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Water From A Bucket A Diary 1948-1957 Charles Henri Ford by Charles Plymell Introduction by Lynne Tollman Turtle Point Press, New York, 2001 ISBN: 1-885586-20-5. |
| Charles Henri Ford was born playing with himself. (And he invited the world to play with him.) The diary is a perfect genre for him, reflecting the old Southern culture of sitting and sipping, gossiping, alluding and philosophizing–the eternal adolescence mixes his Aegean-blue eyes with spirit. It was the blues that lead him to poetry, which is a tradition fine enough, so he called his first literary magazine, Blues. He is an artist’s artist, famous for his Inventiveness in poster poems, collages, and films, but he never got the credit he deserved for his poetry, or for publishing everyone of importance; many firsts. He contributes to little magazines, a tradition he helped begin and is loyal to, to this day. A friend, just out of college started a little mag and brought me a copy with Charles Henri’s poem in it. I quote these lines from his poem in The Butcher’s Block Vol. III/ Spring 2000, to illustrate the quintessential Existentialist. There is no better definition:
"A new name and I shall continue to exist Your left side is next to mine, no one explains why" (Originally published in 7 Poems by Charles Henri Ford, Starstreams Poetry Series #3, Nepal, 1974.) The diary consists of entries mainly by him or his life-long friend Pavel Tchelitchew, whom he calls Pavlik. It covers an immensely important period in art (1948-1957), a time of unusual creativity, historically written about mostly in retrospect. The young speak of the fifties as a boring time, full of conformity. I like to say, yeah, we wrapped it that way, fresh, like fish in newspaper, not readily processed and disposable. Little do they know what was really happening and how greatly they would be shocked to learn just how dull and conforming they are in the post-Orwellian world. For example, in the January, 1953 section of the book, the place-mats are being arranged for the 60's. The cover blurbs by Edmund White and others lists some of the greatest names in "art and love" in this "masterpiece" that are too numerous to mention here. Matthew Stadler was excited by Charles Henri’s gossip but soon realizes that his diary of that milieu is literature itself. Edmund B. Germain quickly acknowledges Charles Henri’s uniqueness, whose seminal accomplishments as America’s surrealist poet were the most significant of all modern influences upon poetry. Other than Hart Crane, existential and surreal; and Pound creating his Imagists, Charles Henri’s peers were already in the canons we were studying in higher education during the period the Diary was written. These were the times when art was re-inventing itself and Charles Henri had a hand on it all. The list of his comrades is overwhelming. Just check out his index! But first we have to warn the newspeak politically-correct reader about the themes and language. He is from the South and those who are offended by his localisms are to be pitied for the language milieu in which they grew up. The book is intellectually ahead, not behind its time. It is a nonpareil document of the intellectual bohemian life. Freshness was the force behind the artistic milieu that relied on spontaneity and lived Pound’s dictum "Make it new." To think otherwise is to fall into the problem of apathy and numbness we have in the Information Age. Again, it fits Pound’s definition of literature "as news that stays news." "Neither is Pavlik’s sometimes expressed idea of me the whole truth: someone who drinks his blood, lives on him, remains young while he grows old." Charles Henri is still the eternal youth. Most artists, poets and musicians who live that way flame out early. "Pavlik has kept me, protected me like a father, all these years (twenty in July). That’s why I’ve remained so like an adolescent–in looks and achievement. I’m not an adult yet. I’ve told him that I’m psychologically "crippled" by him—retarded." In The Last Words, The Final Journals of William S. Burroughs, edited by James Grauerholtz, we find a remarkable entry by Burroughs on Charles Henri Ford that helps us see this young man whose appearance would catch the eye—many years later: "Well he looked always indecently young, like he made the Devil’s bargain. Methinks the Devil got the worst of it.)...He was an individual." Another thematic problem is one of the current homophobic concerns which have recently gone pedophile ballistic, at least in this country. First, one has to understand a couple of things. Masturbation has been around a long time. No one has ever known when it is supposed to begin, because it cannot be chronologically ordered. Charles Henri seems to put the activity around 15 years of age, which seems about right. Ironically masturbation is back in vogue now due to STD and other teenage problems. Just recently, I was asked to read with a high-school student whose assignment was to write a poem derivative of a published poet. She chose a poem of mine (which had nothing to do with masturbation) and then read hers, which included a line about her masturbating. The activity conducted with an older person is still a cultural problem that society just can’t handle. Priest and coaches and other "role models" are always making the news with it. I was naive about the subject (other than my personal history) when I taught at a prison a decade or so ago. One of the inmates wrote me his story, and even I found his experiences unbelievable. Most of them involved welfare kids and the activity up and down the Hudson would be shocking if fully known. Make no mistake.,Charles Henri is the most discreet person I’ve met. He would be careful to know the norms and laws of various countries and would be as alarmed as anyone by trouble from this activity. Other than not wanting to cause harm to anyone, his personal feelings on the subject are animistic. In that sense, he is an innocent, and one must remember he was born an adolescent and will die an adolescent. I remember visiting him one time at the Dakota, when he was on his way to a "Spiderman" appearance to promote a new toy. Just the description of "Pavlik’s" tapeworm coming out would gross out any kid: "‘He’s coming out, he’s stampeding out...give me tea.’ He thinks it was ‘broken off.’ He says, ‘Look in my ass and see if there’s anything hanging out.’ There isn’t. He gets up from the bidet, we look at the mass-cluster (unbelievable!) Of slowly squirming worm–but the head isn’t there, he says. The finger-width ribbon (a yard or two) is only a section. The head will be very thin.. Why was it born? ‘It’s still there, it bites me like hell...I probably was nervous and it broke off, that’s all.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘I know.’" His other faults such as narcissism, etc are re-iterated enough in the text. It is difficult for me to illustrate my points quoting from the Diary, for they are both bestially bitchy and deliciously didactic at every line. Open the book anywhere and someone famous appears. This becomes more of an appreciation than a review. But if we can imagine ourselves as a mythological creature who is not guilty of its feelings, and at the same time gathered all the wisdom from it’s environment, then we are able to appreciate Charles Henri’s masterpiece. His wantonness seems to happen early, in his and his sister’s formative years. Their parents didn’t seem to the typical uptight parents of the day, but were able to share their children’s feelings and art, rather than crush them. It is with this freedom that Charles Henri can write such lighthearted candid poems in later life. We must remember that he often states his ethos as one of adolescence, narcissism, vanity, cruelty, etc. But adolesence, as in innocence, as in Rimbaud, is always the key to his creativity that re-invented pantheism, animism, hedonism for those "dull" times. "Mother, may I go out to cruise?" "Yes, my darling bugger. Drag your ass down 42 And see what you discover." And discover he did. Not only the goat herder, but all the famous people Warhol would have vied, the lifestyle that Ferlinghetti, would have aspired to. Ditto James Laughlin and John Martin. Charles not only brought all the famous-to-be to print, he lived in pure bohemian style. By the time Ferlinghetti was freeing the word "fuck" and marketing a generation, Charles Henri Ford had done it all. Now we have "fuck" generous in our speech, but other politically incorrect words strictly forbidden. There were no phoney semantics with Charles. Insights pop up throughout the diary and echo the masters: "The art followers who are on the lookout for ‘tendencies’ and ‘schools’, rather than for individuals, always get fooled." And the nostalgia becomes literature itself: "I’ll never forget how Djuna looked, the night (before I sailed for France, 1931) she walked down those basement apartment steps on Eighth Street: slim-waisted, black-suited, high heels, hat on one side (small black hat over a short red-curled haircut), red red lips and a ruffled white blouse. We drank prune whisky, then took a taxi to the Cotton Club–one night in April." He can also be what many would call cruel, but these were fractional blips on his radar. He can’t help but notice everything and would say the same about himself or anyone he dearly loved. I think this trait in Charles is often misunderstood. This genteel frankness might be in his deep south heritage, but it served him well in the dangerously insinuating back-stabbing art world in which he traveled. In another entry he reflects that Djuna is "for" good manners but is naive about what constitutes them when she didn’t let the visiting Miss Sitwell, the English Lady and the elder enter first.
Another delight of the diary is hearing all the famous gossip about each other and each other’s work. "Then Cocteau arrived and was telling the Dalis something about "Perrot" before I took him upstairs where I learned he was talking about Greta Garbo who had told him the night before that she’d like to play the part of Perrot. In What?" "Cocteau (at lunch the other day); Any actress can play Jeanne d’Arc–any actress, except–Ingrid Bergman..." Gossip, the best bitchiness, candid perceptions, and philosophical insights are abundant in the big celebration of life’s tossed salad. But Charles always has taste, he knew where to find wine or cheese or grapes or what was needed along the path to make everything perfect in the hedonistic existential world where the two philosophies came together. If one can approach the man-boy relationship as something that has no moral boundaries (though throughout the ages it always has had) that is, with a philosophical instead of hysterical approach to an age-old conundrum, one can appreciate the tastes and behavior of a great artist. This is asking a lot from today’s mainstream readers who have inherited only taboos and laws. Our educational system dares not try to explore the idea that sex is powerful and will drive itself. Part of the problem was Charles Henri’s good looks. As a boy, he had those qualities of beauty (in either sex) that makes an otherwise "normal" person look twice. To not "think" about committing taboos when sex is so explicit, probably tweaks the mind of the greatest moralists. Human nature is on its own. As Gertrude Stein said after he complimented her profile, "Yes, she said, we are both very handsome." Charles Henri always had the strong graphic element in his art and immediately recognized Cartier-Bresson as the "poet-photographer of our time." Just as his early recognition of blues was synonymous with poetry, the mix of elements and personalities made him the great artist that his is, and though no label is big enough to encompass him entirely, he could be called the last American Surrealist. When Allen Tate’s wife quoted Jacques Martiain saying "surrealism is madness." Charles Henri countered "madness is surrealism, but surrealism is not madness." There is no way to pin a label neatly on Charles Henri. The seemingly off the cuff didacticism of him and Pavlik will always be at once profound and gay, and will compel the reader to want more, just as the artists who flamed in their youth, Charles Henri still has his fire burning. This diary should awaken those who sleep, those who think nothing was happening. "Nathan shaken" was the jive talk for quite the opposite. It was all happening, and I’ve never known anyone who got more of it. A real historic lesson is here for all who missed it. A diary that is hard to put down. A fountain I can’t shut off. And for those who are disgusted by it, you will find words of wisdom coming in this fountain of words. "The insidious thing is that disgust passes away." |
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