Surrealism. Penelope Rosemont

chance conspired to get us to Paris to see this exhibition, the last that André Breton himself inspired and organized.

       New Year’s Eve, 1965

      The Surrealist New Year’s Eve party was held at the Théâtre Ranelagh near the Bois de Boulogne across Paris from our hotel. This was the first time we would meet the surrealists. I wore my light-gray wool dress with a red paisley pattern and suede boots, felt hopelessly out of fashion by Paris standards, where every woman working in every shop looked like a fashion model; I felt rather nervous and anxious.

      We arrived around nine or ten at the Ranelagh, a very romantic-looking place, even more so, as the outside was entirely dark. Benayoun told us the antique theater was one of the oldest in Paris and, indeed, guidebooks tell of Marie Antoinette’s masked balls there. It was now owned by a friend of the surrealists, Henri Ginet, who was thus our host for the evening and who had contributed a work to the L’Ecart absolu exhibition.

      We met no one as we entered and followed the lights downward into the theater. I was impressed by the tiers of broad stairs carpeted in red, with huge crystal chandeliers on every landing; after the darkness outside, the effect of these blazing chandeliers was dazzling; the carpeted stairs and chandeliers seemed endless as we walked down from level to level, lower and lower into the depths of the building, certainly a dramatic setting for a grand entrance. (Were we off to see the Wizard?)

      Then the huge dark theater, we walked down a long, long center aisle, me wanting to turn back and perhaps reconsider all this; Franklin nervous, too, we held hands to encourage each other. From the stage we heard Jean-Claude Silbermann say, “Chicago!” Benayoun had told everyone to expect us.

      On the stage, a buffet dinner was set on a long table. We came up, all eyes on us, nervous as could be but then we were given a marvelous welcome by all in the surrealist tradition: kissed twice, once on each cheek, and greeted warmly. I felt incredibly awkward at all of this, but it made me feel so good, so welcome; I bumped noses with Jean Benoît while trying to get my kisses exchanged.

      Benoît bounded up with some champagne and gave me a couple more kisses. He said to Franklin, “I like you, Chicago!” and grabbed a chunk of Franklin’s face, announcing to all, “I like him. Yes, I like him, he is trés sympatique. Yes, I like you, Chicago, but I like your wife better.” Mimi Parent, his companion, laughed. “Just ignore him,” she said. Not easy, as he was good sized, stocky, wearing a short pink dress with puffy sleeves and using two balloons as false breasts which he kept shifting around “to see where they looked best.” Big legs with heavy black hair glared out from under the short pink skirt. Further, Benoît had the habit of grabbing me by the arm and dragging me off to say hello to someone on the other side of the stage.

      Several years earlier Benoît, I knew, had branded himself using a hot iron with the letter S for Sade during a ritual in celebration of the Marquis de Sade. He had performed this ritual at the time of the last surrealist exhibition; I asked if I could see the scar. Obligingly, he pulled down the front of his pink dress and showed a now faint S among the hairs on his chest. Then he related the great tale of how he prepared for a long, long time, preparing both his costume and his mind, spending days and nights obsessed with the idea, working himself into a frenzy of anticipation and desire. Those in the group who witnessed his ritual found it profoundly hypnotic and symbolic. After the dramatic moment in which Benoît burned the S into his chest, a much-inspired Matta jumped up to join him, seized the hot iron, and pressed it against his naked chest also, Mimi added. But Matta hadn’t prepared for it, was badly burned, let out a horrible scream, and fainted.

      Benoît told us he and Mimi had come to Paris from Canada to meet André Breton and join the Surrealist Group, but while they stayed in Paris for ten years, he was too shy to contact Breton and the group. Finally he met André through his daughter Aube. I certainly understood this suffering. Now, however, Benoît was madly overthrowing his inhibitions. He arranged one balloon in back, one in front, and sat down in Mimi’s lap. Bang, One of the balloons exploded.

      There were perhaps forty people present, surrealists and their close friends. We did our best to meet and greet everyone. Radovan Ivsic was there with a camera, taking pictures all evening, tall, extremely thin, pale, and quiet, with a disconcerting way of standing absolutely still and motionless, Radovan had come from Yugoslavia. We met Alain Joubert, Nicole Espagnol, and Giovanna and Jean-Michael Goutier who had done a mysterious dance performance together at the opening of the surrealist exhibition. Benayoun arrived quite late and Breton did not come at all; Benayoun said André wasn’t well and didn’t care for parties.

      Franklin and I both gave the impression that we were shy and retiring types in part because we had not yet realized that the normal speaking distance in France is much closer than in the U.S., so as people stepped toward us to speak, we stepped back. I remember being disconcerted at finding myself backed up against the table or in a corner by various French surrealists talking animatedly about group plans, not really intending to be particularly forward; they danced their conversations more beautifully and animatedly than we in the English-speaking world dance ours, with a wealth of gesture, using hands and head and generally more of the body.

      The great Czech painter Toyen was there, with her wonderful warm but quiet ways, not dressed up at all, but wearing a white shirt and dark slacks, the same simple, practical outfit she wore to group meetings and everywhere. José Pierre and Jean-Claude Silbermann held glasses of champagne and talked animatedly.

      Franklin and I had more champagne, not much, as we weren’t used to the taste, and ate some food, or tried to. It was a cold buffet, with rye bread spread with cream cheese and caviar. I distinctly remember the caviar because I recall trying to very discreetly scrape it off onto the neighboring piece with a huge knife, the only one I could find. We were both quite hungry and had to repeat this performance several times so our subtlety was observed to the amusement of all.

      There was a grand piano and Franklin played boogie-woogie and rhythm and blues tunes that echoed through the hall, spicing up the end of dinner.

      At midnight, everyone kissed one another again with excitement and enthusiasm and wished each other Bonne Année, 1966 had begun. What a year it was to be! After that, the table was removed, and the stage readied for the entertainment that had been planned and rehearsed. It proved to be both lavish and funny. Various surrealists from the group got up and did skits, charades, or told stories; there was plenty of riotous laughter. We, of course, were in trouble; humor and songs of another language are something that really need to be pondered by anyone who is not a native speaker. But it was enjoyable just to watch, seeing the expressions and gestures, bold and flamboyant. Jean Schuster did a charade performance based on the Communicating Vessels, a work of Breton’s; it was the “non-communicating vessels.”

      A particularly lively chorus-line dance was performed by some of the women of the Surrealist Group, five of them dressed in black tuxedo chorus-girl costumes, legs in black fishnet stockings, long tuxedo tails in back, high silk hats, white dickeys with bow ties and slim black canes. The tall, slim Mimi Parent was at the center, with her long, spectacular legs. It was funny and extremely well done.

      Then more skits and songs. At one point, an inspired woman in the audience, slim, tiny, and blonde, who had not been part of any of the performances, got up on the grand piano and began a charming and provocative striptease. Gracefully she removed her garments one by one, down to her bikini panties; by this time, she had everyone’s attention. Suddenly, she became self-conscious and refused to go on, resulting in moans and loud protests. “What a silly time to become shy. Take the rest off!” someone in her audience called out. It was her husband.

      More skits and performances were coming up, but we were tired out, hadn’t realized the party was planned to go on until dawn; also we were exhausted from trying so very hard to follow the French, not used to saturation levels at all. It was also difficult to remain because, in some ways, we suffered from a puritanism of youth and thought of ourselves as very serious revolutionaries; it was hard to just relax, have fun, and be deliriously silly. A year of frustrating jobs had made me grim. I felt a heavy burden of desperation; I was much older and more serious then than I am now, having realized at last that