MEMORY LANE

Spoke to the painter Mary Beach the other day for the first time in a long, long time. As she said, "It's been a thousand years." When we knew each other back in the late '60s in San Francisco, we collaborated on a little magazine together with the French writer Claude P�lieu and the artist Norman O. Mustill. It was called The San Francisco Earthquake.

Mary and Claude, who lived together, were workaholics when I knew them. They invariably spent their days writing, translating and slicing up reams of magazine illustrations for pop collages. But after work they partied. Their apartment up the hill from North Beach was the scene of many drunken evenings. The two of them were incomparable hosts who prized intelligence, wit and balls above everything. Next came barbed gossip about overrated literary poobahs that usually ended in fits of laughter.

At the time, Mary was the publisher of Beach Books, Texts & Documents, which brought out Mustill's "Flypaper," William S. Burroughs's "APO-33," P�lieu's "With Revolvers Aimed Fingerbowls," Carl Weissner, P�lieu and Burroughs's "So Who Owns Death TV?" They're collectors' items now.

Earthquake, which lasted for five issues and was distributed by City Lights Books, also published those writers and artists, along with many others: Charles Plymell, Ed Sanders, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Ed Ruscha, Dick Higgins, Robert Duncan, Michael McClure, Frank O'Hara, Gail Dusenbery, Janine Pommy-Vega, Doug Blazek, Sinclair Beiles, Harold Norse, Jean-Jacques Lebel, Liam O'Gallagher and Nanos Valaoritis.

The first issue, co-edited with Gail Chiarrello (then using her married name Dusenberry), was printed by Mary's future son-in-law, Charles Plymell, on the old Multilith press in his bedroom. Charlie printed a lot of firsts on that Multilith, including Robert Crumb's first Zap Comix (scroll down), No. 0.

Claude died 18 months ago at 68, long regarded in his native France and elsewhere in Europe as a major figure among counterculture writers. Mary, who is 85, continues to paint. Here, for instance, is her portrait of Allen Ginsberg, and here is her portrait of Claude P�lieu. She'd probably laugh at me for mentioning that she was briefly interned in a Nazi prison camp and that, yes, she's a relative of Sylvia Beach, as the Enderlin Gallery notes, or that she had her first solo show in 1943 in Pau, France, and that she won the Prix du Dome at the Salon des Femmes Peintres in 1959 and 1st Prize, Vichy, France, Silver Medal, also in 1959.

Charlie, who refers to himself now as a white-bearded old poet, continues working, too. Probably best known for his prose memoir "The Last of the Moccasins" -- here's an excerpt -- he's the author of 11 books (scroll down), among them "Apocalypse Rose" and "Neon Poems" (two of his earliest) and "Hand On The Doorknob" (his latest). He's also the co-founder (with his wife Pamela and Josh Norton) of Cherry Valley Editions.

Mary's literary papers are held by New York University in the Beach Archive at The Fales Library & Special Collections. Mine are held by the Special Collections divison of Northwestern University Library. I don't know where Charlie's papers are. Hey, Charlie -- who's got 'em?

Postscript: "It's Wichita State University." -- < EM>CP

July 1, 2004 2:14 AM |

Categories:

Me Elsewhere

'WILD SIDE' STILL ROCKS 

Nelson Algren was one of the great American authors of the 20th century, it is no exaggeration to say, and among the most neglected. Consider his underrated classic, "A Walk on the Wild Side." The title -- popularized and co-opted as an idiomatic phrase by Hollywood and Madison Avenue (institutions Algren loathed) -- is familiar to most anyone who speaks English or knows Lou Reed's lyrics. But the novel itself? Hardly.

BUSTER KEATON REVISITED 
Buster Keaton: Tempest in a Flat Hat is not a biography. "This book is merely a fan's notes," Edward McPherson writes in the introduction, although his publisher ignores the disclaimer and calls it a biography on the cover. In fact, the book is a bit of both, a difficult combination to bring off unless you're David Thomson, who set the standard with Rosebud, his penetrating rumination on the life and career of Orson Welles, which was nothing if not a distillation of every obsessive thought he ever had about the myth and the man and all his movies.
LAUREN BACALL, STILL SALTY AT 80 
When Lauren Bacall writes that her singing voice ranges "somewhere between B minus sharp and outer space," she's being candid and funny. It's not every stage star with two Tony Awards for best actress in a musical whose vocal talent offers so little promise. (OK, Harvey Fierstein excepted.) Still less would one admit it.
THE STARS ACCORDING TO BOGDANOVICH 
Peter Bogdanovich's superb collection of movie-star profiles and interviews -- a sequel to Who the Devil Made It, his interviews of top film directors -- begins with an affectionate tale about Orson Welles that reminds us just how intimate the author's connection to Hollywood's greatest has been. But contrary to what we've come to expect from dime-a-dozen celebrities and celebrity interviews not worth two cents, the tale avoids bromidic egotism and journalistic platitudes.
HERMAN WOUK'S LATEST 
It's hard to say which comes off worse in Herman Wouk's latest novel, his first in a decade: the U.S. Congress or the American press. "A Hole in Texas" offers the choice between two emblematic stereotypes: a red-faced opportunist who heads the House Armed Services Committee and a mustachioed investigative reporter for the Washington Post.
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