. The witnesses ranged from writing acolytes to her architect, Eric Lloyd Wright, grandson of Frank and half brother of Rupert Pole, one of Nin's husbands.

That matter-of-fact acknowledgement of of Nin's decade-long bigamy is due mostly to her having paved the way for her own sexual immortality. Variously described as a "feminist who enjoyed femininity", one who "worked at her beauty", who was "generous, not a narcissist", who broke through boundaries of "gender and personal connection" and whose diaries formed the basis of the first NC 17 movie (Henry and June among others), Nin clearly captivated men and women alike but held the desire of men, and their wants and needs paramount, often proselytizeing to her feminist friends. To Nin, "men was the magic word".

But Nin did not reveal everything to her diary. She also kept notes to herself in a lock box she called her "trapeze" to remember what she had told each husband. On the eve of the publication of her first diary, she dreamt that a nuclear holocaust was going to blow her away.

Alan Wheelis, a shrink whose artful self-examination well predated HBO's In Treatment, could have validated her concern. In his memoir "The Listener: A Psychoanalyst Examines His Life, " he was in synch with Nin. "When I pick up a novel, I look first for the sexual passages. I want to know what this author thinks can happen between a man and a woman. I discover the girl undressing, examine her undergarments, see her twisting and moaning under her lover. . . . I go right to the limit, the far edge. Before learning whether it's safe for her even to have coffee with this guy or to go for a walk, I have her skirt up, her legs spread wide."

In Jeffrey Eugenides collection recently issued selection of short stories, My mistresses's Sparrow is Dead Harold Brodkey writes in Innocence of a man's attempt--in thirty-three page, clinical, graphic detail, to give his girlfriend her first orgasm. After reading this journey which he makes every bit as arduous as climbing Mt. McKinley, you will be rather exhausted and grateful for the little bit of romance your Valentine was at pains to deliver.

The antidote could be The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (with companion film by Marty Scorcese) A man, his fiance and the woman he is obsessed by are set within a tightly controlled world where every action is under a bell jar, every mannerism scrutinized for its subtle indicators of state of mind. In a way, Wheelis's theory about judging his authors' strength with sexual character is as justified here--though the skirt is only up as far as an ankle. Newland Archer who is torn between his duty (to May) and his passion (for Ellen Olenska) is haunted by the "what ifs" and "if onlys" that get us all into a heap of revisionist trouble. Nevertheless, Newland's (Daniel Day Lewis's) scenes with Mme Olenska (Michelle Pfeiffer) are some of the most passionate in all of cinema and yet depend on nothing but a glance, a word, a hint of repressed sexuality that is probably more of a turn on than all the legs spread the whole world wide.

Three films that tell of the twists and turns of love, Unbearable Lightness of Being (Kundera via Philip Kaufman), Out of Africa (Isaak Dinensen by way of Sidney Pollack) and Jules and Jim (Henri Pierre Roche via Truffaut) somehow leave you hungering for more (love, that is) even though the love affairs portrayed eventually go south (literally off the deep end or into the wild blue yonder).

One that manages to keep love on its true though bumpy course, The Baker's Wife, (Jean Giono via Marcel Pagnol) is the story of a new baker whose arrival has lifted the spirit of a small French village only to discover that his babelicious wife has been stepping out on him with the local roue. The baker stops baking and the entire village, which has been thrown into a paroxysm of yeast lust, bands together to get her back for him. As far as I am concerned, bread is as important as skirts at waists and as much of a glue as anything else though with everyone on Atkins and South Beach, the allure of gluten is at a nadir.

While the French don't have a patent on this kind of thing: in Gigi, by Colette, a young girl is buffed and polished for an eventual liaison with a wealthy patron. Instead, she opts for true love, defying her aunt.

In Mademoiselle de Maupin, Theophile Gautier tells the story of D'Albert and his mistress Rosette who are both in love with Theodore who is really Mlle. de Maupin in disguise as a man so she can learn about them before trying to find herself one. This idea has been corrupted over and over again (from Shakespeare to Tootsie). Maupin eventually has a night of passion with each of them only to abandon them both.

Of course Nin did not have a corner on the real-life triangulation market.

Ghost Ships by Robert McNab, focuses on another love triangle, the one amongst the artist Max Ernst, the poet Paul Eluard and his wife Gala (who became Dali's wife a bit later on down the daisy chain of cultural cats she enticed) as they set forth to Indochina. This reminds everyone that artists can claim eminent domain as a love principle and get away with it.

The story of Margrethe Mather and Edward Weston alongside your lover can be both comfort and combustible. Weston moved on to love affairs with his next models, Betty Katz and Tina Modotti but the early photos that Weston took of her (he referred to her as "the first important person in his life") are among the most sensuous in his oeuvre--one of her on a horsehair sofa guaranteed to raise the temperature wordlessly.

But he artistic life is not always romantic. Fernande Olivier's journal of her time with Picasso published as Loving Picasso, with notes by Marilyn McCully is a personal history of their volatile relationship but also a portrait of the Bateau Lavoir the cradle of creativity where they lived together. She was eventually unceremoniously dumped by the king of 20th century art who was already living with Eva in Spain, but in the early years she was a cunning narrator of the cultural scene and grateful to him, "Pablo always makes sure I have my bottle of perfume, my rice powder, my books, my tea--and, best of all, I have his love."

Then there were those who set their caps for real kings, like Lola Montez who was also known (erroneously some say) for her Spider Dance in which she indeed raised her skirt to her waist. If you haven't seen Max Ophuls eponymous film then treat yourself. My favorite scene is the opening when Lola is presented by a circus ringmaster (played to devilish perfection by Peter Ustinov) as an "act" and she is paraded around the perimeter. The males she has wounded line up to confront her which only proves that it is possible that our old boyfriends will indeed be there at the gates to see if we merit getting into heaven or not, ohmygosh.

But Lola believed in true love--even if it was over and over again. Her book The Arts of Beauty of Secrets of a Lady's Toilet with Hints to Gentlemen on the practical art of beauty endures, including, most charmingly, its hints to gentlemen about how to win a girl's heart.

You don't even need to read a book to get sage advice. My brother could tell you that the one thing never to do is to kiss a girl on the first date in front of her doorman; after a protracted email correspondence with a New York girl (he lives in the burbs), he took her out for a night on the town. He came home jubilant, saying that she might indeed be the one only to learn after a resounding post date silence that she was furious at him for having the audacity, the presumption, to kiss her goodnight in plain view of the men in the gray suits. While I understand about doormen (see last week's post regarding living together but passing) and how they essentially are in loco parentis for all of Manhattan this girl struck me a someone who was taking herself entirely too seriously.

Also in the category of advice:

The Spotter's Guide to the Male Species, by Juliette Wills, a post-Lola take on men that divides them according to things like clothes (chinos and a blue shirt=tame) physical approaches(does he stroke your face?) and nocturnal activities (reads before turning out the light).

For their part, men can read about the Female Brain which was pitched to women when it first came out but which seems to me to be the perfect bedside reading of males: this book will enlighten them about the teen brain, the mommy brain and the mature brain, which is what I thought I had until recently.

But if you're a guy who really wants to make points with a girl, read Simone De Beauvoir's original advice tome, The Second Sex which will not only show you how deeply women torture themselves but also how little has changed since she wrote it in 1952. De Beauvoir starts out in her introduction by saying, "For a long time I have hesitated to write a book on women. The subject is irritating.....and not new. (And then there was the little fact of her triangulating Nelson Algren and Sartre--two guys who were about as far from enlightened as you can get)

Against Love should be read by both men and women. Laura Kipnis throws the whole male female thing into the realm of domestic gulags and love's labors, telling it like it is and not how you want it to be: true love is BACKBREAKING WORK. Kipnis is v. worth reading but fair warning: if you are married and you read this book, all bets are off.

Love Sick by Dr. Frank Tallis tells about love as a "mental illness". Ok, maybe not strictly Valentine's fare but he has pointers about diagnosing love as a necessary madness or obsession or addiction which you can then treat by going back to the top of the list and reading Nin.

Aren't you glad Valentine's Day only comes once a year?!

Comments

[Americain]

There are almost too many advice books here to keep track of Patricia. I'd love to see George Carlin write one as I'm sure it would be a love guide for the ages. In the meantime I'll read some Anais Nin, I guess it couldn't hurt.