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Watching boxing with Picasso and a ménage-à-trois at home: my life with the surrealist elite. Enfance, j’écris ton nom. Entretien avec Cécile Eluard

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Salvador Dali and Cecile Eluard's mother Gala in Dali's Paris studio in 1934. Photograph: Bettmann/CORBIS

Watching boxing with Picasso and a ménage-à-trois at home: my life with the surrealist elite
As a book by her poet father Paul Eluard is due to be published for the first time in English, Cécile Eluard, 95, recalls her youth among such geniuses as Max Ernst, Salvador Dalí and Marcel Duchamp
Agnès Poirier in Paris

As befits the daughter of one of the 20th century's most famous surrealists, Paul Eluard, the childhood of Cécile Eluard was never less than extraordinary. As she grew up in the family home of Eaubonne, north of Paris, in the late 1920s, the German dadaist Max Ernst was painting frescoes on the walls as well as sleeping with her mother.

"Ernst had painted on the walls of almost every room of our house," she recalls now at the age of 95. "There was a duck on wheels just above my bed." In a dining room corner, Ernst had painted a big naked woman, whose body was sliced off. "You could see her innards. That terrified me." There was also a red room in which another naked woman clasped her enormous breast. "That frightened me beyond belief." Meanwhile, in her parents' room Ernst painted aardvarks eating ants and big human hands around the windows. "Sexual connotations, I think," she says shyly.

Ernst , the German painter, became Paul Eluard's best friend at the age of 30 as well as the lover of her mother, Gala. "We lived there, all together, quite naturally, for a few years. I don't remember finding it odd."

Having grown up surrounded by some of the most colourful, eccentric and brilliant artists of the century, Eluard has a treasure trove of such memories. But she has been reticent when it comes to sharing them.

Though legions of art lovers and art historians remain fascinated by the surrealist movement that captivated Europe between the world wars , Eluard has given only three interviews in her lifetime and, until now, none in English.

But the occasion of a new edition of the only children's book her poet father wrote, Grain-d'Aile (1951), has inspired her to open up. The book will be re-released in Francewith new illustrations by the artist Chloé Poizat and is soon to be published for the first time in English, which might generate a new audience for Eluard's work on the English side of the Channel. His daughter's reminiscences open the door to a lost radical and vibrant world in which conventions, whether artistic or moral, were there to be flouted.

Some of Eluard's fondest memories are of Picasso, a close friend, who used to take her to boxing matches. "He never got old. I never felt the 40-odd years between us. We would go and have a swim in Vallauris, I would come and visit him whenever I liked in his studio in rue des Grands Augustins in Paris. He would show me his little sculptures made of bric-à-brac. He was so alive, so earthy, so absolutely not abstract!"

Did his mistresses resent the friendship? "Dora Maar didn't like me, I remember it well, she told me so! But then, she didn't like women, she was only interested in men. I liked the next one better, Françoise Gilot, she was bright, and kind."

Cécile Eluard was destined to find her loves and friendships among the luminaries of the avant-garde. Her parents, Paul Eluard and Gala, born Elena Ivanovna Diakonova, met in Switzerlandat a sanatorium in 1913. He was 18, she 19. They fell in love, punch-drunk on poetry and Russian literature, and married in 1917. A year later Cécile Eluard was born, the only daughter of the very young couple. Cécile was barely speaking when her parents met the then struggling artist Ernst in 1921.

The frescoes painted by him in the 1920s were almost lost. When Eluard told her husband about them decades later, they drove to the old house, which was still inhabited by the artisan jewellers who bought it from Eluard in the late 1920s. "My husband, a writer and shrewd businessman, rented the house from them for three months and hired a well-known restorer to peel off the wallpaper and retrieve Ernst's frescoes."

One evening, the day before the restorer was due to pack and leave, some plaster fell off the ceiling and another painting by Max Ernst appeared. "I had totally forgotten about that one. These were naked ballerinas on a boat. We called Ernst. We wanted him to sign his work. I wasn't sure how he'd react. In fact, he was very happy to see all those long-forgotten décors."

Ernst duly signed the frescos, for a fee. And Cécile then auctioned them off. "The shah's wife, Farah Diba, bought the biggest panels. You can see them today at Tehran's modern art museum." As for the artisan-jewellers, they couldn't care less about Max Ernst. "All they wanted was to get their wallpaper back on time for Christmas."

Wouldn't she have preferred to hold on to such treasures?

"I was never very wealthy," she says. Or at least not as wealthy as she should have been. Now that everyone involved is dead, Eluard can reveal how her father's third wife, who married him a few months before his death in November 1952, made her waive her inheritance (under French law, children automatically inherit from their parents). Cécile and her children consequently spent decades trying to buy back pieces of the family art collection at different auctions. Of his huge collection of African art, she has retained a couple of little statuettes which she uses as bookends.

Paul Eluard was an avid art and book collector. Well-known pictures taken by the photographer Brassaï show him at home surrounded by oil canvases by Picasso, Braque, Max Ernst, Chirico, Chagall and Dalí. Eluard liked to discover new talents, and had a flair for the art market. "Poets were not rich. His passion for art, and his avant-garde taste, meant he could support himself by buying and selling art."

At the time of his death, Eluard also had a collection of thousands of rare poetry books, dating back to the Renaissance. They all carried his Ex Libris designed by Max Ernst with the motto: "Après moi, le sommeil" (After me, only sleep). His widow sold off the collection – and the poet's private correspondence – bit by bit, living comfortably off the Eluard estate.

What about her mother Gala, who left Eluard to marry Salvador Dalí and was also a muse to such figures as Louis Aragon and André Breton?

"After she met Dalí in 1929, she was not interested in me any more." Cécile was only 11 when Gala abandoned both husband and daughter.

"She was never very warm, even before. She was very mysterious, very secretive. I never got to meet my Russian family. I didn't even know when exactly she was born."

After Gala left, Cécile went to live with her paternal grandmother in Paris, seeing her father very regularly, and her mother only once or twice a year. For Gala, Cécile didn't really exist any more.

One day in June 1940, as the Wehrmacht was marching down from Flanders towards Paris and beyond, Cécile, then 22, was told by her employer, the Wheat Office, that she and the entire ministry had to leave the capital at once by their own means. Cécile remembered that her mother had rented a villa in the resort of Arcachon for the summer.

"A handsome young truck driver drove me there. The journey took two days. Millions of French people were on the roads, going south, fleeing the German army.

"I arrived at the villa and asked to see my mother. The maid said that Gala didn't have any daughter and that I was a liar. Gala wasn't in and I had nowhere else to go. I kept talking with the maid who finally and defiantly said: 'Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray arrived this morning. We'll see if they know you.' She opened the door, Duchamp and Man Ray were playing chess. They knew me well, of course, so I was safe."

It has been a turbulent ride through the decades, but it has never been dull. Looking back on her rich life and four marriages, Cécile Eluard says: "I married and divorced easily. There was no drama, we met and parted amicably. My father was the same, and each time we had a party.


"Ah, parents! I may not have had much of a mother, but at least I had a nice papa."


 Enfance, j’écris ton nom. Entretien avec Cécile Eluard
LE MONDE DES LIVRES | 27.03.2014 à 12h42 • Mis à jour le 27.03.2014

Paul Eluard n’était pas tout à fait du genre à raconter des histoires chaque soir à sa fille Cécile en la bordant. Quand cela arrivait – « c’était rare », précise-t-elle aujourd’hui –, il n’inventait pas ses propres intrigues mais « arrangeait à sa manière des livres pour adultes, comme Les Mille et Une Nuits ». Il a cependant écrit deux livres pour enfants, dont un seul achevé, Grain-d’Aile, paru en 1951, clin d’œil au véritable nom d’Eluard : Eugène Grindel. Alors que le livre reparaît avec de nouvelles illustrations, signées Chloé Poizat, la fille unique du poète et de Gala (qui fut sa femme de 1917 à 1932, avant d’épouser Salvador Dali) a accepté de parler pour la première fois. Jusqu’à ce jour, et malgré les nombreuses sollicitations, elle avait toujours refusé de raconter à des journalistes ou des biographes ce qu’elle appelle son « enfance surréaliste », dans laquelle Picasso était un homme amusant qu’elle retrouvait à la plage, Max Ernst, un monsieur qui habitait chez ses parents et dessinait sur les murs – dont elle a gardé un portrait qu’il fit d’elle enfant –, et Salvador Dali, un drôle de beau-père. A bientôt 96 ans, celle qui s’apprête à accompagner un biographe de son père, Olivier Barbarant, dans son travail, évoque pour « Le Monde des livres » quelques figures clés de sa jeunesse.


Paul Eluard (1895-1952) Il est partout autour de Cécile – son portrait par George Grosz trône au-dessus du fauteuil où elle passe ses journées. Ils furent « assez proches », dit-elle, jusqu’à sa mort d’une crise cardiaque. Après la séparation de ses parents, Cécile a été envoyée en pension, puis s’est installée chez sa grand-mère paternelle qui, bien qu’aisée, habitait « un appartement très grand et terriblement peu confortable », rue Ordener, dans le 18e arrondissement de Paris. Elle voyait régulièrement son père, qui la laissait piocher dans sa bibliothèque – « Quand j’avais 14 ans et que je lui ai demandé si je pouvais lire Sade, il m’a dit : “Je ne te le conseille pas, mais je ne te l’interdis pas.” » Elle lisait sa poésie mais « on n’en parlait pas vraiment ensemble », dit-elle, refusant de révéler quels sont ses poèmes préférés : « Il y en a certains que je trouve très émouvants », lâche-t-elle seulement. L’auteur de Liberté lui a visiblement donné le goût de la littérature, puisque Cécile fut, toute sa vie d’adulte, libraire spécialisée en livres anciens. De son père, poète officiel du Parti communiste français, elle hérita aussi son inclinaison politique, votant « longtemps » pour le PCF, et toujours à gauche.
Gala (1894-1982) Elena Ivanovna Diakonova, née en Russie en 1894, était « une femme très dure », se souvient sa fille unique. Si elle mena une vie romanesque et fort peu conventionnelle, cette muse-née, qui avait rencontré Eugène Grindel en 1914 dans un sanatorium, avait des « idées très strictes » sur l’éducation. « Vers mes 11 ans, elle s’est désintéressée de moi », dit Cécile Eluard, ce qui correspond au coup de foudre de Gala et Salvador Dali, en 1929 – leur mariage eut lieu trois ans plus tard. « A partir de là, je ne l’ai pas vue plus d’une ou deux fois par an », rapporte Cécile. Pourtant, ses parents restèrent proches jusqu’à la mort d’Eluard. Lors de celle de Gala, en 1982, leur fille trouva les lettres envoyées à celle-ci par le poète, témoignant d’une complicité artistique et érotique qui avait perduré bien après leur divorce. Elle autorisa leur publication (Lettres à Gala, Gallimard, 1984). Si le jugement qu’elle porte sur cette mère n’est guère tendre, elle estime cependant qu’« on a écrit des choses affreuses sur elle ».

Max Ernst (1891-1976) En 1921, venue à Cologne avec son mari, Gala pose pour le peintre allemand Max Ernst ; ils deviennent amants. Eluard en prend si peu ombrage que Max Ernst s’installe bientôt dans la maison du couple à Eaubonne (Val-d’Oise), avec son fils, du même âge que Cécile – laquelle se souvient d’un garçon « terriblement mal élevé ». Pendant l’été 1923, le peintre recouvre les murs de la villa de fresques figurant un jardin extraordinaire aux figures animales et végétales suggestives. Le souvenir de ces pièces ne reviendra à Cécile que plus de quarante ans après, en 1968 : soudain, elle revit « l’image des tamanoirs et d’un lézard », et puis « la chambre rouge – j’en avais si peur ! Ça n’est pas normal, d’avoir une chambre rouge, non ? ». Avec son mari de l’époque (elle en a eu quatre), ils retrouvent la maison, vendue depuis longtemps, et convainquent les habitants de la leur louer pour trois mois, le temps de décoller « leur affreux papier peint » et de détacher « grâce à des méthodes très compliquées » et avec une infinité de précautions le plâtre portant les précieuses peintures, qui furent ensuite exposées dans le monde entier.

Nusch (1906-1946) Née Maria Benz, égérie des surréalistes, à commencer par Man Ray, modèle posant souvent pour Picasso, « Nusch » fut la deuxième épouse de son père, et la « grande amie » de Cécile. « Elle était si douce et si gentille… » Sa belle-fille était avec elle le jour de 1946 où Nusch fut la proie d’une hémorragie cérébrale. Elle est aujourd’hui encore au bord des larmes en racontant que son père était absent de Paris ce jour-là, et que la mort de Nusch les laissa tous deux désemparés. « Vingt-huit novembre mil neuf cent quarante-six/ Nous ne vieillirons pas ensemble./ Voici le jour/ En trop : le temps déborde. Mon amour si léger prend le poids d’un supplice », écrivit Eluard. En 1951, le poète se remaria en 1951 avec Dominique Lemor.

Salvador Dali (1904-1989) « Il était finalement plus gentil avec moi que ma mère », soupire Cécile, retrouvant une voix de petite fille. « Il me disait des choses farfelues. Quand j’étais enfant, il lui arrivait de me montrer des tableaux et de me demander ce que j’y voyais. Mes réponses l’amusaient. » Dali, affirme-t-elle, « était la seule personne qui intéressait [Gala] ».

Francis Ponge (1899-1988) Adolescente, Cécile était souvent invitée à de grands dîners chez son père, qui l’incitait à venir en lui promettant qu’elle allait rencontrer « des gens qui [l’]amuseraient ou [l’] intéresseraient ». « Moi, j’étais assez sauvage et désagréable avec eux. Tous ces poètes… Ils me semblaient vieux. » Au côté d’Henri Michaux – que la mort de sa femme transforma, en 1948, en reclus –, c’est avec Francis Ponge seul qu’elle entretint des liens importants, et ce jusqu’à la mort de l’écrivain : « Nous étions proches et nous nous comprenions », résume-t-elle. Surtout, l’auteur du Parti pris des choses avait une qualité fondamentale aux yeux de Cécile : « Il n’était pas trop surréaliste… »



Éluard was born in Saint-Denis, Seine-Saint-Denis, France, the son of Clément Grindel and wife Jeanne Cousin. At age 16 he contracted tuberculosis and interrupted his studies. He met Gala, born Elena Ivanovna Diakonova, whom he married in 1917, in the Swiss sanatorium of Davos. Together they had a daughter named Cécile. Around this time Éluard wrote his first poems. He was particularly inspired by Walt Whitman. In 1918, Jean Paulhan “discovered” him and introduced him to André Breton and Louis Aragon. After collaborating with German Dadaist Max Ernst, who had entered France illegally, in 1921, he entered into a menage a trois living arrangement with Gala and Ernst in 1922.

After a marital crisis, he traveled, returning to France in 1924. Éluard's writings of this period reflect his tumultuous experiences. In 1929 he had another bout of tuberculosis and separated from Gala when she left him for Salvador Dalí, with whom she remained for the rest of her life.

In 1934, he married Nusch (Maria Benz), a model who was considered somewhat of a mascot of the surrealist movement, whom Éluard had met through his friends Man Ray and Pablo Picasso. During World War II, he was involved in the French Resistance, during which time he wrote Liberty (1942), Les sept poèmes d'amour en guerre (1944) and En avril 1944: Paris respirait encore! (1945, illustrated by Jean Hugo).

He joined the French Communist Party in 1942, which led to his break from the Surrealists[citation needed], and he later eulogised Joseph Stalin in his political writings. Milan Kundera has recalled he was shocked when he heard of Éluard's public approval of the hanging of Éluard's friend, the Prague writer Zavis Kalandra in 1950.

His grief at the premature death of his wife Nusch in 1946 inspired the work "Le temps déborde" in 1947. The principles of peace, self-government, and liberty became his new passion. He was a member of the Congress of Intellectuals for Peace in Wrocławin 1948, which he persuaded Pablo Picasso to participate in.

Éluard met his last wife, Dominique Laure, at the Congress of Peace in Mexico in 1949. They married in 1951. He dedicated his work The Phoenix to her.

Paul Éluard died from a heart attack in November 1952. His funeral was held in Charenton-le-Pont, and organized by the Communist Party.

He is buried at PèreLachaiseCemetery.


Miles Davis Way to Be Unveiled

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Miles Davis Wayto Be Unveiled

Before he left office, Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg signed a bill naming a block of West 77th Street in honor of the jazz trumpeter and composer Miles Davis. The block, between West End Avenue and Riverside Drive, will be called Miles Davis Way. Mr. Davis, who died in 1991, had an apartment in a brownstone at 312 West 77th Street, and lived there for about 25 years, until the mid-1980’s. Now the new street sign is ready, and will have a public unveiling on May 26, the 88th anniversary of Davis’s birth, at noon. Two of Davis’s children, Cheryl Davis and Erin Davis, as well as Vince Wilburn, Jr., his nephew, will be on hand for the ceremony, which will include a block party sponsored by the Far West77th Street Block Association.








On This Day
September 29, 1991

OBITUARY
Miles Davis, Trumpeter, Dies; Jazz Genius, 65, Defined Cool

By JON PARELES /http://www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/0525.html 


Miles Davis, the trumpeter and composer whose haunting tone and ever-changing style made him an elusive touchstone of jazz for four decades, died yesterday at St. John'sHospital and HealthCenter in Santa Monica, Calif.He was 65 years old.

He died of pneumonia, respiratory failure and a stroke, his doctor, Jeff Harris, said in a statement released by the hospital.

A spokeswoman for the hospital, Pat Kirk, said yesterday that Mr. Davis had been a patient there for several weeks.

Mr. Davis's unmistakable, voicelike, nearly vibratoless tone -- at times distant and melancholy, at others assertive yet luminous -- has been imitated around the world.

His solos, whether ruminating on a whispered ballad melody or jabbing against a beat, have been models for generations of jazz musicians. Other trumpeters play faster and higher, but more than in any technical feats Mr. Davis's influence lay in his phrasing and sense of space. "I always listen to what I can leave out," he would say.

Equally important, Mr. Davis never settled into one style; every few years he created a new lineup and format for his groups. Each phase brought denunciations from critics; each, except for the most recent one, has set off repercussions throughout modern jazz. "I have to change," he once said. "It's like a curse."

Mr. Davis came of age in the be-bop era; many successive styles -- cool jazz, hard-bop, modal jazz, jazz-rock, jazz-funk -- were sparked or ratified by his example. Throughout his career he was grounded in the blues, but he also drew on pop, flamenco, classical music, rock, Arab music and Indian music. Musicians he discovered often moved on to innovations of their own.

Mr. Davis was also known for a volatile personality and arrogant public pronouncements, and for a stage presence that could be charismatic or aloof. For a while, he turned his back on audiences as he played and walked offstage when he was not soloing. His public persona was flamboyant, uncompromising and fiercely independent; he drove Ferraris and Lamborghinis and did not mince words when he disliked something.

Yet his music was deeply collaborative. He spurred his sidemen to find their own musical voices and was inspired by them in turn.

Trumpet at 13
Miles Dewey Davis 3d was born May 25, 1926, inAlton, Ill., the son of an affluent dental surgeon, and grew up in East St. Louis, Ill. On his 13th birthday, he was given a trumpet and lessons with a local jazz musician, Elwood Buchanan. He got his musicians' union card at 15 so he could perform around St. Louis with Eddie Randall's Blue Devils.

Clark Terry, the trumpeter, one of his early idols, became Mr. Davis's mentor, and his local reputation grew quickly. Mr. Davis's parents made him turn down early offers to join big bands. But in 1944 the Billy Eckstine band, which then included two men who were beginning to create be-bop -- Charlie Parker on alto saxophone and Dizzy Gillespie on trumpet -- arrived in St. Louiswith an ailing third trumpeter. Mr. Davis sat in for two weeks. The experience made him decide to move to New York, the center of the be-bop revolution.

He enrolled in the Juilliard School of Music in September 1944, and for his first months in New York he studied classical music by day and jazz by night, in the clubs of 52d Streetand Harlem. Mr. Parker, who roomed with Mr. Davis for a time, and Mr. Gillespie introduced him to the coterie of be-bop musicians. From them he learned the harmonic vocabulary of be-bop and began to forge a solo style.

Mr. Davis made his first recording in May 1945 backing up a singer, Rubberlegs Williams. He also performed in the 52d Street clubs with the saxophonists Coleman Hawkins and Eddie (Lockjaw) Davis. In the fall of that year he joined Charlie Parker's quintet and dropped out of Juilliard.

"Up at Juilliard," Mr. Davis said later, "I played in the symphony, two notes, 'bop-bop,' every 90 bars, so I said, 'Let me out of here,' and then I left."

With Parker's quintet, Mr. Davis recorded one of the first be-bop sessions in November 1945. It yielded the singles "Now's the Time" and "Koko." For the next few years he worked primarily with Parker, and his tentative, occasionally shaky playing evolved into a pared-down, middle-register style that created a contrast with Parker's aggressive forays. He made his first recording as a leader on Aug. 14, 1947, with a quintet that included Parker on tenor saxophone.

But Mr. Davis was moving away from the extroversion of early be-bop, and in 1948 he began to experiment with a new, more elaborately orchestrated style that would become known as "cool jazz." Working with the arrangers Gil Evans (a frequent collaborator throughout his career), John Lewis and Gerry Mulligan, Mr. Davis brought a nine-piece band to the Royal Roost in New York to play rich, ruminative ensemble pieces, with solos floating in diffuse clouds of harmony. Although the public showed little interest, Mr. Davis was able to record the music in 1949 and 1950, and it helped spawn a cerebral cool-jazz movement on the West Coast.

Mr. Davis became a heroin addict in the early 1950's, performing infrequently and making erratic recordings. But in 1954 he overcame his addiction and began his first string of important small-group recordings.

"Walkin'," a swaggering blues piece informed by the extended harmonies of be-bop, turned decisively away from cool jazz and announced the arrival of hard bop. During 1954 Mr. Davis recorded with such leading musicians as the saxophonist Sonny Rollins and the pianists Horace Silver and Thelonious Monk.

Over the next year, he made a triumphant appearance at the Newport Jazz Festival and assembled his first important quintet, with John Coltrane on tenor saxophone, Red Garland on piano, Paul Chambers on bass and Philly Joe Jones on drums.

Breakthrough to Popularity
Like many of the Davisbands to follow, it seemed to be an incompatible grouping in prospect, mixing the suavity and harmonic nuances of Garlandand Chambers with the forcefulness of Jones and the raw energy of Coltrane.

But it achieved a remarkable balance of delicacy and drive, with a sense of space and dynamics influenced by the pianist Ahmad Jamal's trio, and it brought Mr. Davis his first general popularity.

The quintet recorded six albums in 1955-56, four of them in marathon sessions to fulfill Mr. Davis's recording contract with the independent Prestige Records label so he could sign with Columbia, a major label.

In 1957 Mr. Davis had a throat operation to remove nodes from his vocal cords. Two days later he began shouting at someone who, he once said, "tried to convince me to go into a deal I didn't want." His voice was permanently damaged, reduced to a raspy whisper.

During the late 1950's Mr. Davis alternated orchestral albums with Gil Evans arrangements -- "Miles Ahead" (1957), "Porgy and Bess" (1958) and "Sketches of Spain" (1960) -- with small-group sessions. He recorded the soundtrack for Louis Malle's film "Ascenseur Pour l'Echafaud" ("Elevator to the Gallows") with French musicians, then reconvened his quintet and added Julian (Cannonball) Adderley on alto saxophone. The sound track and the sextet's first album, "Milestones," signaled another metamorphosis, cutting back the harmonic motion of be-bop to make music with fewer chords and more ambiguous harmonies.

Mood and Melodic Tension
With "Kind of Blue" in 1959, that change was complete. Most of the pieces on "Kind of Blue" (composed by Mr. Davis or his new pianist, Bill Evans) were based on modal scales rather than chords. Mood and melodic tension became paramount, in music that was at times voluptuous and austere.

From this point onward, Mr. Davis would return often to music based on static, stripped-down harmonies. John Coltrane, among others, was to make modal jazz one of the definitive styles of the 1960's.

The Davis group's personnel fluctuated in the early 1960's until Mr. Davis settled on a new quintet in 1964, with Wayne Shorter (who became the group's main composer) on tenor saxophone, Herbie Hancock on piano, Ron Carter on bass and Tony Williams on drums. It was one of the most important ensembles in 1960's jazz, pushing tonal harmony to its limits and developing a dazzling rhythmic flexibility.

On the albums "E.S.P.,""Miles Smiles,""The Sorcerer" and "Nefertiti," the group could swing furiously, then open up unexpected spaces or dissolve the beat into abstract waves of sound. The quintet defined an exploratory alternative to 1960's free jazz. The four sidemen also recorded prolifically on their own, extending the quintet's influence.

Branching Into Rock Rhythms
Mr. Davis had touched on rock rhythms in one selection on "E.S.P.," but with the 1968 albums "Miles in the Sky" and "Filles de Kilimanjaro," he began to experiment more seriously with rock rhythms, repeating bass lines and electronic instruments. He also began to work with open-ended compositions, based on rhythmic feeling, fragments of melody or bass patterns and his own on-the-spot directives.

Mr. Davis expanded the group on "In a Silent Way" (1969) with three electric keyboards and electric guitar. Using static harmonics and a rock undercurrent, the music was eerie and reflective, at once abstract and grounded by the beat. "Bitches Brew" (1969), recorded by a larger group -- trumpeter, soprano saxophonist, bass clarinetist, two bassists, two or three keyboardists, three drummers and a percussionist -- was an aggressive, spooky sequel, roiling and churning with improvisations in every register.

The two albums, along with performances at the Fillmore East and Fillmore West rock auditoriums, brought Mr. Davis's music to the rock audience; "Bitches Brew" became a best-selling album. Musicians who had worked with Mr. Davis from 1968-70 went on to lead the pioneering jazz-rock groups -- the Mahavishnu Orchestra, Tony Williams Lifetime, Weather Report and Return to Forever.

Reaching Young Blacks
Mr. Davis, meanwhile, was turning from rock toward funk; in interviews at the time, he talked about reaching young black audiences. His bands in the 1970's were anchored by a bassist, Michael Henderson, who had worked with Stevie Wonder, and they moved percussion and syncopated bass lines into the foreground. Around them, keyboards, saxophone, guitars and Mr. Davis's trumpet (now electrified, and often played through a wah-wah pedal) supplied rhythmic and textural effects as well as solos.

"On the Corner" (1972), which also used Indian tabla drums and sitar, marked the change, and a pair of live albums, "Dark Magus" and "Pangaea," were even more jolting. Conventional melody and harmony had been virtually abandoned; the music was a thicket of rhythms and electronic textures. Critical reaction at the time was mixed, but those albums became an inspiration to the late-1970's "no wave" noise-rockers and a new generation of funk experimenters in the 1980's.

By the end of 1975 mounting medical problems -- among them ulcers, throat nodes, hip surgery and bursitis -- forced Mr. Davis into a five-year retirement. In 1981 he returned with an album, "The Man With the Horn," a Kool Jazz Festival concert in New York and a band featuring Robert Irving 3d as keyboardist and co-producer.

Although Mr. Davis's technique was intact, the music seemed for the first time to involve commercial calculations and a look backward at Mr. Davis's previous styles; he even played pop songs. With "You're Under Arrest" (1985), "Tutu" (1986) and "Music From Siesta" (1988), he recorded the music layer by layer, like pop albums, instead of leading musicians in live interaction. But on stage and on record, especially on the blues-oriented "Star People" (1983), there were still moments of the fierce beauty that is Mr. Davis's lasting legacy to American music.

His last New York performance was in June as part of a double bill with B. B. King in the JVC Jazz Festival. In a review in The New York Times, Peter Watrous called the performance "a particularly bad night" for Mr. Davis. "The problem seemed simple," Mr. Watrous wrote. "Mr. Davis was incapable of sustaining more than a few notes at a time; the spareness seemed less an editorial decision than a decision handed down by physical constraints."

Mr. Davis was married three times, to the dancer Frances Taylor, singer Betty Mabry and the actress Cicely Tyson. All ended in divorce. Survivors include a daughter, Cheryl; three sons, Gregory, Miles IV and Erin, and several grandchildren.


Memorial services are being planned in New York City and East St. Louis, said Ms. Kirk at the hospital.

The Impossible Exile: Stefan Zweig at the End of the World by George Prochnik

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An original study of exile, told through the biography of Austrian writer Stefan Zweig

By the 1930s, Stefan Zweig had become the most widely translated living author in the world. His novels, short stories, and biographies were so compelling that they became instant best sellers. Zweig was also an intellectual and a lover of all the arts, high and low. Yet after Hitler’s rise to power, this celebrated writer who had dedicated so much energy to promoting international humanism plummeted, in a matter of a few years, into an increasingly isolated exile—from London to Bath to New York City, then Ossining, Rio, and finally Petrópolis—where, in 1942, in a cramped bungalow, he killed himself.

The Impossible Exile tells the tragic story of Zweig’s extraordinary rise and fall while it also depicts, with great acumen, the gulf between the world of ideas in Europe and in America, and the consuming struggle of those forced to forsake one for the other. It also reveals how Zweig embodied, through his work, thoughts, and behavior, the end of an era—the implosion of Europe as an ideal of Western civilization.
Stefan Zweig and Joseph Roth, Ostende, Belgium, 1936

His Exile Was Intolerable
Anka Muhlstein MAY 8, 2014 ISSUE / The New York Review of Books / http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2014/may/08/stefan-zweig-exile-was-intolerable/

The Impossible Exile: Stefan Zweig at the End of the World
by George Prochnik
Other Press, 390 pp., $27.95
The Grand Budapest Hotel
a film directed by Wes Anderson

On February 23, 1942, Stefan Zweig and his young wife committed suicide together in Petrópolis, Brazil. The following day, the Brazilian government held a state funeral, attended by President Getulio Vargas. The news spread rapidly around the world, and the couple’s deaths were reported on the front page of The New York Times. Zweig had been one of the most renowned authors of his time, and his work had been translated into almost fifty languages. In the eyes of one of his friends, the novelist Irmgard Keun, “he belonged to those that suffered but who would not and could not hate. And he was one of those noble Jewish types who, thinskinned and open to harm, lives in an immaculate glass world of the spirit and lacks the capacity themselves to do harm.”1

The suicide set off a surge of emotion and a variety of reactions. Thomas Mann, the unquestioned leader of German-language writers in exile, made no secret of his indignation at what he considered an act of cowardice. In a telegram to the New York daily PM, he certainly paid tribute to his fellow writer’s talent, but he underscored the “painful breach torn in the ranks of European literary emigrants by so regrettable a weakness.” He made his point even clearer in a letter to a writer friend: “He should never have granted the Nazis this triumph, and had he had a more powerful hatred and contempt for them, he would never have done it.” Why had Zweig been unable to rebuild his life? It wasn’t for lack of means, as Mann pointed out to his daughter Erika.

This is the subject of Georges Prochnik’s The Impossible Exile, a gripping, unusually subtle, poignant, and honest study. Prochnik attempts, on the basis of an uncompromising investigation, to clarify the motives that might have driven to suicide an author who still enjoyed a rare popularity, an author who had just completed two major works, his memoir, The World of Yesterday, and Brazil: Land of the Future. He had also finished one of his most startling novellas, Chess Story, in which he finally addressed the horrors of his own time, proving that his creative verve hadn’t been in the least undermined by his ordeals. Recently he had married a loving woman, nearly thirty years his junior. And he had chosen of his own free will to leave the United States and take refuge in Brazil, a hospitable nation that had fired his imagination.


Why had exile proved so intolerable to Stefan Zweig when other artists drew a new vigor and inspiration from it? Prochnik notes that Claude Levi-Strauss,

walking New York’s streets for the first time in 1941, described the city as a place where anything seemed possible…. What made [its charm], he wrote, was the way the city was at once “charged with the stale odors of Central Europe”—the residue of a world that was already finished—and injected with the new American dynamism.
Zweig never experienced moments of terror or the life-and-death decisions to be made in the course of a few hours, nor was he forced to slog through the long and challenging reconstruction of a professional career. He always seemed to get out well before the wave broke, with plenty of time to pack his bags, sort through his possessions, and, most important of all, pick his destination. He left Austriaand his beautiful home in Salzburgas early as 1933. Apolice search on the false pretext of unearthing a cache of illegal weapons led him to depart for Great Britain, leaving his wife, Friderike, and his two stepdaughters behind. Unlike his German colleagues, including Thomas Mann, who had left Germany upon Hitler’s rise to power in January 1933 with no hope of returning home until there was a change of regime, Zweig was able to travel freely between London, Vienna, and Salzburg for another five years. An Austrian passport, valid until the Anschluss in March 1938, allowed him to make trips to the United Statesand South America.

But Hitler’s rise to power had serious and immediate consequences for Zweig, in particular the loss of his German publisher, Insel Verlag. Still, at the start of the Nazi era, Zweig’s books continued to be available in Germany. Even though it was forbidden to display them or allude to them in the press, his sales figures remained virtually unchanged in 1933 and 1934. More surprising still, Richard Strauss—who had asked Zweig to write the libretto of his opera The Silent Woman—fought against the suppression of Zweig’s name on the program of the work, at a time when mentioning Jewish artists was prohibited. The opera had its premiere in June 1935, but only two performances followed. Strauss was nevertheless very anxious to continue working with Zweig. He even suggested they keep the collaboration secret until better times, but Zweig’s sense of solidarity with his fellow Jewish artists forbade him to accept.

Those first years of what we can call a comfortable exile were punctuated not by drama—because Zweig was a master at the art of avoiding drama in his personal life—but by a number of conjugal adjustments. Stefan and his wife were on very good terms, and he’d asked her to hire him a secretary when he moved to London. She selected a German refugee, Lotte Altman, a serious young woman, delicate and discreet, who suited Zweig perfectly. Lotte traveled with him frequently, and went with him to meet Friderike in Nice, before he was to take the ship for New York.

The stay in Nice was proceeding harmoniously, at least until Zweig asked Friderike to stop by the British consulate to iron out a problem. When she got to the consulate, she realized that she’d forgotten an important document and went back to the hotel to retrieve it. She walked into the room and found Stefan and Lotte fast asleep. They had a rude awakening but Friderike kept her sang-froid, found the document, and headed back to the consulate; upon her return, however, she demanded not that Lotte be fired, but that she immediately take some time off. A few days later, Zweig boarded his ship. Friderike accompanied him to his stateroom. A letter was waiting for him on the dresser. Both of them recognized Lotte’s handwriting, and Zweig made the surprising gesture of handing it to Friderike without opening it. The entire incident strikes me as indicative of his gift for evasiveness and his loathing of conflict.

Zweig arrived in New York in January 1935: he was fifty-four years old and at the height of his career. He wasn’t a novelist of Thomas Mann’s caliber, and he knew that. He was sufficiently self-effacing to take pride in the fact that the Nazis had burned his books along with those of Freud, Einstein, and the brothers Mann. But his sales beat all records. “Shortening and lightening seem to me a boon to the work of art,” he had written to Richard Strauss and quite naturally he chose as his favorite literary form the novella, a quick and concentrated format that lent itself to splashy, racy subjects; it won him plenty of readers who were tired of “nineteenth-century triple-deckers.” His biographies, which smacked more of novelized history than exhaustive scholarship, sold well for the same reasons. He’d recently published his biography of Erasmus, which he considered a veiled self-portrait: Erasmus, the humanist, represented his own values while his antagonist, Martin Luther, was emblematic of the man of action.

The book was an immediate success, even in Germany. His reputation, his self-imposed exile, his friendship with Joseph Roth and other artists destroyed by political developments, his network of contacts with refugees in Switzerland, Great Britain, and France, all prompted the intense curiosity of journalists. Everyone wanted to hear him condemn the Nazi regime. A press conference was held in the offices of his publisher, Viking. But in response to the precise and pointed questions from reporters who wanted to know what he thought of Hitler, what was going on in Germany, the state of mind among the German populace and the refugees, Zweig was evasive, regarding the press with “his typical ‘languid composure’” and concluding with the statement, “I would never speak against Germany. I would never speak against any country.”

Prochnik, well aware that the biographer’s job is not to judge but rather to try to understand, instead of taking a simplistic approach and condemning Zweig’s passive stance, chooses to view it as a manifestation of his hope that the German people might still come to their senses—perhaps influenced by the fact that his books were still selling so strongly in Germany. Thus “the best response to Hitler’s election was not to demonize his supporters, Zweig believed, but to communicate to them the value of the rich German cultural legacy that was being jeopardized by Nazi politics.” Zweig envisioned the publication of a monthly literary review that would feature articles in different languages, so as

to cement, by its high ethical and literary standards, an aristocratic European brotherhood that eventually would be able to counteract the demagogic propaganda unleashed by those forces that were trying to bring about the moral destruction of Europe.
Nothing came of the project and a disappointed Zweig returned to Great Britain, convinced that he’d lost all real influence. He felt certain that it was impossible to beat the Nazis on their own terms, and he chose to believe that his silence would be taken as condemnation. That was an attitude far too subtle and circumspect to be grasped by political refugees and the American public.

His refusal to come out openly against Hitler weighed even more heavily as Thomas Mann became more and more politically active. When the University of Bonn revoked Mann’s honorary degree, in 1936, he wrote an emphatic diatribe, underscoring his “immeasurable revulsion against the wretched events at home.” It was read in Germany in the form of a clandestine pamphlet, attaining a circulation of 20,000 copies, after which it was translated and distributed in the United Statesand worldwide. Mann thus became the unrivaled spokesman for all artists in exile, as acknowledged by Toscanini, who praised the text as “magnifico, commovente, profondo, umano.”

Nonetheless, Zweig remained silent: “One would like to crawl into a mouse-hole…. I am a man who prizes nothing more highly than peace and quiet.” He took advantage of the next two years of respite—Austria remained an independent democracy until 1938—to sell his house in Salzburg and especially his extraordinary collection of manuscripts, keeping only a few particularly choice rarities and Beethoven’s desk. He also put an end to his marriage, while successfully remaining good friends with Friderike. He seemed to be girding himself to deal calmly with an enormous upheaval:

Our generation has gradually learned the great art of living without security. We are prepared for anything…. There is a mysterious pleasure in retaining one’s reason and spiritual independence particularly in a period where confusion and madness are rampant.
But he was deceiving himself.
 

Ralph Fiennes in The Grand Budapest Hotel


Things changed radically on September 3, 1939, when, in the aftermath of the invasion of Poland, Great Britain declared war on Germany. From one day to the next, Zweig became an enemy alien in the eyes of Great Britain. Psychologically, it came as a rude shock. “I believe that the new Ministry for Information should be informed a little at least about German Literature and know that I am not an ‘enemy alien’ but perhaps the man who (with Thomas Mann) could be more useful than any others,” he wrote to his publisher.

Of course, the British weren’t about to take the ridiculous step of putting a renowned author in an internment camp, but Zweig was forced to go through the extensive process of requesting identity papers, and while waiting for them was forbidden to travel more than five miles from his place of residence unless specifically authorized, which in turn required hours of his time and lengthy discussions with functionaries who’d never heard of him. His exasperation was bound up with his despair at finding himself deprived of his native language. Not only was it now impossible for him to publish anything in Germany, refugees were strongly advised against speaking German in public. “[Our] language…has been taken away from us, [and we are] living in a country…in which we are only tolerated.” In his journal he wrote, “I am so imprisoned in a language, which I cannot use.”

In spite of his indignation, he did everything necessary to apply to be a naturalized subject, and completed the process in March 1940, for himself and for Lotte, whom he’d married a few months earlier. At the same time, he purchased a number of US Savings Bonds and asked his American publisher, Ben Huebsch, to hold onto them for him. Events continued to rush headlong. The fall of France shook him up. The threat of an invasion of Englandterrified him. Finally, faithful to his habit of seeking exile in advance, he left for New Yorkwith Lotte in July 1940.

It was a changed man who set foot in America. Disheartened, embittered, and irritated by New York’s luxury, magnificence, and glamour, disgusted by his own aging to the point that he tried a rejuvenating cure of hormone injections that left him just as weary and upset as before, he was miserable. The only bright spot in this period was the arrival of Friderike, for whom he had obtained one of the special visas that had been set aside for a thousand or so endangered intellectuals.

One way to understand Zweig is in contrast to Thomas Mann, who came to the United Statesaround the same time, forcefully declaring that he represented the best of Germany: “Where I am, there is Germany…. I carry my German culture within me. I have contact with the world and I do not consider myself fallen.” Zweig lacked such self-confidence, and bemoaned the fact that “emigration implies a shifting of one’s center of gravity.” The chief difference between the two men was that Mann was a member of the German high bourgeoisie, with roots sinking many generations deep in his country’s past, while Zweig, a Jew who rejected Zionism, appreciated above all else “the value of absolute freedom to choose among nations, to feel oneself a guest everywhere.”

Prochnik, who is well aware of the painful shift in self-perception that can afflict those in exile, clearly shows how the elegant Viennese author—acclaimed, free to go wherever he liked, so unobservant a Jew that his mother wrongly suspected him of having converted, who had been married to a Catholic2—despaired when he found himself suddenly plunged into the ranks of the wandering Jews. “His sense of being forced to identify with people who bore no relation with him had come to seem—along with nomadism—the defining experience of exile.”

Zweig suffered all the more because, in spite of his pleasant life as a rich and assimilated Jew, he was always aware of how precarious matters could be for his coreligionists. Here Prochnik recounts a significant anecdote:

One day in the 1920s when Zweig happened to be traveling in Germany with [the playwright] Otto Zarek, the two men stopped off to visit an exhibition of antique furniture at a museum in Munich…. Zweig stopped short before a display of enormous medieval wooden chests.
“Can you tell me,” he abruptly asked, “which of these chests belonged to Jews?” Zarek stared uncertainly—they all looked of equally high quality and bore no apparent marks of ownership.
Zweig smiled. “Do you see these two here? They are mounted on wheels. They belonged to Jews. In those days—as indeed always!—the Jewish people were never sure when the whistle would blow, when the rattles of pogrom would creak. They had to be ready to flee at a moment’s notice.”
We have the impression that he was suddenly gripped by an ancestral fear and that the nightmare embedded deep in his subconscious had suddenly become real.

Another change came in his attitude toward those who came to him for help. He’d always shown an easy generosity in the past, but the supplicants multiplied in number and he realized he was unable to keep up: “[I am] the victim of an avalanche of refugees…. And how to help these writers who even in their own country were only small fry?”

Still paralyzed by his stubborn refusal to take a clear political position, he couldn’t follow the example set by Mann, equally beset by those in search of help, and support the aid organizations. Asked to deliver a ten-minute talk at a fund-raiser for the Emergency Rescue Committee, he spent hours perfecting an anodyne speech: “I do not want to say a word that could be interpreted as encouragement for America’s entry into the war, no word that announces victory, nothing that justifies or glorifies war, and yet the thing must have an optimistic ring.”

The only solution he could find was to plunge headlong into his work. He left New Yorkand took refuge in Ossining where he’d be able to finish his autobiography, now that he was done with his book about Brazil. That town was an odd choice, devoid of all charm and interest, lying in the shadow of Sing Sing prison, but still it was justified by the presence there of Friderike, an indispensable assistant in checking certain details of his text. He worked feverishly and, at the end of the summer of 1941, exhausted, yearning for a life that might afford him a certain degree of stability, he decided to go back to Brazil, which had offered him a permanent residence permit.

This decision failed to bring him the calm that he expected. Though his book on Brazil had acceptable sales, it was not given a favorable reception by Brazilian critics annoyed at Zweig’s vision of an exotic and picturesque paradise. Still in search of more tranquility, he left Rio for the small town of Petrópoliswhere, as he wrote to Friderike, “One lives here nearer to oneself and in the heart of nature, one hears nothing of politics…. We cannot pay our whole life long for the stupidities of politics, which have never given us a thing but only always taken.” Once again, he was deceiving himself.

On December 7, the Japanese attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbor. The next day, the United Statesdeclared war. Zweig was once again seized by a wave of irrational panic. He feared a German invasion of South America. Every possible way out seemed to be sealed off, one after the other. He despaired at being “miles and miles away from all that was formerly my life, books, concerts, friends and conversation.” But there was one constant in Zweig’s life, the urge to write. He set to work on his last novella, Chess Story, and for the first time he brought Nazis in action into the plot. In his story, an Austrian lawyer is arrested in Vienna. The Gestapo subjects him to an intolerable form of mental torture. The man is confined to a hotel room, cut off from all human interaction, deprived of books, pen, paper, and cigarettes, and sentenced to spend weeks staring at four bare walls: “There was nothing to do, nothing to hear, nothing to see, nothingness was everywhere…a completely dimensionless and timeless void.” He finished writing on February 22. The next day, he and Lotte drank a fatal dose of Veronal.

The photo taken by the police shows him stretched out on his back, his hands crossed; she’s lying beside him, her head on his shoulder, one hand on his. Prochnik concludes: “He looks dead. She looks in love.”

“Mort à jamais?” (Dead forever?) asks Proust’s narrator when the writer Bergotte dies. To Proust, an artist could never die if his works outlive him. In 1942, Zweig certainly looked dead. No one read his books anymore. But he was only in purgatory. His books were rapidly reissued after the end of the war, in Austria, Germany, Italy, and France—the most popular title being The World of Yesterday—and later in Great Britain and the United States. More recently, thanks to New York Review Books and Pushkin Press, a substantial portion of his oeuvre has been republished in new translations, and there is clearly a Zweig revival underway.

Even more surprising, the revival extends to the movies. In his newest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson takes his inspiration not from a specific novella but from the entire body of Zweig’s work and his life. The film is set in the imaginary republic of Zubrowka(the irresistibly droll name is evocative of a Polish bison grass–scented vodka) and tells of the difficulties faced by Monsieur Gustave, the concierge of the Grand Budapest Hotel. The film—zany, fast-moving, punctuated by a chase scene with a villain on skis pursued by a duo riding a luge, a prison escape involving tiny metal files concealed in pastries, an elderly countess’s idyll with the concierge, a murder, and a venomous heir—would simply echo the madcap comedies of the 1930s if Anderson hadn’t so deftly given his story a background set in a Europe where any sense of security is rapidly slipping away. That is where the film’s debt to Zweig lies.

Of all the characters in the film, it is unexpectedly the concierge—played by Ralph Fiennes in rare form, with a trim little paintbrush mustache, shifty eyes and a supple grace to his movements, comfortable mastery of all languages, a certain latitude in his sexual tastes, and an overall sense of calm broken here and there by glimmers of disquiet—who best evokes Zweig. And precisely like Zweig, who could reach out at any time to his friends, relations, and publishers around the world, Monsieur Gustave, a member of the all-powerful society of hotel concierges, can draw upon a network of infallible efficiency.

But all these contacts prove useless in the face of an increasingly brutal political reality. In his memoirs, Zweig laments the end of a world where you could travel without passports, without being called upon to justify your existence, and in the film it is the arrival of the border guards that spells the doom of the fictional concierge. The first time they appear, he’s saved by the intervention of an officer who recognizes in him an indulgent witness of his childhood holidays, but the second time he falls victim to the gratuitous violence of the henchmen of a terrifying power. It’s Zweig’s influence that tinges the film with nostalgia and gives it its depth.

—Translated from the French by Antony Shugaar

1
Quoted by Leon Botstein in “Stefan Zweig and the Illusion of the Jewish European,” Jewish Social Studies, Vol. 44, No. 1 (Winter 1982).

2

Friderike Zweig, née Burger, had a Jewish father but converted at a young age.


The Rise And Fall Of Stefan Zweig, Who Inspired 'Grand Budapest Hotel'
by NPR STAFF

In Wes Anderson's latest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, a writer relates the long and twisting life story of a hotel owner. It's about youthful love and lifelong obsession, and while the story is original, there's a credit at the end that reads: "Inspired by the Writings of Stefan Zweig."

Last month, Anderson told Fresh Air's Terry Gross that until a few years ago, he had never heard of Zweig — and he's not alone. Many moviegoers share Anderson's past ignorance of the man who was once one of the world's most famous and most translated authors.

George Prochnik is out to change that. His forthcoming book is called The Impossible Exile: Stefan Zweig at the End of the World.

Prochnik tells NPR's Robert Siegel that Zweig was born in Vienna in 1881. After Hitler rose to power, the writer left Austria for England, New Yorkand eventually Brazil, where, in 1942, after years of exile, Zweig killed himself.

"His suicide remains a vexed issue for many people confronting his story," Prochnik says. "The question of why ... was something that remained a problem."

Interview Highlights

On Zweig's suicide

It's critical, when we think about Zweig, to realize how deeply he identified himself with Europe. Zweig's overwhelming objective was the creation, preservation and proclamation of the Europe that was already inside him. When Zweig began to feel that the Europe that he had known was gone for good, he lost a lot of his motivation to keep going ...

This Europe that was so invested in aesthetics, in beauty, in civilized tolerance was very much gone by the time of his suicide. But he knew that, in letting that dream go, he was going to be also relinquishing his hold on the will to live.
On Zweig's short, readable, premodern writing style

When Zweig tries to analyze the reason for his incredible popularity, he ascribes it largely to what he calls a character flaw — radical impatience. And he talks about how he has even proposed to publishers that the classics of literature throughout history should be reissued with all the boring parts cut out ...

But I think — although it's true that there are aspects of Zweig's narrative technique which are conventional and harken back to 19th century forms — in that emphasis on speed and drive of narrative, there is something that we recognize today and can respond to. The stories really move. So he understood the ways that stories could hook us.

His work is deeply invested in confessions and secrets. And we all like to overhear conversations and there's lots of eavesdropping and peeping in and all sorts of ways in which the characters who narrate his stories are often observers of some grand moment of passion to which they become, in some way or other, either sucked in directly or have their own complacent view of the world shaken by what they see of other lives.

On how his time in Berlin influenced his writing

When Zweig was still a young man in university, he went to Berlinwhere he was supposed to be studying in the university there, but instead spent most of his time in low dives hanging out with the toughest, roughest people he could find. And he describes his lifelong fascination with character types whom he calls "monomaniacs," people really driven to stake everything on the realization of a desire that often proves impossible to realize.

On how The Grand Budapest Hotel reflects Zweig's work

The element of joyously goofy caper that is at the core of Wes Anderson's film is not part of Zweig's own work. But what Zweig does have is an understanding of the absurdity of existence. And even beyond this, I think that one point that Andersonreally gets in the film that we feel, when Zweig speaks about Vienna, he talks about a kind of laxity and a joyful sloppiness of the city. He talks about its deep investment in the idea of pleasure, maybe even a slightly transgressive pleasure. And I think the ways that Wes Anderson's film has about it a celebration of life in the midst of a poignant tragedy is something the Zweig himself would have found very resonant.

On why he thinks Zweig was so quickly forgotten

One thing that I can say with certainty is that Zweig himself saw his disappearance as likely. I remember speaking with his stepniece; I asked her what she thought Zweig himself might think about this revival of interest in his work and she said she thought he would be completely astonished. Indeed, near the end of Zweig's life he wrote repeatedly of feeling that he was living a posthumous existence. And that's one aspect of his humility that's actually very appealing: He felt it was important to make room for the next generation.

But the reality, in terms of the almost complete disappearance of Stefan Zweig in this country — the reality is that it's surprisingly specific to the Anglo world that his disappearance was so complete. He does not present the kind of stories that Americans gravitate to in terms of sticking with it and succeeding at all costs. More or less the opposite.

SUNDAY IMAGES ... "POSTERS" IN RED ...

Helena Rubinstein / The Woman Who Invented Beauty', by Michèle Fitoussi.

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Helena Rubinstein (born Chaya Rubinstein, December 25, 1870 – April 1, 1965), a Polish-born American business magnate. A cosmetics entrepreneur she was the founder and eponym of company Helena Rubinstein, Incorporated, which made her one of the world's richest women.
Rubinstein was the eldest of eight daughters born to a Jewish couple, Augusta - Gitte (Gitel) Shaindel Rubinstein née Silberfeld and Horace - Naftoli Hertz Rubinstein; who was a shopkeeper in Kraków.

Rubinstein immigrated from Poland and arrived in Australia in 1902, with no money and little English. Her stylish clothes and milky complexion did not pass unnoticed among the town's ladies, however, and she soon found enthusiastic buyers for the jars of beauty cream in her luggage. Spotting a market, she began to make her own. Fortunately, a key ingredient was readily at hand.

Coleraine, in Western Victoria, where her uncle was a shopkeeper, might have been an "awful place" but it did not lack of that ingredient. Sheep, some 75 million of them, were the wealth of the nation and the Western District's vast mobs of merinos produced the finest wool in the land, secreting abundant quantities of a grease, chemically known as lanolin, in the process. To disguise this essential component of her product's pungent odour, Rubinstein experimented with lavender, pine bark and water lilies.

She also managed to fall out with her uncle. After a stint as a bush governess, she got a job as a waitress at the Winter Garden tearooms in Melbourne. There, she found an admirer willing to stump up the funds to launch her Crème Valaze, supposedly including herbs imported "from the Carpathian Mountains". Costing ten pence and selling for six shillings, it walked off the shelves as fast as she could pack it in pots. Now calling herself Helena, Rubinstein could soon afford to open a salon in fashionable Collins Street, selling glamour as a science to clients whose skin was "diagnosed" and a suitable treatment "prescribed".

Sydney was next, and within five years Australian operations were profitable enough to finance a Salon de Beauté Valaze in London. As such, Rubinstein formed one of the world's first cosmetic companies. Her business enterprise proved immensely successful and later in life, she used her enormous wealth to support charitable institutions in the fields of education, art and health.



Diminutive at 4 ft. 10 in. (147 cm), she rapidly expanded her operation. In 1908, her sister Ceska assumed the Melbourneshop's operation, when, with $100,000, Rubinstein moved to London and began what was to become an international enterprise. (Women at this time could not obtain bank loans, so the money was her own.)

In 1908, she married the Polish-born American journalist Edward William Titus in London. They had two sons, Roy Valentine Titus (London, December 12, 1909–New York, June 18, 1989) and Horace Titus (London, April 23, 1912–New York, May 18, 1958). They eventually moved to Paris where she opened a salon in 1912. Her husband helped with writing the publicity and set up a small publishing house, published Lady Chatterley's Lover and hired Samuel Putnam to translate famous model Kiki's memoirs.

Rubinstein threw lavish dinner parties and became known for apocryphal quips, such as when an intoxicated French ambassador expressed vitriol toward Edith Sitwell and her brother Sacheverell: "Vos ancêtres ont brûlé Jeanne d'Arc!" Rubinstein, who knew little French, asked a guest what the ambassador had said. "He said, 'Your ancestors burned Joan of Arc.'" Rubinstein replied, "Well, someone had to do it."

At another fête, Marcel Proust asked her what makeup a duchess might wear. She summarily dismissed him because "he smelt of mothballs." Rubinstein recollected later, "How was I to know he was going to be famous?"

At the outbreak of World War I, she and Titus moved to New York City, where she opened a cosmetics salon in 1915, the forerunner of a chain throughout the country. This was the beginning of her vicious rivalry with the other great lady of the cosmetics industry, Elizabeth Arden. Both Rubinstein and Arden, who died within 18 months of each other, were social climbers. And they were both keenly aware of effective marketing and luxurious packaging, the attraction of beauticians in neat uniforms, the value of celebrity endorsements, the perceived value of overpricing and the promotion of the pseudoscience of skincare.

From 1917, Rubinstein took on the manufacturing and wholesale distribution of her products. The "Day of Beauty" in the various salons became a great success. The purported portrait of Rubinstein in her advertising was of a middle-age mannequin with a Gentile appearance.



In 1928, she sold the American business to Lehman Brothers for $7.3 million, ($88 million in 2007). After the arrival of the Great Depression, she bought back the nearly worthless stock for less than $1 million and eventually turned the shares into values of multimillion dollars, establishing salons and outlets in almost a dozen U.S. cities. Her subsequent spa at 715 Fifth Avenue included a restaurant, a gymnasium and rugs by painter Joan Miró. She commissioned artist Salvador Dalí to design a powder compact as well a portrait of herself.

Freed of her former marriage vows, in 1938 Helena readily married Prince Artchil Gourielli-Tchkonia (1895–1955), whose somewhat clouded materlineal claim to Georgian nobility, as that of Prince Artchil Gourielli-Tchkonia (sometimes spelled Courielli-Tchkonia; born in Georgia, February 18, 1895, died in New York City November 21, 1955), stemmed from his having been born a member of the untitled noble Tchkonia family of Guria, enticing the ambitious young man to appropriate the genuine title of his grandmother, born Princess Gourielli.

Self-styled Prince Artchil Gourielli-Tchkonia, was 23 years younger than Rubinstein. Eager for a regal title to call her own, Rubinstein pursued the handsome youth avidly; coming to name a male cosmetics line after her youthful prized catch. Some have claimed that the marriage was a marketing ploy, including Rubinstein's being able to pass herself off as Helena Princess Gourielli.

A multimillionaire of contrasts, Rubinstein took a bag lunch to work and was very frugal in many matters, but bought top-fashion clothing and valuable fine art and furniture. Concerning art, she founded the respectable Helena Rubinstein Pavilion of Contemporary Art in Tel Aviv and in 1957 she established the Helena Rubinstein travelling art scholarship in Australia.
 In 1953, she established the philanthropic Helena Rubinstein Foundation to provide funds to organizations specializing in health, medical research and rehabilitation as well as to the America Israel Cultural Foundation and scholarships to Israelis.

In 1959, Rubinstein represented the U.S. cosmetics industry at the American National Exhibition in Moscow.

A £300 annual Rubinstein Prize was awarded for portraits by Australian artists from 1958. Prizewinners included Frank Hodgkinson 1958; Charles Blackman 1960; William Boissevain 1961; Margaret Olley 1962; Vladas Meskenas 1963; Judy Cassab 1964, 1965; Jack Carington Smith 1966.

Called "Madame" by her employees, she eschewed idle chatter, continued to be active in the corporation throughout her life, even from her sick bed, and staffed the company with her relatives.

Mme. Rubinstein died April 1, 1965, and was buried in MountOlivetCemetery in Queens. Some of her estate, including African and fine art, Lucite furniture, and overwrought Victorian furniture upholstered in purple, was auctioned in 1966 at the Park-Bernet Galleries in New York.

One of Rubinstein's numerous mantras was: "There are no ugly women, only lazy ones."
A scholarly study of her exclusive beauty salons and how they blurred and influenced the conceptual boundaries at the time among fashion, art galleries, the domestic interior and versions of modernism is explored by Marie J. Clifford (Winterthur Portfolio, vol. 38). A feature-length documentary film, The Powder and the Glory (2009) by Ann Carol Grossman and Arnie Reisman, details the rivalry between Rubinstein and Elizabeth Arden.

Her methodology has been described thus:

She was "the first self-made female millionaire, an accomplishment she owed primarily to publicity savvy. She knew how to advertise—using 'fear copy with a bit of blah-blah'—and introduced the concept of 'problem' skin types. She also pioneered the use of pseudoscience in marketing, donning a lab coat in many advertisements, despite the fact that her only training had been a two-month tour of European skin-care facilities. She knew how to manipulate consumers' status anxiety, as well: If a product faltered initially, she would hike the price to raise the perceived value."

In 1973, the company Helena Rubinstein, Inc. was sold to Colgate Palmolive, and is now owned by L'Oréal.

'Helena Rubinstein: The Woman Who Invented Beauty', by Michèle Fitoussi - review
BOOKS 0 Comments Nicky Haslam 13 April 2013 / http://www.spectator.co.uk/books/8883751/park-avenue-princess/

Helena Rubinstein: The Woman Who Invented Beauty Michèle Fitoussi
Gallic Books, pp.497, £8.99, ISBN: 9780730496502

In New York, in the 1960s, in a sleek, silvery elevator, I rose from the marble halls of Helena Rubinstein’s gleaming emporium up towards the top floor office of a new friend who worked for that legendary beautician. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the lift stopped, the doors slid open and a tiny, squat figure with oily, inky hair scraped back and livid carmine cheeks above violently purple tweed capes stabbed with a jagged, surreal brooch, stood peering up at what I hoped was my youthful, English-rose complexion. A short, intense scrutiny. Then, imperiously: ‘Oy vey! But I sink ve can help. Tell Patrick he needs gif you our XXX recipe. Now, out of my vay’, she elbowed past me; we descended, not a word more, but not exactly in silence, for she was loudly sucking on a Lifesaver, and, by your leave, let go a none too discreet fart.

My unique encounter with the woman Cocteau called — not, given her machinations, without a touch of irony — the ‘Byzantine Empress of Beauty’, encapsulated her self-made aura: her battle against blemishes, her extravagant style, canny acumen and her famously brusque manner.

The friend I’d been meeting was a tall, elegant and extremely witty Irishman named Patrick O’Higgins. To say he ‘worked’ for this monstre maquillée is not the half of it. He walked her, arranged her contracts, travelled the world with her, was the shoulder she cried on, made amends for her manners, held the heavily jewelled hand when husbands and sons died. And he wrote an amusing, touching, critical but finally sympathetic book, simply titled Madame, about his many years with Helena Rubinstein.

Michèle Fitoussi’s biography of the same subject puts much factual flesh on Madame’s funny-bones. It is credibly researched, fairly accurate, without too many invented conversations and written in powder-pink, though somewhat cliché-ridden, prose. Exclamation marks dot paragraphs like beauty-spots, and there are more ‘such as’s followed by lists of long-forgotten rivals than you can shake a lipstick at.

GRACE KELLY 4 June to 26 October 2014 Princess and Style Icon / Paleis Het Loo / Apeldoorn, Netherlands

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GRACE KELLY
4 June to 26 October 2014
Princess and Style Icon
Paleis Het Loo is mounting a magnificent show in 2014 with the ‘Grace Kelly, Princess and Style Icon’ exhibition presenting the unique story of the fascinating and eventful life of Princess Grace of Monaco. Clothes, accessories, film clips and photographs bring to life again the tale of the princess from one of Europe’s oldest royal houses.
The image of Princess Grace, born Grace Patricia Kelly (1929-1982) in the United States, is indelibly imprinted in our collective memory. As a style icon Grace Kelly was one of the most photographed women in the twentieth century and was avidly followed by the media in her successful life as an American film star, royal bride and princess of Monaco. Her beauty, character, talents and the dedication and discipline she brought to her role as film star and princess made her unforgettable and inspiring.






Cracks Trailer - HD

Something very different than "Sin City" ... Eva Green 'Cracks' / See VIDEO Interview bellow

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The film was produced in 2008, written for the screen by Caroline Ip, Ben Court and Jordan Scott, based on the novel written by Sheila Kohler, directed by Jordan Scott and produced by Kwesi Dickson, Andrew Lowe, Julie Payne[disambiguation needed], Rosalie Swedlin and Christine Vachon. Ridley and Tony Scott serve as executive producers. The film was mostly filmed in County Wicklow, Ireland.
Set in a strict elite British boarding school in the 1930s, the story centers on a clique of girls who idolize their enigmatic diving instructor, Miss G (Green) (in the film, we learn that Miss G had been a student at the same school where she now works and, in fact, may have even continued on at the school after she graduated). Di Radfield (Temple) has a crush on Miss G, and is the firm favourite and ringleader of her group. When a beautiful Spanish girl named Fiamma Coronna (Valverde) arrives at the school, Miss G's focus is shifted away from the other girls. It becomes a triangle: Miss G gets increasingly obsessed with Fiamma, Fiamma is disturbed by Miss G and also openly disgusted by the teacher's hypocrisies and deceptions, and Di is terribly jealous and makes Fiamma's life hell. In a very telling scene in the film that clearly highlighted Miss G's deceptions, Miss G (who claimed to be a world traveller to her "girls") goes to a nearby parochial town to buy some provisions. She is visibly upset by this trip and after buying her provisions and drawing the unwanted attention of some local louts, she returns to the school in, it would seem, a near panic. The bullying culminates in Di physically throwing Fiamma out of the school but, as she is unable to return to Spainas she hoped, Fiamma ends up back at the school later that night.
When Fiamma is eventually found, the two girls make the first steps towards friendship, and at the following dorm party they all get a bit drunk, and Fiamma faints. Miss G takes her to her own room. Then Miss G kisses her and sexually assaults her while she is passed out; Di witnesses this through the room door, which was left ajar, and then flees.
The next morning, Fiamma is visibly upset, Miss G equally so as she runs around after her. Di is broody, and eventually tells the rest of her gang that Fiamma seduced Miss G. Fiamma presumably tells Miss G that she will report the molestation to the teachers, and horrified, Miss G realises her career will be over. She in turn manipulates Di's affection for her into anger. She says that Fiamma will make up lies about her molesting her (even though it was true) and plan to get her kicked out of school. Di absolutely refuses to allow this to happen. The confrontation between Di's gang and Fiamma turns ugly as Fiamma declines to answer Di's vicious questions and tries to explain what really happened, hinting at Miss G's lies and character defects. Fiamma runs into the forest as things become more violent, but the girls catch up with her and, under Di's leadership, beat her up with their fists and sticks. Fiamma starts to have an asthma attack, and the girls stop, terrified. They run to get help, and Di runs into Miss G (who had been watching the beating and the chase that ensued quietly and with no attempt to stop the beating), who says she'll stay with Fiamma, and directs Di to go get a teacher.
In the forest, Miss G, alone with Fiamma, refuses to give Fiamma her inhaler and calmly watches her die. Di returns just in time to see Miss G placing the inhaler in Fiamma's lifeless hand, and that's when she realizes the truth.
Later, Di tells the other girls what happened and, united, they confront Miss G. They are powerless officially, but they quit the swim team and symbolically turn in their sashes. The headmistress refuses to acknowledge the school's culpability, and seems only concerned with the school's reputation, but releases Miss G from her duties.
The final scene has Di leaving the school to explore the world, as both Fiamma and Miss G had spoken of doing, whilst Miss G, fired from the school, goes to the local village and finds a small room she can live in, presumably closing herself away for the rest of her life. In a scene that perhaps allows the viewer a better understanding of Miss G's very complex personality, we see her put her few personal possessions on her bedside table. She puts one item there and then quickly removes it to make room for another item. After that, she counts the items to make sure there are only five. The viewer is then reminded that when Fiamma arrived at the school, in the dorm room, Di had told her that only five personal items could be displayed on her night table at one time. The audience then realizes Miss G is as much a victim of the institutionalized setting she grew up in (she was perhaps like many of the girls at the school "dumped" there and basically forgotten about by her family) as Fiamma was her victim.











SUNDAY IMAGES ... "TARTAN" ...

REMAINS of THE DAY ... "SUMMER". After all these years … “Jeeves” reveals himself …

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After all these years … “Jeeves” reveals himself …
My name is António Sérgio Rosa de Carvalho and I am an Architectural Historian.
Thank you for visiting me in my “blog” that started from a simple wish to share “useless facts” and an associative microcosmos.

Howell T. Conant Photographer / Remembering Grace

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GRACE KELLY with HOWELL CONANT


In 1955 Conant was commissioned by Photoplay magazine to do a cover shoot with Grace Kelly, then a leading film actress. Following the Photoplay shoot, Kelly holidayed in Jamaica, with her sister, and invited Conant. He photographed her without makeup in a naturalistic setting, a departure from the traditional portrayal of actresses. The resulting photographs were published in the June 24 issue of Collier's magazine, with a celebrated photo of Kelly rising from the water with wet hair making the cover.

Conant wrote that he thought that Kelly's sole flaw in her appearance was her jaw, which he considered too square. He would use a dog or a baby to disguise it when photographing her below her jaw. Conant later said that "You trusted Grace's beauty...You knew it wasn't built from clothes and makeup...this was Grace: natural, unpretentious".

Kelly sailed on the SS Constitution from New York to Monaco for her marriage to Prince Rainier in 1956. Many photographers were on board the ship, but only Conant had access to Kelly. Following her marriage Conant was the unofficial photographer to the House of Grimaldi, and extensively photographed Kelly, her husband and their three children. In 1992 Conant published Grace, a book of photographs that he took during Kelly's 26 year reign as Princess of Monaco.

In September 1982, Conant was planning a trip to Monacoto take the family's official Christmas portrait. Upon hearing that Princess Grace had died in a car accident, he left without his photographic equipment. Conant remained friends with Prince Rainier until his death.


Howell T. Conant Sr., 83, Photographer


Howell T. Conant Sr., a photographer best known for his pictures of Princess Grace of Monaco, died on March 11 at his home in Carefree, Ariz. He was 83 and also had a home on Block Island, R.I.

Mr. Conant was working as a fashion photographer in 1955 when he was commissioned by Photoplay magazine to do a cover photograph of Grace Kelly, who shortly thereafter became Princess of Monaco. The picture became one of his best-known images, and he became the favorite photographer of the Royal Family of Monaco. In 1992 he published ''Grace,'' a book of his photographs of the Princess, Prince Rainier and their three children.

He went on to take pictures for Life, Look, Paris Match and other publications, and photographed celebrities from Elizabeth Taylor and Audrey Hepburn to Presidents Nixon and Kennedy.

He is survived by his wife, Dorothy; a brother, Roger, of Newport Beach, Calif.; a son, Howell Jr., of Cave Creek, Ariz.; three daughters, Carol Richter-Blum of Philadelphia, Susan Conant of Newport, R.I., and Sarah Martabano of South Salem, N.Y.; 12 grandchildren and a great-grandchild.















"JEEVES" will be away for 10 days.

Downton Abbey - ITV - Series 5 Teaser

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Downton to return for series five
10:22 - 23 JAN 2014
 Downton Abbey - ITV
Ladies and Gentlemen, we're delighted to announce that Downton Abbey will be back for a phenomenal fifth series.

Audience figures for the fourth series have hit an average 11.8 million viewers – making it the highest rated drama on television in 2013.

Once again Julian Fellowes will be putting pen to paper as writer of the new series and will continue Executive Producing duties with Gareth Neame and Liz Trubridge.
We promise all the usual highs and lows, romance, drama and comedy played out by some of the most iconic characters on television.

All the actors and makers of the show continue to be humbled by the extraordinary audience response and want to take the show from strength to strength next year.
– Gareth Neame, Executive Producer
http://www.itv.com/downtonabbey/news/series-five-announced

Sneak peek: Tom Branson waves off 'love interest' Sarah Bunting as they film scenes for Downton Abbey season five
By REBECCA DAVISON
PUBLISHED: 14:28 GMT, 25 April 2014 | UPDATED: 15:46 GMT, 25 April 2014




He was heartbroken when his wife, Lady Sybil (Jessica Brown Findlay) died in childbirth two years ago, but Tom Branson (Allen Leech) looks like he's formed a new strong bond in Downton Abbey.
The popular character could be seen paying governess, Sarah Bunting (Daisy Lewis) a visit as he filmed scenes for season five of Downton Abbey in Bamford, Oxfordshire on Friday. 
With a couple of suitcases by her side, the Irishman helps her into a car, suggesting she might be going away for a while, but viewers will have to wait and see if they end up together.




Tom had planned to travel to America during the fourth season of the show but perhaps he will change his mind if a special someone persuades him to stay.
It's little wonder that Sarah has caught the former chaffeur's eye as she is pictured looking lovely in a blue coat, complete with orange dress during filming.
Accessorizing with a russet-coloured hat and a beaded necklace, Sarah smiles at the handsome chap, although she looks despondent as she prepares to get into the car.

Plot details for the new series, slated for an autumn return, are being kept under wraps, but Hugh Bonneville, (Lord Grantham) and Michelle Dockery (Lady Mary) have also been filming this week.
Rob James-Collier, (Thomas Barrow) will make a return and show favourite, Dame Maggie Smith was also seen back in costume as her character, Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham.
New faces on the show are expected, including Richard E. Grant, who will play Simon Bricker, an art historian who is a house guest of the Crawley family.

The character appears in four episodes later this year and threatens to ‘cause ructions’. Rade Serbedzija and Anna Chancellor are also expected to join the cast.
Fans of the show were thrilled when its creator Julian Fellowes revealed there would be a sixth series, after the fifth was widely thought to be the last. He told The Express:

'I have no plans to stop writing and while ratings are as high as they are I can’t see they wouldn’t commission another series. It’s just that they won’t confirm until the fifth series is televised.'

oh gosh ... now that hipsterdom is over ... what the hell am I going to do with all these tattoos !?

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A hipster on the streets of London sports trendy tattoos. Photograph: Wayne Tippetts/Rex Features
The end of the hipster: how flat caps and beards stopped being so cool
Now that cocktails in jam jars have made it to EastEnders, what's next for those who would be 'alternative'?
Morwenna Ferrier

Meet Josh. Josh is a 30-year-old artist/chef who lives in a converted warehouse in Hackney, east London. Josh has a beard, glasses and cares about the provenance of his coffee. He pays his tax, doesn't have a 9-to-5 job and, along with his five polymathic flatmates, shuns public transport, preferring to ride a bike.

On paper, Josh is the archetypal hipster – just don't call him one: "I don't hate the word hipster, and I don't hate hipsters, but being a hipster doesn't mean anything any more. So God forbid anyone calls me one."

At some point in the last few years, the hipster changed. Or at least its definition did. What was once an umbrella term for a counter-culture tribe of young creative types in (mostly) New York's Williamsburg and London's Hackney morphed into a pejorative term for people who looked, lived and acted a certain way. The Urban Dictionary defines hipsters as "a subculture of men and women, typically in their 20s and 30s, that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics". In reality, the word is now tantamount to an insult.
So what happened? Chris Sanderson, futurologist and co-founder of trend forecasting agency The Future Laboratory, thinks it's simple: "The hipster died the minute we called him a hipster. The word no longer had the same meaning."


Fuelling this was a report last month from researchers at the University of New South Wales who discovered that the hipster look was no longer "hip". In short: the more commonplace a trend – in one instance, beards – the less attractive they are perceived to be. And in 2014 we may have reached "peak beard". Could it be that the flat-white-drinking, flat-cap-wearing hipster will soon cease to exist?

Sanderson thinks it's more a case of evolving than dying. Talking to the Observer last week, he suggested there are now two types of hipster: "Contemporary hipsters – the ones with the beards we love to hate – and proto-hipsters, the real deal." And herein lies the confusion.
"Historically, proto-hipsters have been connoisseurs – people who deviate from the norm. Like hippies. Over the years, though, they inspired a new generation of young urban types who turned the notion of a hipster into a grossly commercial parody. These new hipsters want to appear a certain way, to be seen to be doing certain things, but without doing the research. So they appropriated the lifestyle and mindset of a proto-hipster."

It's a definition neatly summarised in the song Sunday, by Los Angeles rapper Earl Sweatshirt: "You're just not passionate about half the shit that you're into."

The problem is that it is now almost impossible to differentiate between the two. "Hipsters are more interested in following; proto-hipsters are more interested in leading. Yet they look the same, so how are people to know the difference?"
This lack of visual disparity has probably led to society's fondness for hipster-bashing. As Alex Miller, UKeditor-in-chief of Vice, explains: "I couldn't define a hipster. I guess it's 'The Other'. But as a general term it's blown up because people finally realised they had a word to mock something cool and young which they didn't understand."

It's an age-old scenario. In Distinction, his 1979 report on the social logic of taste, French academic Pierre Bourdieu wrote that "social identity lies in difference, and difference is asserted against what is closest, which represents the greatest threat". So our inability to define a hipster merely fuels the enigma.

"And as you can imagine, this is greatly exasperating to proto-hipsters," says Sanderson.

It hasn't always been like this. While the definition of hipster hasn't altered vastly over the years, there was a time when it was considered to be something both meaningful and specific.

The word was coined in the 1940s to define someone who rejected societal norms – such as middle-class white people who listened to jazz. Then came a reactive literary subculture, realised through the work of beatniks such as Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs. It was Norman Mailer who attempted to define hipsters in his essay The White Negro as postwar American white generation of rebels, disillusioned by war, who chose to "divorce oneself from society, to exist without roots, to set out on that uncharted journey into the rebellious imperatives of the self".

A decade later, we had the counter-culture movement – hippies who carried their torch in a fairly self-explanatory fashion, divorced from the mainstream. The word mostly vanished until the 1990s, when it was redefined so as to describe middle-class youths with an interest in "the alternative".

In the "noughties", hipsters became the stuff of parody, via Chris Morris and Charlie Brooker's satire Nathan Barley, which earmarked the "twats of Shoreditch". Nowadays, though, anyone can appear to be a hipster provided they buy the right jeans. From the twee Match.com adverts featuring hipster-style couples to the cocktails served in jam jars at the trendy incomer bar the Albert in EastEnders, "the idea of the hipster has been swallowed up by the mainstream", says Sanderson.

Luke O'Neil, a Boston-based culture writer for the online magazine Slate, says it is the same in the US. "I've even noticed what I call the meta-hipster: a person who sidesteps the traditional requirements and just wants to skip ahead to the status. Like putting on glasses and getting a tattoo somehow makes you a hipster," he says.

But while Miller agrees that hipster has morphed into a negative term, it is less about the word and more about what it represents: "Growing up, we just used other words – 'scenester' at university, 'trendies' at school – and they mean the same. Hipster has simply become a word which means the opposite of authentic."
 
Double filtered flat-white coffee — because single-filtering is for people who like Jim Davidson. Photograph: Carl Court/AFP
Not everyone agrees. At Hoxton Bar and Grill in east London, 24-year-old graduate Milly identifies with hipsters: "I mean, that's why we all live in east London. It just feels so real, like something creative and cool is happening."

Manny, a 28-year-old singer who has lived in Dalston for more than five years, likes the sense of community: "Young people haven't got jobs or work and they need it. It's like a tribe, like goths. I hope hipsters aren't dead, because I just signed a year lease on my flat."

Miller adds: "We've never written about hipsters as a subculture at Vice because I don't think hipsters are a subculture. However, I do appreciate that people like the idea of belonging to something, so I suppose on that level the idea exists." As O'Neil explains: "Whoever said [hipsters] wanted to be unique? I think it's more about wanting to belong."

So what next? "I think hipsters will have an overhaul. There will be a downturn in this skinny-jean, long-haired feminised look over the next few years owing to the rise of the stronger female role model," says Chris Sanderson." And in its place? "A more macho look, almost to the point of caricature, in a bid for men to reinforce their identity."
Perhaps this explains the phenomenon of "normcore", a term coined by New York trend agency K-Hole in their Youth Mode report last autumn. Though widely derided by the fashion world, this plain, super-normal style is arguably a reaction to the commodification of individuality, the idea that you can buy uniqueness off the peg in Topshop. "Normcore doesn't want the freedom to become someone," they say. "Normcore moves away from a coolness that relies on difference to a post-authenticity that opts into sameness."

It sounds like a joke but, says Sanderson, it might actually might be a thing: "It's the opposite of what people think is hip now, but it's also very masculine – which ties in to the return to blokeiness."

But for many, including Josh, the desire to categorise people is infuriating. Arvida Byström is a Swedish-born, London-based artist, photographer and model. Though sometimes identified as a hipster aesthetically speaking, her work, which focuses on sexuality, self-identity and contemporary feminism, would suggest she is much more than that. Sanderson would describe her as "someone who leads not follows".

She balks at the idea of being a hipster: "I haven't been aware of people calling me a hipster. I certainly don't identify as one. What is a hipster, anyway? It is such a general term. I don't even know if they exist any more."


But as Josh says: "I don't see why you can't just be a guy in east Londonliking the stuff that's around without being branded as something."

EAST AND WEST



Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization
We’ve reached a point in our civilization where counterculture has mutated into a self-obsessed aesthetic vacuum. So while hipsterdom is the end product of all priorcountercultures, it’s been stripped of its subversion and originality.
  Douglas Haddow, 29 July 2008 / https://www.adbusters.org/magazine/79/hipster.html

I’m sipping a scummy pint of cloudy beer in the back of a trendy dive bar turned nightclub in the heart of the city’s heroin district. In front of me stand a gang of hippiesh grunge-punk types, who crowd around each other and collectively scoff at the smoking laws by sneaking puffs of “fuck-you,” reveling in their perceived rebellion as the haggard, staggering staff look on without the slightest concern.

The “DJ” is keystroking a selection of MP3s off his MacBook, making a mix that sounds like he took a hatchet to a collection of yesteryear billboard hits, from DMX to Dolly Parton, but mashed up with a jittery techno backbeat.

“So… this is a hipster party?” I ask the girl sitting next to me. She’s wearing big dangling earrings, an American Apparel V-neck tee, non-prescription eyeglasses and an inappropriately warm wool coat.

“Yeah, just look around you, 99 percent of the people here are total hipsters!”

“Are you a hipster?”

“Fuck no,” she says, laughing back the last of her glass before she hops off to the dance floor.

Ever since the Allies bombed the Axis into submission, Western civilization has had a succession of counter-culture movements that have energetically challenged the status quo. Each successive decade of the post-war era has seen it smash social standards, riot and fight to revolutionize every aspect of music, art, government and civil society.

But after punk was plasticized and hip hop lost its impetus for social change, all of the formerly dominant streams of “counter-culture” have merged together. Now, one mutating, trans-Atlantic melting pot of styles, tastes and behavior has come to define the generally indefinable idea of the “Hipster.”

An artificial appropriation of different styles from different eras, the hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture lost in the superficiality of its past and unable to create any new meaning. Not only is it unsustainable, it is suicidal. While previous youth movements have challenged the dysfunction and decadence of their elders, today we have the “hipster” – a youth subculture that mirrors the doomed shallowness of mainstream society.

Hipsters

Take a stroll down the street in any major North American or European city and you’ll be sure to see a speckle of fashion-conscious twentysomethings hanging about and sporting a number of predictable stylistic trademarks: skinny jeans, cotton spandex leggings, fixed-gear bikes, vintage flannel, fake eyeglasses and a keffiyeh – initially sported by Jewish students and Western protesters to express solidarity with Palestinians, the keffiyeh has become a completely meaningless hipster cliché fashion accessory.

The American Apparel V-neck shirt, Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and Parliament cigarettes are symbols and icons of working or revolutionary classes that have been appropriated by hipsterdom and drained of meaning. Ten years ago, a man wearing a plain V-neck tee and drinking a Pabst would never be accused of being a trend-follower. But in 2008, such things have become shameless clichés of a class of individuals that seek to escape their own wealth and privilege by immersing themselves in the aesthetic of the working class.

This obsession with “street-cred” reaches its apex of absurdity as hipsters have recently and wholeheartedly adopted the fixed-gear bike as the only acceptable form of transportation – only to have brakes installed on a piece of machinery that is defined by its lack thereof.

Lovers of apathy and irony, hipsters are connected through a global network of blogs and shops that push forth a global vision of fashion-informed aesthetics. Loosely associated with some form of creative output, they attend art parties, take lo-fi pictures with analog cameras, ride their bikes to night clubs and sweat it up at nouveau disco-coke parties. The hipster tends to religiously blog about their daily exploits, usually while leafing through generation-defining magazines like Vice, Another Magazine and Wallpaper. This cursory and stylized lifestyle has made the hipster almost universally loathed.

“These hipster zombies… are the idols of the style pages, the darlings of viral marketers and the marks of predatory real-estate agents,” wrote Christian Lorentzen in a Time Out New York article entitled ‘Why the Hipster Must Die.’ “And they must be buried for cool to be reborn.”

With nothing to defend, uphold or even embrace, the idea of “hipsterdom” is left wide open for attack. And yet, it is this ironic lack of authenticity that has allowed hipsterdom to grow into a global phenomenon that is set to consume the very core of Western counterculture. Most critics make a point of attacking the hipster’s lack of individuality, but it is this stubborn obfuscation that distinguishes them from their predecessors, while allowing hipsterdom to easily blend in and mutate other social movements, sub-cultures and lifestyles.

Standing outside an art-party next to a neat row of locked-up fixed-gear bikes, I come across a couple girls who exemplify hipster homogeneity. I ask one of the girls if her being at an art party and wearing fake eyeglasses, leggings and a flannel shirt makes her a hipster.

“I’m not comfortable with that term,” she replies.

Her friend adds, with just a flicker of menace in her eyes, “Yeah, I don’t know, you shouldn’t use that word, it’s just…”

“Offensive?”

“No… it’s just, well… if you don’t know why then you just shouldn’t even use it.”

“Ok, so what are you girls doing tonight after this party?”

“Ummm… We’re going to the after-party.”

Gavin McInnes, one of the founders of Vice, who recently left the magazine, is considered to be one of hipsterdom’s primary architects. But, in contrast to the majority of concerned media-types, McInnes, whose “Dos and Don’ts” commentary defined the rules of hipster fashion for over a decade, is more critical of those doing the criticizing.

“I’ve always found that word [“hipster”] is used with such disdain, like it’s always used by chubby bloggers who aren’t getting laid anymore and are bored, and they’re just so mad at these young kids for going out and getting wasted and having fun and being fashionable,” he says. “I’m dubious of these hypotheses because they always smell of an agenda.”

Punks wear their tattered threads and studded leather jackets with honor, priding themselves on their innovative and cheap methods of self-expression and rebellion. B-boys and b-girls announce themselves to anyone within earshot with baggy gear and boomboxes. But it is rare, if not impossible, to find an individual who will proclaim themself a proud hipster. It’s an odd dance of self-identity – adamantly denying your existence while wearing clearly defined symbols that proclaims it.

Hipsters
“He’s 17 and he lives for the scene!” a girl whispers in my ear as I sneak a photo of a young kid dancing up against a wall in a dimly lit corner of the after-party. He’s got a flipped-out, do-it-yourself haircut, skin-tight jeans, leather jacket, a vintage punk tee and some popping high tops.

“Shoot me,” he demands, walking up, cigarette in mouth, striking a pose and exhaling. He hits a few different angles with a firmly unimpressed expression and then gets a bit giddy when I show him the results.

“Rad, thanks,” he says, re-focusing on the music and submerging himself back into the sweaty funk of the crowd where he resumes a jittery head bobble with a little bit of a twitch.

The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it should be surrounded by quotation marks. While punk, disco and hip hop all had immersive, intimate and energetic dance styles that liberated the dancer from his/her mental states – be it the head-spinning b-boy or violent thrashings of a live punk show – the hipster has more of a joke dance. A faux shrug shuffle that mocks the very idea of dancing or, at its best, illustrates a non-committal fear of expression typified in a weird twitch/ironic twist. The dancers are too self-aware to let themselves feel any form of liberation; they shuffle along, shrugging themselves into oblivion.

Perhaps the true motivation behind this deliberate nonchalance is an attempt to attract the attention of the ever-present party photographers, who swim through the crowd like neon sharks, flashing little blasts of phosphorescent ecstasy whenever they spot someone worth momentarily immortalizing.

Noticing a few flickers of light splash out from the club bathroom, I peep in only to find one such photographer taking part in an impromptu soft-core porno shoot. Two girls and a guy are taking off their clothes and striking poses for a set of grimy glamour shots. It’s all grins and smirks until another girl pokes her head inside and screeches, “You’re not some club kid in New York in the nineties. This shit is so hipster!” – which sparks a bit of a catfight, causing me to beat a hasty retreat.

Hipsters
In many ways, the lifestyle promoted by hipsterdom is highly ritualized. Many of the party-goers who are subject to the photoblogger’s snapshots no doubt crawl out of bed the next afternoon and immediately re-experience the previous night’s debauchery. Red-eyed and bleary, they sit hunched over their laptops, wading through a sea of similarity to find their own (momentarily) thrilling instant of perfected hipster-ness.

What they may or may not know is that “cool-hunters” will also be skulking the same sites, taking note of how they dress and what they consume. These marketers and party-promoters get paid to co-opt youth culture and then re-sell it back at a profit. In the end, hipsters are sold what they think they invent and are spoon-fed their pre-packaged cultural livelihood.

Hipsterdom is the first “counterculture” to be born under the advertising industry’s microscope, leaving it open to constant manipulation but also forcing its participants to continually shift their interests and affiliations. Less a subculture, the hipster is a consumer group – using their capital to purchase empty authenticity and rebellion. But the moment a trend, band, sound, style or feeling gains too much exposure, it is suddenly looked upon with disdain. Hipsters cannot afford to maintain any cultural loyalties or affiliations for fear they will lose relevance.

An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it. The cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements. But the hipster’s self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution. Western civilization’s well has run dry. The only way to avoid hitting the colossus of societal failure that looms over the horizon is for the kids to abandon this vain existence and start over.

“If you don’t give a damn, we don’t give a fuck!” chants an emcee before his incitements are abruptly cut short when the power plug is pulled and the lights snapped on.

Dawn breaks and the last of the after-after-parties begin to spill into the streets. The hipsters are falling out, rubbing their eyes and scanning the surrounding landscape for the way back from which they came. Some hop on their fixed-gear bikes, some call for cabs, while a few of us hop a fence and cut through the industrial wasteland of a nearby condo development.

The half-built condos tower above us like foreboding monoliths of our yuppie futures. I take a look at one of the girls wearing a bright pink keffiyeh and carrying a Polaroid camera and think, “If only we carried rocks instead of cameras, we’d look like revolutionaries.” But instead we ignore the weapons that lie at our feet – oblivious to our own impending demise.

We are a lost generation, desperately clinging to anything that feels real, but too afraid to become it ourselves. We are a defeated generation, resigned to the hypocrisy of those before us, who once sang songs of rebellion and now sell them back to us. We are the last generation, a culmination of all previous things, destroyed by the vapidity that surrounds us. The hipster represents the end of Western civilization – a culture so detached and disconnected that it has stopped giving birth to anything new.



Quirke, BBC One / Quirke-Trailer.

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John Banville. Photograph: Kim Haughton

John Banville: 'Quirke comes from the damaged recesses of my Irish soul'
Irish author reveals pleasure and pain of creating pathologist in Benjamin Black books set to star in BBC TV adaptation
Hannah Ellis-Petersen

There are two John Banvilles. The first, a Booker prize-winning novelist, is famed for his poetic and sensory fiction. The second, a crime fiction alter-ego by the name of Benjamin Black, is the one the author admires most.

"My Benjamin Black books are a triumph of nerve and spontaneity I hope," Banville said, "whereas Banville is moulding things away quietly down on the ground, in the darkness for years on end, hoping eventually to come up into some kind of light."

The Benjamin Black books, centred around the charismatic but troubled pathologist Quirke in 1950s Dublin, are now to be brought to life by BBC One. The highly anticipated adaptation, Quirke, will air on Sunday night and features the Irish actor Gabriel Byrne in the title role alongside Michael Gambon, with each episode taking their storyline from a different book in the series.
Banville, who won the Booker for The Sea in 2005, began writing his Quirke novels in 2004 after being inspired to adapt a screenplay he had written years earlier that never made it to the screen.

He said the Quirke books were rich with his childhood recollections of Ireland, far more than so his literary writing.

"I trawled through my memories of being a child when I was writing the books and I was astonished at how much I could remember.

"Quirke lives in the apartment in Dublin which I inherited from my aunt and he moves around in that area where I was when I first moved to Dublin. He's better off than we were in those days, but yes, it's soaked in my recollections. It is more connected to the circumstances of my life than my Banville books.

"As a child Dublin seemed like a magical world. Even still, the smell of diesel fumes still brings me back there. But looking back I realise what a narrow world it was, how poverty-stricken it was. It was a beautiful city, dingy and ramshackle with a melancholy beauty – most of which is gone now."

The hard-drinking, intolerant yet highly instinctive Quirke is a character Banville said had come from the "damaged recesses of my Irish soul. I sympathise with Quirke; he is a very damaged person, as many Irish people are from their upbringing.

"I wish he had more of a sense of humour, but it's quite hard to be humorous in crime fiction, I'm not sure why. My Spanish publisher said to me, I'm so in love with Quirke but couldn't you lighten him up just a little bit. And Gabriel [Byrne] brings a lot of darkness to the character."

While religion is notably absent from much of Banville's literary fiction, with his Quirke novels set in 1950s Ireland"when the church controlled our lives at every level", Banville admitted it was impossible to ignore.

The author himself conceded condemned the Catholic church as a cult, having abandoned his faith in his late teens.

"Back then it was driven by fear. When I was growing up as a Catholic, we were never told about the joys of religion. What we were told about was if that we didn't love God enough to displease ourselves, then God would condemn us to eternal damnation. It's a pretty potent message to give to a seven-year-old child and to keep banging it into us throughout our lives, so giving it up was quite a wrench. If you've been inculcated into a cult, and Irish Catholicism is a cult, then it is hard to break free from."

He continued: "When you're brainwashed like we were, you think this is normal, how things should be and Catholic upbringing is straightforward brainwashing. We were fed a lot of nonsense and a lot of lies under the guise of faith. Meanwhile the church is raking in money and abusing the people in its care. The priests and nuns were denied sexual love and amorous love which I think is appalling, it's a criminal thing to do to people.

"We knew that there was abuse and we knew it was bad, but we didn't know it was quite as bad as what was revealed, and we didn't know the criminal way in which the church protected the abusers, switching them from parish to parish to cover it up. Human beings have this amazing capacity to know but also not know at the same time."

Banville had little involvement in the TV adaptation – "the last thing they want is the author on set"– but had a brief meeting with the writers.

"I met Andrew Davies and we spent a very pleasant afternoon walking round Quirke's Dublin and went for a pint and he asked me some questions about Irish phrases – that was about it really."

As an author who famously deemed his literary novels "an embarrassment", Banville said he had a far less conflicted relationship with his Benjamin Black work.

"They are two completely different writers who have two completely different processes. I certainly like the Benjamin Black books more than my Banville novels because they are pieces of craft work and I like to think they are honestly made," he said. "My Banville books are attempts to be works of art but because perfection can never be achieved they always ultimately fail. So when I look at my Banville books all I see are the flaws, the faults, the failures, place where I should have kept going to make a sentence better."

He added: "When I publish a book and have to do readings, I do it with one eye closed or through my fingers because I know I'm going to find all kinds of horrors."


Quirke, episode one, BBC One, review: 'too long'
Gabriel Byrne's performance in Quirke transfixes the attention, but it wasn’t enough to make up for the drama's flaws, says Chris Harvey


Ten minutes into the first episode of Quirke (BBC One), the new pathologist detective drama adapted by Andrew Davies from John Banville’s novels under the pen name of Benjamin Black, I thought I was in some sozzled dream of Dublinin the Fifties. It was permanently dark, or raining, people were always drunk, or drinking, and I kept hearing people say the words of the episode’s title – “Christine Falls” – without any real sense of who or what they referred to.
Gabriel Byrne was on screen though, being Gabriel Byrne, being Quirke. Byrne’s presence almost guarantees Banville’s pathologist a quiet intensity and an air of life lived and love lost. ChristineFalls, I gradually came to realise, was a pregnant woman, who had died and found her way onto Quirke’s post-mortem table. It had happened before the drama began. Quirke didn’t agree with the cause of death given, and he particularly didn’t like the fact that it had been given by his adoptive brother Malachy (Nick Dunning), who appeared to hate him. He wanted to know what had happened to the baby.
The list of important characters kept growing: the woman whose house Christine Falls had been in when she died (soon to be dead herself); the brothers’ powerful grandfather Judge Garret Griffin (Michael Gambon); Malachy’s daughter Phoebe (Aisling Franciosi). She was in love with Quirke, who she thought was her uncle, but who turned out to be her father.
For a literary adapter of Davies’s talent (Pride and Prejudice, Bleak House), it was fearfully hard to follow, and at a 90-minute run time that felt very long, it would be hard to argue that extreme compression was the cause.
The whole drama decamped to Boston for the last half hour, to introduce more new characters and explain the fate of the baby, who had been shipped out as part of a trade in babies born to the poor women of Corkand Dublin, but who had been killed by a chauffeur, who turned out to be a potential rapist.

There was just too much plot, too much gloomy stylised direction and too many strings on the soundtrack, bringing a surreal melodramatic quality to some of the most serious moments. Byrne gave the drama that warm burr and powerful charisma that can transfix the attention, but it wasn’t enough to make up for its flaws. It was heavy going to get to the end.





Quirke, BBC One, review: 'it made no sense'
The final episode of Quirke was hard to understand - and not just because the dialogue was indecipherable, says Benji Wilson

The third and final Quirke (BBC One) was transmitted in the shadow of what I cannot bring myself to call Muttergate (and so will label The Rumble in the Mumble). After the big stink about Jamaica Inn being inaudible, Quirke’s own writer, Andrew Davies, admitted that he had been forced to watch the series with the subtitles on, because he couldn’t hear what the actors were saying.
So in the interests of science I decided to conduct an experiment – I watched a good part of the last half-hour with the sound off (and no subtitles). And I have to say it didn’t suffer greatly. Because I’m not sure that anyone has much of a clue what’s going on in even when you can hear the words.
Ever since Dr Quirke, played by Gabriel Byrne, returned to heavyweight boozing he hasn’t had much of a clue what’s going on either. That’s not the most fertile ground for a testing whodunit.
You sensed in last night’s episode that the director wasn’t particularly interested in the whys and the wherefores of the plot himself. Whether it was following some aesthetic credo or just because they couldn’t afford convincing Dublinbackdrops, almost all of it was filmed with the camera right in the actors’ faces. In the case of Gabriel Byrne, a man whose face is an atlas of world-weariness, that’s understandable. But then you remember that Quirke is supposed to be a detective drama with a mystery to be solved in each episode. Here the mystery was: what happened to the storyline?
Quirke was filmed nearly two years ago now. It’s been lingering around the BBC schedulers’ office like those dodgy pickled onions at the back of the fridge, which suggests that the Beeb didn’t know what to do with it. Though Quirke is no stinker, it’s a strange beast. It’s way, way too long, it wears its noir influences about as subtly as a teenager wears sports brands and it’s largely devoid of anything you could call momentum. Yet at the same time it’s chock full of wonderful performances. In particular Aisling Franciosi as Phoebe – a difficult role situated somewhere between sidekick, daughter and love interest – pulled off the triple salchow of being strong, sweet and subtle at the same time with aplomb. We will see much more of her I don’t doubt. As for Quirke? Whisper it, but I suspect not.


SUNDAY IMAGES ... "PATINA".

Coming / Mon 7 Jul 2014 21:00 / BBC Four / Tales from the Royal Wardrobe with Lucy Worsley.

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Tales from the Royal Wardrobe with Lucy Worsley
BBC Four
Mon 7 Jul 2014
21:00

Today, few people's clothes attract as much attention as the royal family, but this is not a modern-day Hello magazine-inspired obsession. As Dr Lucy Worsley reveals, it has always been this way. Exploring the royal wardrobes of our kings and queens over the last 400 years, Lucy shows this isn't just a public preoccupation, but our monarchs' as well. From Elizabeth I to our present queen, Lucy believes that the royal wardrobe's significance goes way beyond the cut and colour of the clothing and that royal fashion is and has always been regarded as their personal statement to their people. So most monarchs have carefully choreographed every aspect of their wardrobe and, for those who have not, there have sometimes been calamitous consequences.

The Two Faces of January Costume Design.

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 Kirsten's Marriage Made In Vintage Heaven
23 May 2014

THEY say diamonds are a girl's best friend, but for an actress trying to get into a role, her best friend on set is often the costume designer. Kirsten Dunst was paired with Stephen Noble (responsible for the costumes in everything from Wuthering Heights to Trainspotting) for new movie The Two Faces of January - set predominantly in Greece in 1962 - and it was a marriage made in vintage heaven.

"It was a joy to work with all three actors, but I really bonded especially well with Kirsten in our first costume fitting at Elstree Studios," Noble told us. "I called in vintage clothes from around the world and made the fitting room look like a vintage Aladdin's cave, and we spent many hours trying on shapes and silhouettes and choosing fabrics. Most actors do have an input as well as the director as to how they see their character and they develop this over the prep time, and this of course includes discussions with me about what they think their character would and wouldn't wear."

"Stephen is meticulous, but it's also very effortless," Dunst said. "He's very good at making it not look costumey. It's a marriage between the costume designer and the actor getting it right together, because you know things about your body that they might not know right away, or colours that might look better. I love doing period films, I really do. It's just so much prettier! Especially in this movie, I feel like the wardrobe helped shape the character. I had this little wiggle because of the skirts."

The film's costumes - worn by the three leads: Dunst, Viggo Mortensen and Oscar Issac, as well as newcomer Daisy Bevan - feel authentic without in any way pulling focus, creating a backdrop to a film that doesn't just look like it's set in 1962, but is set in 1962: a feat that was not as effortless as it appears.

"I looked at films like La Dolce Vita, Plein Soleil, The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone, A Bout de Souffle and many other iconic films of the decade," Noble said. "Also, original ciné films of tourists on holiday and original fashion magazines of the era such as Vogue. Jean Seberg and Alain Delon were an inspiration. The designers I took inspiration from were Dior, Chanel, Nina Ricci, Lanvin, Pucci to name but a few. The clothes for the three main characters were all bespoke and the remaining 3,000 cast were a mixture of bespoke and vintage - either bought or hired from costume houses. A selection also came from my own personal studio collection."






Flea markets, costume houses and custom made designs were used to dress the cast of The Two Faces of January… with a helping hand from Chanel.
By MARIE C


It is difficult to imagine a more glamorous era in Greecethan the swinging sixties. Aristotle Onassis cruising the Athenian Riviera on his yacht, Jackie Kennedy by his side. Glitterati like Brigitte Bardot and Grace Kelly holidaying on the island of Mykonos. Directors making movies like 1964′s Zorba the Greek starring Anthony Quinn. Greece had it all.

“It was a very bohemian time,” says costume designer Steven Noble, who worked with director Hossein Amini on Mediterranean-filmed drama The Two Faces of January. “You sort of had the beginning of the hippies travelling as well, there was so much diversity going on. It was such an exciting period.”

It is amidst this golden age of travel that The Two Faces of January kicks off, atop the Acropolis no less. It is 1962, and Chester (Viggo Mortensen) and Collette (Kirsten Dunst) are a sophisticated, stylish American couple touring Europefor the summer.



Alas, all is not as it seems. A chance encounter with a young American tour guide in Athens called Rydal (played by Inside Llewyn Davis’ Oscar Isaac) will set in motion a tragic course of events. What follows is a slow but superb suspense thriller.

If it sounds a couple of degrees away from The Talented Mr Ripley, you’re on the right track. Both films are based on novels by American author Patricia Highsmith, whose first book was adapted into Alfred Hitchcock, no less, for Strangers on a Train in 1951.

As we’ve come to expect from Highsmith adaptations, costumes and art direction play an important role in the storytelling; here, it’s once again a wonderfully understated take on sixties elegance. Did Noble ever feel intimidated about following in the fashion footsteps of those revered films?

“I think that would have terrified me if I thought that,” he laughs. “I never really think that about any film I go into, you just try and do the best job you can, within the boundaries of what you’re allowed to be doing. I was almost left to do what I wanted.”



To that end, Noble absorbed himself “in all the films of that genre, from the late 50s to early mid 60s”, re-acquainting himself with European classics like La Dolce Vita by Federico Fellini, Plein Soleil (France’s 1960 crack at adapting The Talented Mr Ripley), The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone (the 1961 version starring Vivien Leigh and Warren Beatty) and Jean-Luc Godard’s A Bout de Souffle.

Noble estimates that of the 3000 outfits used in the film, around 80 per cent were vintage, sourced mainly from secondhand shops, flea markets and costume houses like Angels and Movietone in London. However, having to dress up to 300 extras in the background sometimes necessitated looking further afield – especially since Noble and his team were meticulous in their attention to detail.

As Mortensen notes, “a lot of times, even in big movies, people in the deep background might not always be dressed appropriately in terms of the quality of the costume or the period. Or their wigs will be kind of crooked. There’s just not as much care taken. With this movie, every single person in the background or that we walk past, whether it was in Greece or the Grand Bazaar, looked right. It makes you feel like you’re there.”
“I like to visit the costume houses where we’re actually filming,” admits Noble. “If we were filming in Istanbul, it would only be right to source some of the costumes from there for more of an authentic look. So there were bits and pieces from costume houses in Turkey and Greece too. And then also, luckily, you go ahead of time before you start filming and scour all the local flea markets and vintage shops and pick up some pieces as well to mix in. It was a very eclectic amalgamation of things from everywhere, all around the world.”

For Rydal, Noble dressed Isaac in as many Greek labels from the period as he could find, to reflect someone who had been living in Athensfor two years.

Still, director Hossein Amini and Noble were both keen that The Two Faces Of January never feel like a stuffy period piece.

“Obviously we wanted the period to come through…to have the essence of 1962,” says Noble. “But we also wanted to make it contemporary so it would look fresh and more exciting rather than some old foisty costume drama.”



As such, while Dunst’s smart daywear is predominantly bespoke costuming, designed using digital reprints of original fabrics, her accessories (e.g. hats and gloves) are minimal for a woman of her standing – Noble’s contemporary nod.

It is this attention to detail through a contemporary costume lens that really carries the entire film. It is no accident, for example, that in the opening scene Chester’s cream linen suit and Colette’s pale lemon dress complement the cool marble of the Parthenon steps.

“It just felt right they shouldn’t pop from their surroundings,” says Noble. “A normal design you’d think, let’s try to put them in a completely different colour to what the background was. But (considering) what colour the stone was, what the light was like… it felt so right to keep it in that palette.”

Indeed, that one cream linen suit of Chester’s is practically a character of its own, requiring a lot of “metamorphic” changes from Noble to get it just so.

“I slightly backdated it to start off with, and gave it a half belt, 40s/50s silhouette and slightly bigger shoulder and slightly wider trouser,” says Noble. “And once I’d toiled it and seen it, it felt completely wrong. This was a modern man from New York, so we decided he would visit his tailor with his fabric and his pattern and have it made up in different fabrics.”

Of course, it is Colette who steals the show with her fabulous slimline wardrobe. Gone are the big petticoats of the 50s and in their place hang slimmer hemlines just below the knee.

“We chatted on the phone to see what colours we liked, I called in lots of original garments and fabrics from all over the world and made it an Aladdin’s Cave, a vintage emporium, and we spent a couple of days trying different silhouettes on and taking it from there,” says Noble. “We had a really good laugh, it was really good fun.”

All of Kirsten’s accessories were also based on original designs – including the stunning pearls Colette wears out for dinner, which were loaned by Chanel. (Luckily, says Noble, Chanel had just launched a classic collection based on late 20s, early 30s designs.)

“I always try and read the novel (of the adaptation),” says Noble, who has designed or assisted on previous book adaptations such as Wuthering Heights, Never Let Me Go, The Beach and Bridget Jones Diary. “There’s always something in the book, even if it’s just one line, that can take you on a whole journey.”

Such as those infamous “enormous panties” Bridget Jones wears in the original film??

“Well yes, those were clearly written in the book,” he says, chuckling, “those iconic pants. That required a lot of sourcing of big pants. And trying on.”


Alas, he is gone before I can find out which ones were eventually cast.

Costume Designer: A costume designer is a person who designs costumes for a film or stage production. The role of the costume designer is to create the characters and balance the scenes with texture and color, etc.The costume designer works alongside the director, scenic, lighting designer, sound designer, and other creative personnel. The costume designer may also collaborate with hair stylist, wig master, or makeup artist. In European theatre, the role is different, as the theatre designer usually designs both costume and scenic elements.
Read more at http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fansites/robertgarlenoncmb/news/?a=95452#ymwJTCTrFALgzd6u.99


Steven Noble
Costume Designer WORK

Film
Production      Company        Notes
GET SANTA
(2014) Scott Free Productions          Dir: Christopher Smith
Prod: Liza Marshall
THEORY OF EVERYTHING
(2014) Working Title Dir: James Marsh
Prod: Anthony McCarten, Tim Bevan, Lisa Bruce, Eric Fellner
With Eddie Redmayne and Felicity Jones
POSH
(2013) Blueprint Pictures / Film4      Dir: Lone Scherfig
Prod: Graham Broadbent, Pete Czernin
TWO FACES OF JANUARY
(2013) Working Title Films   Dir: Hossein Amini
Prod: Robyn Slovo
UNDER THE SKIN
(2013) Film4   Dir: Jonathan Glazer
Prod: Jim Wilson, Nick Welcher
With Scarlett Johanssen

* Official Selection: London Film Festival 2013
WUTHERINGHEIGHTS
(2011) Ecosse FIlms  Dir: Andrea Arnold
Prod: Robert Bernstein, Kevin Loader

* Official Selection: VeniceFilm Festival 2011, BFI LondonFilm Festival 2011
NEVER LET ME GO
(2011) DNA Films / Fox Searchlight            Dir: Mark Romanek
Prod: Alex Garland & Allon Reich
TRIANGLE
(2009) Dan Films       Dir: Chris Smith
Prod: Jason Newark
SEVERANCE
(2006) Dan Films       Dir: Chris Smith
Prod: Jason Newark
LOOK AT ME I'M BEAUTIFUL
(2005) Paul Weiland Films    Dir: Paul Gay
Prod: Jason Kemp
AGENT CODY BANKS 2
(2004) MGM  Dir: Kevin Allen
24 HOUR PARTY PEOPLE
(2002) Revolution Films        Dir: Michael Winterbottom
TWO BACARDI AND COKES      Contagious Films       Dir: Paul Gay
BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY
(2001) Working Title
(Assistant Costume Designer)           Dir: Sharon Maguire
THE BEACH
(2000) Figment Films
(Costume Supervisor) Dir: Danny Boyle
ROGUE TRADER
(1999) Rogue Trader Productions
(Co-Costume Designer)         Dir: James Dearden
I WANT YOU
(1998) Revolution Films
(Costume Supervisor) Dir: Michael Winterbottom
DAD SAVAGE
(1998) Sweet Child Films
(Assistant Costume Designer)           Dir: Betsan Morris Evans
TWINTOWN
(1997) Figment Films
(Assistant Costume Designer)           Dir: Kevin Allen
TRAINSPOTTING
(1996) Figment Films
(Assistant Costume Designer)           Dir: Danny Boyle
THE LEADING MAN
(1996) J and M Productions
(Costume Assistant)   Dir: John Duigan
Television
Production      Company        Notes
AN APPROPRIATE ADULT
(2011) ITV     Dir: Julian Jarrold
Prod: Lisa Gilchrist
BENIDORM
(2007) Tiger Aspect   Dir: Kevin Allen
Promos
Production      Company        Notes
KEANE - "THE LOVERS ARE LOSING"
MUSIC VIDEO
(2008) HLA   Dir: John Hardwick
Commercials
Production      Company        Notes
LEXUS
(2014) Independent   Dir. Gary Freedman
FOREVERMARK 'AS ONE'
(2014) Rattling Stick Dir: Benjamin Millepied
SPECSAVERS
(2013) Hungryman     Dir: Tim Bullock
SKY IRELAND
(2013) Hungryman     Dir: Taika Waititi
IMPULSE
(2013) Iconoclast       Dir: Gustav Johansson
MERCEDES
PREP
(2012) Stink   Dir: Yann Demange
GO COMPARE
(2012) Moxie Pictures           Dir: Big Red Button
CARLSBERG
(2012) Academy        Dir: Peter Cattaneo
NEWCASTLE BROWN ALE
(2012) Stink   Dir: Ivan Zacharias
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L'Wren Scott's mysterious suicide ...

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Laura Bambrough (April 28, 1964 – March 17, 2014), known professionally as L'Wren Scott, was an American fashion designer, costume designer and model. Previously a celebrity stylist, Scott's fashion design following included a clientele of high profile actors and politicians.
Scott was named Laura Bambrough by her Mormon adoptive parents, Ivan and Lula Bambrough, who raised her in Roy, Utah, with two siblings, Jan and Randall, also adoptees. Laura was soon nicknamed "Luann". Known for her tall frame, she had already reached 6 ft0 in(1.83 m) in height by the age of twelve, and would eventually grow to 6 ft3 in (1.91 m).

At the suggestion of photographer Bruce Weber who spotted Scott at a Calvin Klein photo shoot, she left Utah after graduating from high school for Paristo pursue a career as a model. In Paris, she went on to work for Thierry Mugler and Chanel as well as model for photographers as Guy Bourdin, David Bailey and Jean-Paul Goude.

Scott moved to Californiain the early 1990s and established herself as a stylist, initially in collaboration with photographer Herb Ritts, and later with Helmut Newton, Karl Lagerfeld and Mario Sorrenti. One of her early assignments was an ad campaign for Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds, eventually the world's top-selling celebrity fragrance.

In 2009, she contributed designs for Madonna to wear in her photo shoot with model Jesus Luz for W Magazine and in 2011, Scott styled actress Julia Roberts for a W Magazine shoot, alongside Tom Hanks. She designed costumes for such films as Diabolique (1996 remake), Ocean's Thirteen, Eyes Wide Shut, as well as Shine a Light, a documentary by Martin Scorsese about The Rolling Stones, with Mick Jagger, with whom she had been romantically linked since 2001.

Scott's first collection as a clothing designer was called "Little Black Dress", launched in 2006. The collection presented an array of black dresses, including her now famous "Headmistress" dress worn by Madonna. Sarah Jessica Parker, Angelina Jolie, Nicole Kidman,Penélope Cruz and Amy Adams have all worn Scott's dresses to the Academy Awards. Other celebrities who have worn Scott's designs include Michelle Obama,[11] Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, Naomi Campbell, Reese Witherspoon, Christina Hendricks, Jennifer Lopez, Sandra Bullock and Uma Thurman.

In 2010, Scott collaborated with Lancôme to create a capsule collection for the 2010 holiday season featuring a lipstick in Scott's signature bordeaux color. The campaign was shot by photographer Mario Testino and featured model Daria Werbowy wearing an outfit designed by Scott. May 2011 saw the launch of Scott's first collection of handbags, named "Lula" after her mother. The line was launched at Barneys New York, with a personal appearance by Scott.

Scott collaborated with Banana Republic with an exclusive holiday collection including apparel and accessories for women.

In February 2014, the London Fashion Week showing of her fall 2014 collection was canceled.

Scott was found dead by her assistant at her apartment in Chelsea, Manhattan, around 10 a.m. on March 17, 2014 when she found L'Wren hanging by the door handle with a scarf wound around her neck. The police reported that no note was found and there was no sign of foul play. The New York City Chief Medical Examiner determined Scott's manner and cause of death to be suicide by hanging. She was 49.

She left her entire estate, estimated at about US$9 million, to her longtime boyfriend, Mick Jagger.


Scott's funeral service was held at the HollywoodForeverCemeteryin Los Angeles, California. The event was organized by Jagger and Scott's brother Randall Bamborough. After the service, her body was cremated. Some of the ashes were given to Scott's sister, Jan Shane, who plans to bury them next to her adoptive parents, Ivan and Lula Bamborough, near the family home in Ogden, Utah.


L'Wren Scott: the mysterious suicide of Mick Jagger's girlfriend
In the months since fashion designer L'Wren Scott killed herself, her extraordinary life and achievements have been overshadowed by her relationship with Mick Jagger. Elizabeth Day travels to New Yorkto meet the people who knew her and to piece together a tragic puzzle
Elizabeth Day

'She was found fully clothed, her tall frame slumped on the floor. Paramedics were unable to do anything': L'Wren Scott. Photograph: Donato Sardella/WireImage

She didn't leave a note. Three months after the fashion designer L'Wren Scott's suicide, this has been one of the hardest things for her friends to bear.

Partly it just seems so out of character. Those who knew her describe Scott as "thoughtful", "kind" and "sweet-natured". She would remember birthdays or send out-of-the-blue texts saying that she was thinking of you. When she spoke, you felt you had the entirety of her attention. If she liked you, Scott would go out of her way to help.

Her friend and hairdresser John Vial recalls that she was always trying to introduce him to "wealthy billionaires" who would help him expand his business. "She'd send me a text saying: 'Oh my God, I saw this person, I'm introducing you to him.' Or it would be: 'I've found this new cream – try it, take it, take, take, take.' She was just a kind, thoughtful girl, really."

Simon Kneen, the former creative director at Banana Republic, who became close to Scott when he worked with her on a collaboration for the store last year, has a particular memory of a long, stressful day of photo shoots that started early and ended late.

"It was actually my birthday," he says. "And when I got home, there was this beautiful bouquet of peonies she'd arranged to be sent to my apartment."

At her memorial service in New Yorkin May, Scott's brother Randall spoke of her "deep heart, especially for the underdog". As a child, he said, she became firm friends with a neighbourhood child with Down's syndrome. Her schoolfriend Julie Nichols Thompson remembers Scott as a teenager being "tall, dark and slender. I was chubby and blonde. She didn't care and she never made me feel bad about myself… She would occasionally say: 'Jules, what's wrong with your hair today? Let me help you with that.' At that age, she could easily have made fun of me."

Her talent, says Joanna Coles, the editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan in the US, "was that she made people feel special. She seemed warm and funny and sort of sympathetic. She would put a hand on your shoulder or an arm around you. Women loved her and responded to her. She was a girl's girl."

"She gave an impression of a certain serenity," agrees the respected fashion critic Suzy Menkes, "which is so out of tune with her sad death".

In an industry re-nowned for its superficiality and occasional bitchiness, for its hectic pace and consumer-driven culture, Scott's calmness and consideration for other people set her apart. She didn't need to care – at 49, she was glamorous, successful and had a superstar boyfriend in the form of Mick Jagger. Her red-carpet gowns, known for their classic tailoring and sumptuous detailing, were worn by Hollywood A-listers including Sarah Jessica Parker, Nicole Kidman and Renée Zellweger, and Scott had just dressed Christina Hendricks for the 2014 Academy Awards.

Although her business was accumulating debt, she was, to all intents and purposes, wealthy. She owned her $5.6m New Yorkapartment on 11th Avenueoutright, having paid off the $1.25m mortgage last year. Scott also had homes in Paris and London which she shared with Jagger. Their Paris flat contained a bathroom lined in Lalique glass.

All of which suggests a certain lifestyle, played out at a remove from the everyday. But, says Kneen: "She was never a diva. She was a great listener and interested in everyone from pattern makers through to seamstresses and designers… She wasn't pretentious. My team used to love working with her."

So it seems odd that Scott would choose such a brutal way to end her life. Odd, too, that she would text her assistant, Brittany Penebre, at 8.30 on the morning of her death, asking her to come round. It was Monday 17 March and by the time Penebre got to the apartment at 10am, Scott was dead. She was found fully clothed, her 6ft 3in frame slumped on the floor, having hanged herself with a black silk scarf. Penebre called for an ambulance, but the paramedics were unable to do anything. Later Scott's body was removed from the building for autopsy, the blue-and-white medical examiner's van nudging its way through a gathering crowd of photographers.

As news of her death spread, Scott's friends were left reeling. No one had anticipated it. She had just returned from a holiday in Mustique. The night before her death, she'd held a dinner party for close friends. They were concerned about her – she seemed down, sightly troubled, perhaps – but there was no sign of what was going to happen, just hours later, in the same apartment.

The day after her death, Jagger, who was on tour with the Rolling Stones in Australia, issued a statement claiming he was "still struggling to understand how my lover and best friend could end her life in this tragic way".
‘Still struggling to understand how my lover and best friend could end her life in this tragic way’: Jagger with Scott in 2012. Photograph: Lan/Corbis
Some seized on financial problems as the most likely reason for her death. The UK arm of her company, LS Fashion Ltd (set up in 2006), had a deficit of £3.5m, and she had cancelled her show at London fashion week in February, citing production delays. Although she dressed many celebrities at red-carpet events, it is unlikely they paid for the privilege. Sales were hard to come by: Scott's clothes were expensive investment pieces and beyond the price range of all but the super-rich.

The New York Times fashion critic Cathy Horyn claimed Scott was demoralised by the difficulties besetting her business and had been planning to close it down – a claim denied by Scott's spokesperson, who said that at the time of her death "the long-term prospects for the business were encouraging", in part due to the designer's expanding portfolio of brand partnerships, with Banana Republic and the cosmetics firm Bobbi Brown, among others.

Kneen insists that the debts were not particularly significant for that kind of start-up. Scott, he says, was "really at the start of her career".

Besides, if she genuinely were in financial crisis, there were always going to be people who would bail her out – not least Jagger himself. The debt, such as it was, didn't seem enough of a reason for Scott to take her own life.

"I just don't know why she would do it," says Vial, shaking his head. "I could not be any more shocked. I had no inkling at all. None, none, none."

The only way he can make sense of it is to think that it was an impulsive act. "I just don't think she meant to do it," he says, and there is a helplessness to his tone, an underlying desperation to eke out some kind of unhappy logic from the mess. "It was a moment of madness. I don't think she knew…" He trails off.

It's the thing they all keep coming back to: the strangeness of it, the fact that Scott – so compassionate, so kind, so seemingly serene – had texted her assistant without imagining the trauma of the discovery that would await her, without worrying about the effect it might have. It was so out of character. All of it. And there was no note to explain why.

In his book The Savage God: A Study of Suicide, the writer Al Alvarez argues that "the decision to take your own life is as vast and complex and mysterious as life itself".

In the case of L'Wren Scott, the mystery of her death is heightened by a deeper unknowability. For all that she was loving and loved, admiring and admired, her friends were aware there were things she chose not to share. She was extremely private and adept at putting up a front. Her estranged adoptive sister, Jan Shane, described Scott in a recent newspaper interview as "a super-strong woman… [You] don't see the other side of her and she isn't going to tell you."

She had "a guarded core", wrote Bridget Foley, the executive editor of Women's Wear Daily in the aftermath of Scott's death. Sarah Jessica Parker recalled at Scott's memorial service at St Bartholomew's Church on Park Avenue that there was a mysteriousness to her which was hard to pin down, marked by "silent boundaries" her friends would know not to cross. Occasionally this distance could be interpreted as froideur.

"Her strongest tool was the power of silence," says Vial. "Even if she wasn't angry, she just said things with a sense of authority."

And there was the extraordinary physical presence, too – Scott was well over 6ft in her bare feet, with waist-length dark hair and the languid elegance of a ballerina. She didn't feel the need to ingratiate herself and wasn't especially impressed by the trappings of fame. She had a dry, ironic sense of humour, much given to an arched eyebrow and a sarcastic one-liner.

On the red carpet: at New York fashion week in 2012. Photograph: Carlo Allegri/Reuters/Corbis
When she first met Jagger, on a 2001 photo shoot, she had little knowledge of his back catalogue. Later, when they were dating, they attended a fashion show in Pariswhere the models walked down the catwalk to a series of Rolling Stones hits. It took Scott three goes to successfully identify "Gimme Shelter".

She was her own woman, then, and uninterested in being known purely as a rock'n'roll appendage. There were some who took exception to what they perceived as her coldness. Keith Richards was rumoured to call her "Le Man" and to tease her about the size of her feet. There were others who referred to her dismissively as "the apostrophe" and complained that she exercised too great an influence over Jagger's decisions. He was, they say, more reserved and less fun when Scott was present.

Her perfectionism could make her controlling. When she designed Jagger's on-stage outfits, Scott ripped up 25 pairs of jeans before she was satisfied with the final version. When she renovated the couple's Left Bank apartment in Paris, she took nine months choosing the paint for the drawing room, evaluating what shade looked best in various lights, weathers and seasons (in the end, she opted for four subtly different shades of grey).

But those who knew her insist the standards she set herself sprang from an innate insecurity. This, after all, was a woman who had been given up for adoption at birth. However happy Scott's subsequent upbringing might have been, some people in that situation have a hard time getting over the initial rejection and feel a constant need to prove their worth.

Perfectionism is a common ailment, too, among successful women. For some, the exhausting business of never feeling quite enough is appeased by motherhood. Although Scott never talked about having children or the unsubstantiated rumours that Jagger was incapable of long-term fidelity, some of her circle believed she wanted a baby. Jagger has seven children by four different women and four grandchildren. His first great-grandchild was born in May.

Scott was, by all accounts, an attentive and loving presence in their lives. She took pride in the children's achievements, telling friends when Georgia May, Jagger's model daughter, had a new magazine cover out and attending his grandson Zak's first baseball game in the months before she died. The eight-year-old Zak called Scott "Glammy"– an affectionate contraction of "glamour" and "Granny".

Menkes recalls that Scott had "a very good, easy relationship" with Jagger's children – "not motherly, just natural". But there were signs that Scott wanted more.

"There were two times, the whole time that I knew her, when I saw… I wouldn't say the mask slipping, but perhaps a bit of what was actually behind her," says one close friend.

"One was when she showed me around her Paris flat five or so years ago. She had some rooms off the corridor she was in the middle of doing up and she said: 'Of course, that will be for the children.' I said: 'Oh, do they often come to stay?', thinking she meant Mick's children, and she gave me a quizzical look and said: 'Well, we never know do we?' And I felt… it's hard to say, but I felt I'd made a blunder.

"The second time was at her Île Saint-Louis showroom three years ago. She seemed very depressed and unlike herself, quite insecure and generally upset. I was so worried about her I actually asked a mutual friend: 'Is she OK?' and they said it was probably just Mick playing up again. These are the only obvious things I remember as signs that she wasn't jogging on happily with her life."

It says something about how cautiously Scott guarded her private life that among her friends there is no consensus over whether she and Jagger had split up or not. I am told with equal certainty that they "definitely had called time on their relationship" a few weeks before her death and, from different sources, that any suggestion they were no longer a couple is "100% false". Jagger's spokesman, Bernard Doherty, has openly dismissed rumours of a split as "absurd". However, stories have recently emerged of Jagger becoming close to a 27-year-old ballet dancer, Melanie Hamrick, whom he is said to have met while on tour in Japan, several days before Scott was found dead.

In spite of this, one of Scott's confidantes insists that the notion of a split was "truly unbelievable. I would be less shocked if the Pope decided to be a Muslim. They were great together. They were like kids. She would light up any time he walked into a room. It was like: ting!" In many ways, the friend continues, it would be preferable if there had been a rupture "because at least it would be an explanation, wouldn't it?"

If she was depressed, Scott managed to hide it from most people. And the truth was that even if Scott could have made sense of what she was feeling, she might not have wanted to share it with anyone. It was that "guarded core" which drew her to fashion in the first place. Her clothes reflected this aspect of her personality: beautifully constructed to flatter the wearer but always concealing more than they revealed. Each carefully crafted piece required an enormous amount of work and attention to detail in order to maintain the illusion of grace. They were one-offs. And so, in her own way, was L'Wren Scott.

She was raised Luann Bambrough in Roy, Utah, a city with a population of 37,000 situated alongside Interstate 15. Scott's adoptive father, Ivan, was a Second World War veteran who worked as an account executive for an insurance company and her mother, Lula, was a bank clerk. Both were active in the Church of the Latter Day Saints. Scott's siblings – Jan and Randall – were also adopted, and all three went to the local high school.

It was a modest upbringing and Scott soon outgrew her surroundings. At the age of 12, she was already 6ft and towering above her 5ft 1in mother. At the cinema she would be charged more for a ticket because the ushers didn't believe she was a child.

"She was frequently made fun of because of her height," recalls her childhood friend Julie Nichols Thompson. "She seemed to take it in her stride. I wouldn't say she was maliciously bullied, but she was often called Stretch or asked: 'How's the weather up there?'"

Her height meant that store-bought clothes didn't fit. Her mother encouraged her to start adapting Butterick patterns and remodelling men's suits for her frame.

"She loved her mum," says Vial. "Her mother used to say to her: 'Stand up straight, shoulders back, get your heels on!' She was very close to her mother, I think.

"Certainly there was no taboo. I don't think that she had any issues about being adopted. She never vocalised them to me."

Nichols Thompson says the only time it came up was when peers would ask whether Scott had tall parents. "She loved and respected her [adoptive] parents," she says. "Confidence was one of her great attributes."
Scott was funny and outgoing, with a diverse group of friends. She made no secret of the fact that she believed her future lay beyond Utahand used to carry a sketchpad of drawings under her arm around school.
 
‘Her mum used to say: “Stand up straight, shoulders back, get your heels on!” They were very close’: with her adoptive parents and siblings. Photograph: Splash News/Corbis
"The local swimming pool was across from my house. We met our friends there nearly every day during the summer," says Nichols Thompson. "We were constantly trying to get the attention of the lifeguards by pretending to be attacked by a shark, feigning drowning, or 'accidentally' splashing them. We would position ourselves right under the lifeguard chair and hang our elbows over the edge of the pool with our legs extended and begin kicking to see how wet we could get the lifeguard before he reprimanded us. L'Wren's legs were most efficient in creating a splash zone.

"One time we were piling into the back of a two-door Chevy. As the young man tipped the driver's seat forward to let us in, L'Wren looked at the small space and then offered to unscrew her legs and put them in the trunk."

In 1985, when she was 18, Scott was spotted by the legendary photographer Bruce Weber on a trip to Utah. He later shot her for a Calvin Klein commercial, for which she was given $1,500. She moved to Paris, where her agency renamed her "L'Wren". Although she was deemed too tall for regular catwalk shows, her 42in legs got her a lot of work.

She was featured in an iconic advertisement for Pretty Polly hosiery, shot by David Bailey, where her legs were pictured as the hands of a clock.

"We saw thousands of girls," Bailey recalls, "and she had the best legs in the world. It was a difficult job because I was 30ft up in the sky shooting down on her, and she didn't complain once. I was surprised when she died. She seemed quite together to me."

In the mid-90s Scott moved to Los Angeles and began to work as a stylist for photographers including Herb Ritts, Helmut Newton and Mario Sorrenti. Her shoots were featured in Vanity Fair and W magazine.

There was a brief marriage in 1993 to property entrepreneur Anthony Brand, but the couple divorced after three years. In 2001 she met Jagger on a photo shoot. Five years later, with his support, she set up her own label.

Her trips back to Utah became less frequent, particularly after her parents died (her father in 2002, her mother six years later at the age of 83) and her career as a designer took off. After working so hard to make her own way in life, it was said to be a cause of frustration to her that she was repeatedly referred to as "Mick Jagger's girlfriend".

"I would think she'd be pretty fed up by the 'Mick's girlfriend' tag, but that's just a guess," says Menkes. "I never heard her say anything against Mick, ever."

It was clear that she adored him. Her modelling days left her with an instinctive understanding of silhouette, and in most of the photographs that survive of them as a couple, Scott is bending gracefully at the knee to distract attention from the obvious height difference. She took joy, say friends, in making things beautiful. In many ways, she was her own most brilliant creation.

"I never saw her shabby or in tracksuit bottoms," laughs Vial. Her fashion shows were, he says, "beyond chic". Scott would always provide a lunch for her attendees, serving baked potatoes with caviar or chicken pot pie. The attention to detail was staggering: vast bowls of roses, individual waiters for each guest and, of course, the tantalising prospect of Jagger being in attendance. But for all the stunning surface detail of her life, and the sense she gave of being in control and gilded and lucky, Scott had an underlying fragility.

"She would be really hurt if somebody said something unkind," adds Vial. "Like many powerful women, she was sensitive."

In the months before her death, Scott's emotional fragility was matched for the first time by a physical frailty. She underwent an operation to repair a torn meniscus in her knee. For weeks she was hobbling around on crutches.

"I think it was the first time she felt her body was giving up on her," says an acquaintance. "She was due to turn 50 inApril, which could also have been playing on her mind."

Still, she carried on working. She kept in touch with friends. She emailed André Leon Talley on 4 January saying she'd just dropped off "my grandson Zak" at the airport to fly back to Los Angeles. A few weeks later, she spoke to Cathy Horyn on the phone. According to Horyn, she sounded "rundown and discouraged" and spoke of the production problems that had forced her to cancel her Londonshow. On 3 February, she texted Vial, apologising for not having been in touch sooner and complaining of "a horrid sinus virus". She signed off: "Hope to catch you soon xx."

It was the last communication he ever had with her.


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