Either by human design or fate, I can’t escape the world of my father, the artist Wallace Berman. This means I also can’t escape the presence of Antonin Artaud (1896-1948). This visionary writer, who made his mark in the theater and his writings, is a figure that one can’t possibly ignore if one is attracted to a counter-culture of almost any kind. Like Rimbaud, Artaud is a writer who burns his bridges to reach a point many consider of no return. The exploration of one’s senses and physical state of mind and body is challenged, and it is done so in a heroic manner, which other beings either ignore or greatly admire, either by reading their works or having their picture on our walls.
I don’t think there was ever a moment when my dad didn’t have a photograph or even a series of photos of Artaud that wasn’t placed in his workspace either at home or later in his studio in Topanga Canyon. Along with Jean Cocteau, genius ballet (and mad) dancer Vaslav Nijinsky, and Wardell Tray, with Dexter Gordon on his wall, I think Wallace’s spirit and vision were kept alive.
I inherited my father’s taste because finding anything more than Artaud was impossible. If I were a rebelling youth, I could only do so by subscribing to William F. Buckley’s National Review, but alas, I accepted my family way, and I, too, became a fan of Artaud. Dad always brought the most extreme works to my attention by bringing in albums such as Captain Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica, which, by the way, I finally purchased a copy of last week. I have been dancing around this album for at least fifty years. Wallace played it constantly, but I could never wrap my head or ears around this Beefheart album. The same goes for his love for Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, and The Fugs first album. It took decades as well, but now I have those albums and listen to them. They, of course, bring back memories of Wallace but listening to such work that is in one’s face, you get that extra textural manner. My dad always had exceptional taste, and I trusted him. It just took me a long time to get on the wagon here.
Artaud is something that I picked up quickly from Wallace. His images on our wall were too complex for me not to look at. He was handsome, and even as he got older, he looked more attractive. Perhaps not in a healthy way, but one can see his wretched journey by every line on Artaud’s face. If you are a certain age, you can see this as being romantic, or if you are in your senior years and have been into some dark alleys, it’s a tragedy. But then again, I have experienced that cocktail of romantic thoughts and tragic actions. Through various shock treatments, lengthy stays in a mental hospital, and horrific health, Artaud somehow produced an exceptional artistic life. His life is a byproduct of multiple religious themes and the peyote landscape of extraordinary exploration. His madness appeals to anyone struggling with life in the confined 20th century before the Hippie explosion.
Beyond the image of Artaud, he is a writer of great beauty. The reader deeply feels his suffering, and the give and take of communication and even the ability to write is a struggle. Artaud takes it to a heroic level, and he is a rare soul who can articulate through his great but broken language a position or setting in his life that I can feel and identify with. One of the things I love about Artaud is what he feels is the importance of ritual, which is something I greatly believe in as a writer. If I could, I would also force rituals into my private everyday life, but life itself gets in the way. Compromise is a journey in itself from mental issues to hopefully something healthy, but alas, it is like a trip portrayed in The Wages of Fear.
I have about twenty books on or by Artaud in my library. The one book I want to have and read is Lucy Bradnock’s study on Artaud and his influence on contemporary art. Some time ago, Ms. Bradnock requested to use my father’s artwork as a cover for her book published by Yale University. The publisher’s design department did a remarkable job using my dad’s art for its cover. The art itself is a card that Wallace made for and sent to Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who is not only a significant poet but the publisher and owner of City Lights Books and their store. It was a request for Lawrence to send Wallace a copy of the Artaud Anthology, edited and translated by Jack Hirschman. It was the first serious collection of Artaud’s writings in English.
There is a critical biography that I admire and can easily recommend on Artaud by David A. Shafer, and it is part of the Critical Lives series published by Reaktion Books. One grows up with specific figures; even though one may not understand their work, it is still part of one's DNA. As a teenager, I eventually started to read his works more out of curiosity and family duty than anything else. I have read countless books on Artaud, and, in truth, there are probably more books on him than, say, his writings. Still, the image of Artaud is a very strong one. He had a beautiful, handsome face when young, and as an adult and a drug addict - he is still pretty sharp-looking! If this were death and pain, I'd pick up a six-pack of it, please!
Yet, the surface is not everything, and as one dwells into his writings and drawings, one discovers an inner world where communication is muted by disease, mentally as well as physically - and to somewhat break that wall between audience and performer. In most circles, Artaud is considered a theater artist - especially with his manifesto Theater of Cruelty. The granddad of happenings and 20th-century experimental theater practices, Artaud is the guiding light of everything excellent about the spirit trying to leave the sick body and mind. Yet, there is usually some payment in the end. David A. Shafer wrote an excellent and brief - yet brilliant - biography and study on Artaud.
It's a sad narrative of a life of a genius that was side-tracked by madness and therefore a prolonged spell in various mental hospitals. Yet, one can never forget Artaud's image as an actor and visionary who moved out of the shadows to express sincere angst against a world that abandoned or tortured him. I fully appreciate why my dad had his photo in his studio and elsewhere. Oh, and he was a beautiful-looking man. It fit in perfectly when I took one of my walks through my neighborhood and saw a man with a large dog, and he recognized me. It was David, the author of the biography of Antonin Artaud, and he introduced himself to me. We live only a few blocks away from each other. The Artaud connection sticks to me as if it is a matter of fate.
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People were not bc so much formal as conventional …
If you were ill it wasn’t understood or allowed .
If you took drugs think Edgar Allen Poe ..
One wonders about the rise of drugs and the fall of conventional b