Is the Bibliophilist a Man, a Woman, or Gertrude Stein?

by Stephen J. Gertz

The Bibliophilist by Alan E. Odle, c. 1910.

There The Bibliophilist sits, a stout, androgynous figure in a voluminous dressing gown and slippers, reading and smoking by the light of a candle resting atop a pile of books including volumes by Balzac, Swift, Dante, Vuillier, Goya, and Richard Payne Knight.

Here The Biblioiphilist appears on Whatman wove paper watermarked 1907, in pen and black ink by Allan E. Odle (1888-1948), c. 1910, in the style of Aubrey Beardsley.

Of Odle, little is known. He was married to novelist Dorothy Richardson (1873-1957), fifteen years his senior. A book illustrator, he designed the dust jacket for the Ordinary Edition of James Hanley's Ebb and Flow (London: John Lane at the Bodleyhead, 1932), and other Hanley novels for Lane, and provided illustrations to Candide (G. Routledge, 1922), Richardson's Backwater (1916), and a U.K. edition of Twain's  salute to scatology and Elizabethan manners, 1601 a Tudor Fireside Conversation (London: Printed for Subscribers only and to be sold at ye beare Backside-in-Maiden Lane, 1936), amongst others. He was known for his grotesque style, and was connected to the surrealists, as was Richardson's work favorably compared to the key surrealist/stream of consciousness modern novelists, particularly Gertrude Stein.

Did Alan Odle, a young artist in his early twenties very much into modernism, cross paths with Gertrude Stein who, from 1903-1912, lived in Paris with her brother, Leo?  Perhaps while Odle was an art student in Paris and she a modernist art critic making her mark? Did she sit for him and then reject the portrait as a bit too grotesque? Alternatively, is this an anonymous impression of her by Odle? Or is the similarity between the figure in The Bibliophilist and Gertrude Stein simply a delightful coincidence?

Bloomsbury-London is offering The Bibliophilist at their Books, Manuscripts, Maps, and Works on Paper sale, December 15, 2011 without identifying the figure. The estimate is £150-£200, the same as when Bloomsbury previously offered this so far homeless drawing in which Odle has, to all appearances, captured  Gertrude Stein in what might be an unrecorded Stein portrait.

Portrait of Gertrude Stein by Félix Valloton, 1907.

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ODLE, Allan E. The Bibliophilist. N.p., n.d. [c. 1910].  325 x 310mm., signed lower right, titled upper right, a marginal dampstain centre left.
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Image courtesy of Bloomsbury Auctions, with our thanks.
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Five Stories of Stein Debuts In San Francisco

By Nancy Mattoon

Félix Edouart Vallotton,
Gertrude Stein, 1907, oil on canvas.
(All images courtesy of Contemporary Jewish Museum of San Francisco.)

In Gertrude Stein's writing every word lives and, apart from concept, it is so exquisitely rhythmical and cadenced that if we read it aloud and receive it as pure sound, it is like a kind of sensuous music. Just as one may stop, for once, in a way, before a canvas of Picasso, and, letting one's reason sleep for an instant, may exclaim: "It is a fine pattern!" so, listening to Gertrude Steins' words and forgetting to try to understand what they mean, one submits to their gradual charm.

Mabel Dodge Luhan, Speculations, or Post-Impressionists in Prose, 1913.

Bachrach Studio, Gertrude Stein, c. 1903,
Photograph dry-mounted on board.

A new show at San Francisco's Contemporary Jewish Museum echoes those perceptive words from Mabel Dodge Luhan, Gertrude Stein's (1874-1946) influential friend and one-time publisher. Seeing Gertrude Stein: Five Stories is "the first major museum exhibition to fully investigate [the] fascinating visual legacy and life of Stein." It is "an art-filled biographical exploration" of Stein’s multi-faceted and labyrinthine identity.

George Platt Lynes, Gertrude Stein, Bilignin,
1931, toned gelatin silver print.

Stein's influence in the art world stretched well beyond literature to encompass ballet, opera, painting, sculpture, fashion design, interior design, and even cooking. She was a taste-maker and social networker before such categories even existed. Five Stories examines "Stein’s identities as a literary pioneer, transatlantic modernist, Jewish-American expatriate, American celebrity, art collector, and muse to artists of several generations."

Francis Rose, Alice B. Toklas and Gertrude Stein,
Bilignin, 1939, tempera and gouache on cardboard.

The first of the five stories, Picturing Gertrude, notes that "she became one of the most painted, sculpted and photographed women of the twentieth-century." Her image over the decades was somehow both à la mode and extremely individualistic. She was alternately a Gibson Girl, a New Woman, a Bohemian priestess, a schoolmarmish matron, and mannish cross-dresser. This story "presents portraits of Stein from her childhood to maturity and includes works by Felix Vallotton, Man Ray, Cecil Beaton, Carl Van Vechten, Jacques Lipchitz, Jo Davidson and others."

Cecil Beaton, Gertrude Stein 1935,
gelatin silver print.

Story Two, Domestic Stein, focuses on the relationship between Stein and her lifelong partner, Alice B. Toklas. As the exhibit press release notes, "There was no Gertrude without Alice and no Alice without Gertrude." The associate curator of the show, Tirza True Latimer, remarks, "You might say Toklas—who edited and typed Stein's manuscripts, managed her social and professional life, groomed her appearance, created her domestic settings, and archived her papers—invented the Stein we have come to know. In turn, Stein, with The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, invented Toklas."

Unidentified Artist,
Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas,
Aix-les-Bains, France, c.1927, Photograph.

The third story of the quintet, The Art of Friendship, deliberately takes the focus off Stein's most famous friends, such as Matisse, Picasso, and Hemingway, to highlight her role as mentor to a lesser known group of young, mostly gay artists, writers, and composers. Stein has been called "a collector of geniuses," and was an early champion of such diverse figures as Carl Van Vechten, Cecil Beaton, Sir Francis Rose, Samuel Steward, Frederick Ashton, Sir Gerald Berners and Virgil Thompson.

Cecil Beaton, Sir Francis Rose and Gertrude Stein,
Bilignin, 1939, gelatin silver print.

Celebrity Stein is the title of the fourth story, which concentrates on the perception of the writer in her native country of the United States, and her adopted homeland of France. In 1934, Stein and Toklas undertook a seven-month lecture tour across the U.S. According to the show, "the American press followed them every step of the way, yielding far more coverage, headlines, and news photographs than Stein had ever elicited abroad." The other aspect of this story covers the lives of the two women as expatriates in France during both World Wars. During World War I, Stein and Toklas were instrumental in distributing Red Cross supplies throughout France. Their tenure in Nazi-occupied France during World War II is much more complicated and controversial. Stein's refusal to leave Vichy France is seen by some as both monumental self-importance and a complete denial of her Jewish heritage.

Carl Van Vechten, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas
Departing Newark Airport with Zuni Fetishes,
November 7, 1934, gelatin silver print.

Story Five, Legacies, looks at the visual survival of Stein as a literary legend and "an icon of queer culture." It includes caricatures, cartoons, and photographs as well as fine artworks inspired by her literary importance, "magnetic personality," and open lesbian lifestyle. Works here include images of Stein by Andy Warhol, Felix Gonzales-Torres, Red Grooms, Glenn Ligon, Deborah Kass.

Deborah Kass, Let Us Now Praise Famous Women #3,
1994-5, silkscreen, ink and acrylic on canvas.

Seeing Gertrude Stein: Five Stories will be on view at the Contemporary Jewish Museum from May 12 through September 6, 2011. An online photo gallery is available at the Museum's website to give virtual visitors a taste of the show's flavor.
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In Paris With Scott, Zelda, Kiki, Ernest, Gertrude, Etc., and Georges Barbier

by Stephen J. Gertz

"All gods dead, all wars fought, all faith in man shaken," I  said to Zelda. The novel was killing me. I didn't know where to begin, what it was about, nothing, and needed  madness to fan my flaming youth and fuel the typewriter. So we went to the Artists and Models Ball. It was the Jazz Age. Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Kiki looked ravishing in a gown that Man Ray spent the entire evening underneath, ravishing Kiki from within what he called “my darkroom of delights,” where, he boasted, interesting things always developed. When the lights were low, you could see its red light faintly aglow; she was a walking brothel. Zelda and I were pleased that Kiki resisted his entreaties to wear the violin ensemble; he would have fiddled with her f-holes all night. Man is a shameless satyr. Would it kill him to engage the f-stop every now and then?

"How's the book going," he asked from within.

"Not so great."

I ran into Gertrude Stein. Her gown was a huge thing; you could have hidden a rhinoceros in it. But considering that a rhinoceros was already occupying the premises, it was a moot point. Yet it did have the slenderizing effect she was after; Gertrude was a svelte calf and cut quite a figure.

Gertrude was Gertrude was Gertrude, though she’d deck me if she knew I referred to her in the past tense; she’s got a right like Dempsey. She’s very much into the present, tense if she doesn’t like it and can’t return it for cash or credit. Alice was at home baking who knows what, and Stein was all by herself, doing a whole lot of nothing. “Gert, what gives?” I asked.

“It takes a lot of time to be a genius,” she said, “you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing.”

“But, Gertrude,” I replied, “if you’re doing nothing by definition you’re doing something. Doing is action.”

“Don’t start up with me, Scotty. I’ll pop you this side of paradise to the other side of hell.”

She apologized immediately for the threat, asked how the book was going ("Lousy"), and offered me an Alice brownie.

"No, thanks," I said, "I prefer my snacks 90-proof."

Thus inspired, I stopped at the bar, had a few snacks, and then casually went looking for Ernest. Couldn't find him.

Saw Natalie Barney. She was in page boy drag, coming on to every woman in the room.

"I am a page of love, sent by Sappho," she said to each one. I've heard worse opening lines. She's been using this routine since 1899 when she threw herself at Liane de Pougy. It's getting old.

When Natalie pitched the line to Zelda, she replied "And I'm the King of Sparta, sent by Alcibiades."

Natalie was taken aback by Zelda's impertinence, which she found so charming that she was taken on her back, right there, by Renée Vivian, whose poetry Natalie knew by heart: the curve of her buttocks, the contour of her hips, the crease of her furrow. Natalie was always forthcoming about her sexuality but preferred coming first; so competitive.

Afterward, Renée said, "I do not belong here. Who will bring me hemlock with their own hands."  The life of the party.

Zelda and I excused ourselves and went looking for Ernest in earnest. I searched all over but for the life of me could not find him. The problem was that Ernest was not Ernest. Or. rather, that Ernest was earnestly trying to find the real Ernest.

Apparently, he did. We finally caught up with him, as he, I guess, caught up with himself, and I never saw him so radiant. He really looked divine, the diaphanous top  of his extraordinary gown highlighting his pecs. It did prove difficult, however, when he left to spar a few rounds on the balcony with an extremely reluctant Ezra Pound, whose stock demurral, “Canto, boy-o,” Ernest repeatedly ignored. His frock got the worst of it; organza wrinkles easily and chiffon is so delicate. It was sheer travesty. Particularly as Ernest had the weight advantage over Pound.

"I'm not going to get in the ring with Tolstoy," Ernest said.

Sure, Tolstoy was dead. Yet he still had an excellent chance against Ernest, who always overestimated his prowess as a boxer.

I asked him, What's with the hat?

Turns out, he'd been assiduously avoiding Gertrude, with whom he'd had a major falling out, and figured the hat would mask his identity, the gown, apparently, too subtle a charade. I'm probably the only one who knows the truth: He insisted that they spar and she kicked his ass; he couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Having a woman clean his clock was too much to bear, his clockworks got all bent out of shape, and he never gave her the time of day again.

"Any progress with the book?" he asked, already aware. I didn't bother answering; the schadenfreude was palpable.

"First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes  you," I thought to myself while Zelda was in the ladies room having a transient breakdown. The drink took me over to the bar; it was lonely and wanted companionship. I obliged.

 

Gerald and Sara Murphy paraded by. Sara, a statuesque beauty, led the way, with Gerry as her worshipful  attendant. He was protecting her from the glare of dim light with a parasol from which hung, at first glance, sausages but on closer inspection were actually penises. G & S are the soul of decadent modernity, Paris' favorite fun couple. They have a flexible marriage; he bends to her will, she stretches his tolerance.

"Interesting umbrella," I said to Sara.

"And when there's a gentle breeze," she replied, "it's a heavenly wind chime."

O-kay... I mentally scratched her off my to-do list.

A moment later, a woman began a flamenco baile, danced right up to me, stopped, gave me the  once-over, said, "The night is a skin pulled over the head of day that the day may be in torment," handed me a flower, and danced away. "Lighten up, Djuna," I called after her but she was already halfway across the ballroom. My troubled manuscript came to mind. I felt the night pull over my head. Time for another snack, a double double.

"How's the book coming along," someone behind me asked. I turned, and, my God,  it was James Joyce, indescribable in an outfit more out there than his prose. "It is you, Scott, isn't it? Without my fookin' glasses I can't see a fookin' thing."

"Jimmy, all good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath," I said. "And I'm drowning."

"A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk," he said, obliquely, but I  understood, acutely. What's a blocked novel? Corpse of writer.

"I'm ready to put a gun to my head," I lamented.

He leaned in, squinted at me, hard, and said, "I can help.  I've got a gat. It's a hell of a gat, one big giant gat, it's a rich gat, a fat gat, an enigma gat, a gat in a hat and spats, a gat to end all gats.  This gat's be great."

Suddenly, a green light beckoned from across the bay. Two giant blue eyes, faceless, behind a pair of yellowed glasses, winked at me from above a valley of ashes while in the west an egg set as the moon. The drinks had finally kicked in. I felt serene.

Yes,  I  can  write  this  novel, I  thought. I   retrieved  Zelda   from  the   ladies  room,  we  said  our goodbyes, and staggered out into the night. It was tender.

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Apologies to Georges Barbier and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
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All images from Georges Barbier's Vingt-Cinq Costumes pour Le Theatre, Paris: Chez Camille Bloch & Jules Meynial, 1927, and are courtesy of Eric Chaim Kline, Bookseller.
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If you enjoyed this bagatelle you may also be entertained by A Decadent Night in Paris With Georges Barbier.

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