Patricia Highsmith in Ticino

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The-Two-Faces-of-January-quad-posterThe latest in a long line of films based on a Patricia Highsmith novel has been released: The Two Faces of January. Highsmith’s 1964 novel is about an American couple in Greece hijacked by a young American interloper – one of those pretty-boy confidence tricksters she specialised in. The film adaptation recreates the trappings and setting of the earlier Talented Mr Ripley – linen costuming, retro sunglasses, cafe terraces, the dolce far niente of Fulbright wannabes abroad in Europe. I thought the new film was too much in a tired vein – like recent Woody Allen films set in Europe. The eye candy loses its flavour as it keeps you on the edge of your seat.

Patricia Highsmith's house in Tegna, by architect Tobias Ammann

Patricia Highsmith’s house in Tegna, by architect Tobias Ammann

I’m writing this in Tegna, in Switzerland’s Italian-speaking canton, Ticino. It’s the village where Highsmith lived out the last years of her life, in the Vallemaggia, a narrow, rocky valley behind Locarno. Her ashes are immured in the cemetery and her famously bunker-like house is down the road.

By the time Highsmith returned to live in Switzerland in the early eighties, the best was behind her. The later books are hit and miss, formulaic, but she was rich from the movie rights. At one point the BBC was considering a $100,000 deal to adapt the four Ripley novels as a television series. The famous cool style had begun to wear thin, to become plain speaking, in the Texan manner. Alcohol, present from the start, had hardened her looks. French tax inspectors and Mitterrand’s socialists had her scurrying to Switzerland. Here she lived out the last thirteen years of her life in miserly wealth, poor health and alcoholism.

Patricia Highsmith at home in Aurigeno.

Patricia Highsmith at home in Aurigeno.

She bought a tall stone house in the hamlet of Aurigeno in the Vallemaggia. On a sunny day the deep cleft can be sparkling and magical but for much of the year it is lightless and forbidding. In a late story about a land dispute between the local priest and a farmer, “A Long Walk From Hell”, published originally in French, she described her situation: “a land of mountains that block the sun, a land of granite outcroppings, of trees that cling to the slanting hillsides, but nevertheless grow straight up.”

Vallemaggia in Switzerland's Ticino

Vallemaggia in Switzerland’s Ticino

She intended to divide her time between homes in France (two of them, as well as a cottage in Sussex, England) and Switzerland, to comply with favourable tax arrangements. Highsmith wrote to a friend that President Mitterrand was going “to make life increasingly difficult for anyone who earns more than a postman”. In 1988, she wrote to an old lover, Marijane Meaker:

When you make a lot of money you get suspicious. Did I tell you that Bloomsbury liked my latest Ripley so much they gave me an advance that in American money comes to about $115,000? I never got that much for a book. You know, in the U.S. no one really recognises me, but in Europe I’m often recognised and treated like a celebrity.

The villages of the Ticino, subject to seasonal migration, had fed emigration to California during the nineteenth and early decades of the twentieth centuries. Ticinese farmers, initially attracted by the gold rush, began supplying dairy products to San Francisco. As Switzerland prospered, the Centovalli sheltered second homes of city dwellers, wealthy foreigners and artists. “The Ticino is also a mysterious place,” wrote Highsmith, “composed of a lot of granite said to have a magnetic effect, draining one’s energy.”

The three floors of cellars underneath the living quarters were a metaphor for Highsmith’s unconscious. Her work is full of burials and drownings, criminal urges behind a façade of charm and civility. In The Two Faces of January we get a murder in the catacombs of some Greek ruins on Knossos. Highsmith enjoyed showing her cellars to visitors. “There were three of them. One for cheese – there was no cheese. And one for jambon – no jambon. It was a Highsmith cellar – probably cadavers,” said Josyane Savigneau.

Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train was based on Highsmith's first novel.

Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train was based on Highsmith’s first novel.

Highsmith had always been interested in houses. Guy, the protagonist of Strangers on a Train, is a prize-winning architect. Ripley plays lord of the manor in modernist swank in France. Highsmith was drawn to the clean spare lines of the Bauhaus. Her own houses, however, were singularly uncomfortable and badly chosen. No one, including their owner, ever seems to have had a good time in them.

After six years in Aurigeno, Highsmith moved down the valley to Tegna, to the last of her many houses, commissioned from architect Tobias Amman. In January 1953, on her first trip through Switzerland, she had written:

 Someday, perhaps, I shall have a house built of rock, a house with a name – Hanley-on-the-Lake, Bedford on the River, West Hills, or plain Sunny Vale. Something. So even without my own name on the envelope letters will reach me, because I and only I shall be living there. But that can never make up for these years of standing in line at American Express offices from Opera to Haymarket, Naples to Munich.

Casa Highsmith had a functional foursquare look, with the “French windows” she repeatedly notes in her fiction as a marker of class. She showed photos of it to Marijane Meaker. “I designed it myself, which I hope qualifies me as an artist, since I don’t have my sketchbooks with me. I had help from a prominent architect whose name probably isn’t familiar here.” Meaker thought the “windows seemed like lookout slits in the side of an old fort”. They faced a garden where the ailing Highsmith liked to potter. In a radio interview she mentions planting American corn and fraises des bois or wild strawberries. Her go-to coffee table book was A Color Atlas of Forensic Pathology. No wonder her few visitors were eager to leave, probably heading to the nearest restaurant for a square meal.

Hotel Garni Barbate in tegna, where Hanna Arendt stayed each year.

Hotel Garni Barbate in Tegna, where Hanna Arendt stayed each year.

Tegna had another illustrious resident, summering for two weeks every year: the philosopher Hanna Arendt, who stayed at the Barbatè guesthouse (highly recommended). Though Arendt died in 1975, it would be tempting to bring these two survivor women together in a garden conversation, overlooking the mountain landscape: one the mistress of crime, the other the author of the phrase “the banality of evil”. What would they say to each other? They probably wouldn’t get on. Highsmith was anti-Semitic, for a start.

Patricia Highsmith's trusty Olympus typewriter at the Swiss Literary Archives in Bern

Patricia Highsmith’s trusty Olympus typewriter at the Swiss Literary Archives in Bern

The Swiss Literary Archives contain a cache of Highsmith’s pseudonymous letters to newspapers railing against minorities of every stripe. Other letters are addressed to U.S. President Jimmy Carter, U.S. Secretary of State James A. Baker III or to Senator Bob Dole. They reveal a mind much exercised by the state of Israel and the Palestinian problem, but also careful to protect its privileged sanctuary in Switzerland and hoping to acquire citizenship. Highsmith used a revolving set of pseudonyms: Eddie Stefano, Janet Tamagni, Prissila Appleby, A Proudfoot Grasshopper. At one point she is upbraiding Vice President Dan Quayle on his spelling mistakes. She called them Quayle droppings – “I liked his about “wishing he’d studied Latin harder, so he could talk with the folks in S. America.”’ Clearly, the racism and misogyny of these letters arises from the writer’s own conflicted identity. She was “a great hater,” as one friend said.

In a short 1989 essay “Of Time and the Country Life,” Highsmith appreciated the different rhythms of the Ticino. She missed the American cocktail hour, the French apéritif, that break from the solitude of a day’s writing. She was clear-eyed and unsentimental about the effect of country life on women around her:

In the small towns in this area, it is not the done thing for women to congregate in the local bar or café at 9 p.m., women presumably always having something to do at that time, and at home too. In brief, the married woman with children in the Tessin countryside is at the beck and call of husband and all the children, possibly even the elderly in-laws, round the clock. She is car-driver, cook, shopper, house-cleaner, seamstress, hostess, nurse.

The garconne Highsmith in 1942, photo by Rolf Tietgens

The garconne Highsmith in 1942, photo by Rolf Tietgens

By the time she pitched up in Tegna, her garconne looks had hardened to those of a Red Indian squaw. Alert to race as any Southerner, her ‘swarthy’ looks had always given pause. She had interrogated the family tree for black ancestry, a ‘touch of the tar brush’. The archives contain substantial material on the Coates and Stewart family histories, but little investigation of her father’s German ancestry.

One of the Columbia University notebooks Highsmith wrote in all her life.

One of the Columbia University notebooks Highsmith wrote in all her life.

She wrote every day at her trusty, much-travelled 1956 Olympia Deluxe typewriter, kept abreast of correspondence, noted ideas and dreams. On Desert Island Discs she described her writing day in a characteristically cagey, cool voice, completely diffident, its Texan inflections tempered by European swagger: eight typewritten pages per day, mostly written in the afternoon over four or five hours. She needed three drafts to get it right: “I don’t write very smoothly in first draft… I write action passages fast, but what comes after might need a mood change. I retype my books two and a half times. I like retyping for neatness and polish, not style. Style does not interest me in the least – emotion is worth more than the intellect.”

Her chosen desert island book was Moby Dick, and she would take writing materials with her. All parsimony and industry, she reminds one of the Scotch-Irish on her mother’s side, the Stewarts, descended from a Presbyterian minister, with lineage pretensions back to James II. On her father’s side, the Plangmans and Hartmans, she was Prussian – no levity there either. This didn’t prevent her from noting similar qualities in the Swiss: ‘Ah, the tidy, thrifty, law-abiding Swiss! Uptight! Why else did the Swiss have the highest drug-abuse rate per capita in the drug-abusing world – meaning the world?”

In a brief piece about foreigners living in Switzerland, for the Crédit Suisse bulletin, she was characteristically impersonal and disingenuously shallow:

How do I perceive Switzerland? Perhaps as many an American who has not been to Switzerland sees it: as an orderly country famous for mountains, good watches, cheese, candy and cleanliness. I have now lived in the Ticino for a few years, a region which may be less formal than Zurich or Bern areas, but still the pavements and gutters of Locarno are not littered with discarded paper cups, broken bottles and empty cigarette packets…

The elementary and high school levels of school here seems streets ahead of America’s – though I realise that America has perhaps the finest post-graduate schools in the world…

Another image comes when I think of arriving from somewhere at Zurich airport, weary and with hand luggage, walking towards passport control. Ten or more figures, most of them solitary businesspeople with briefcases, stroll towards the two control booths. Nobody talks. The dark marble floor shines, unlettered. It is like a well-cared-for living room, in fact.

Switzerland is something like a club. Perhaps not everyone would want to join, but for those who like order and the quiet life, Switzerland is the place to be.

Daniel Keel, her editor at Diogenes, remembers visiting her at Tegna a few months before her death in February 1995. Uncharacteristically, she had asked for chocolate cake, which he picked up from Sprüngli in Zurich’s Bahnhof, before boarding the train for Ticino. Their work done, Highsmith opened the box and both editor and writer stared at the cake. It was coffin-shaped – one of Sprüngli’s finest. He was mortified, and knew that she knew. It was a macabre moment, typical of the morbidity of her work.

Sprungli's famous coffin-shaped chocolate cake.

Sprungli’s famous coffin-shaped chocolate cake.

Three days before she died, she was still fiddling with her will. She died alone in the hospital in Locarno. She was cremated in Bellinzona and her ashes immured in the columbarium of the little Catholic cemetery in Tegna. She hated Catholics. Friends and admirers, many belonging to the Jewish New York publishing world, the cinema world of the post-war decades, packed the church. They brought flowers. Highsmith hated flowers too. They came to remember an anti-Semite of long standing. This mean-spirited, tight-wad crime writer bequeathed her millions to the writers’ colony, Yaddo, in upstate New York, where over forty years before she had written her first novel Strangers on a Train. Rumour has it millions more are gathering dust and compound interest in the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands. This “jaded, butch,
 Scotch-soaked lady novelist” who nobody much liked, was laid to rest.

Patricia Highsmith's last resting place in Tegna cemetery.

Patricia Highsmith’s last resting place in Tegna cemetery.

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Les rencontres d’Arles (3): Actes Sud

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Nothing more disappointing than finding one of your favourite bookshops has gone. This was the case for me with The Village Voice in Paris. I hadn’t been in the city for a couple of years. It was a shock to find the finest English-language bookshop closed for business. Odile Hellier was always very welcoming. Several decades ago and in another century, she effected an introduction to Edmund White, one of my favourite writers. The readings by the likes of Richard Ford and Raymond Carver on the mezzanine floor were always packed. You could pick up and browse the little magazines when you didn’t have the money to buy them. I was living in Asia for most of the eighties and nineties, and so it was a pit stop for books before boarding the plane.

Actes Sud bookshop and publishing house on the Place Nina-Berberova, Arles

Actes Sud bookshop and publishing house on the Place Nina-Berberova, Arles

Actes Sud in Arles seems to be thriving – but you never know. It’s a French-language bookshop which was particularly bustling during the photography festival. It must be the only bookshop in the world with a Tauromachie section – bullfighting. In the warren of books you will also find a North African hammam, with women-, men-only and “mixed couple” hours and days, serving mint tea. There are two cinemas showing art-house films. The documentary Finding Vivian Meier was featured last week. Out on the pavement facing the Rhône there’s the usual cafe that becomes a restaurant at meal times.

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But it’s also a publishing house, one of the few outside Paris with clout and savvy. They publish many Anglophone writers in translation and a healthy stable of home-grown talent – Laurent Gaudé (Prix Goncourt 2004), the Irish writer John Banville, as well as more abstruse intellectual journals.

A major new addition to Arles is the Fondation Vincent van Gogh which opened its doors earlier this year. Van Gogh painted some of his best known canvases in and around Arles. The ‘Yellow House’ in particular can still be visited on the Place Lamartine.

Van Gogh, The Yellow House, 1888

Van Gogh, The Yellow House, 1888

The exhibition space feels a bit cramped at times. It is formed by joining two old houses via a striking glass-roofed atrium. The lifts, staircases, wheelchair access, white cube rooms with their security guards feel crammed in. There’s a wonderful view of the Arles roofscape, which hasn’t much changed from Vincent’s time, from the flat roof terrace.

New roof, old roof, Fondation Vincent van Gogh, Arles

New roof, old roof, Fondation Vincent van Gogh, Arles

The exhibition places van Gogh’s work in a number of contexts – Northern European realism, Impressionism, Japanese prints. Van Gogh’s approach to colour developed quickly under the sun. The other art tends to be upstaged by the mad master’s vivacity. I really liked Camille Corot’s Un Chemin dans les Bois de St. Cloud, 1862, because it reminded me of a walk there in 1979-80. Same dark woods, forest light, dank underfoot.

Van Gogh’s delicate sketch in oils, Impasse des Deux Frères, 1887, with its mobile puppet theatre and the wings of the Moulin des Trois Frères in the background – also recalled old Montmartre days. French flags flying. Creamy white light. Trees skeletal. Snow underfoot.

Van Gogh, Impasse des Deux Freres

Van Gogh, Impasse des Deux Frères, 1887

It’s a pity the gift shop is full of baubles and tchotchkes – the yellow house on your iPad cover. An iPhone case with a detached ear printed on it gave me some pause. Like coffee shops the world over, museum shops are more and more homogenised tat. Restaurants and language have gone that way too, with the over-use of formulaic statements and fashion food dressed up as gourmet – a chiffonade of this, a smear of that. Have a nice day!

Arles rooftops

Arles rooftops

And then out into the bright air by the Rhône. The streets were full of designer wear and the clopping of good shoes on cobbles. People with ID tags round their necks. The lovely stone.

Le contre-jour, Arles

Le contre-jour, Arles


Street art, Arles 2014

Street art, Arles 2014

 

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The homintern: the photographic world of Islay Lyons (1922-1993)

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Twenty-five years ago, in October 1987, I was introduced to the photographer Algernon Islay de Courcy Lyons. He was with an old Bangkok hand, William Warren, on the Thonburi side of the Chao Phraya River. We were watching the dress rehearsal for the Royal Barge Ceremony. The king’s auspicious 60th birthday celebrations were in December of that year, and the royal barges were being given a rare outing.

We stood on the bleachers in front of the Temple of Dawn, with a fine view of the Grand Palace opposite. A murmur went through the crowd as police launches cruised down the river of kings. Outriders came into view, then the scarlet- and gold-clad rowers cutting the current in unison. Gold leaf on the oar blades caught the sun. The barges seemed to have descended from heaven.

Islay Lyons had been erstwhile lover of writer and filmmaker Kenneth Macpherson (1902-1971), who had been married to Bryher (pen name of Annie Winifred Ellerman, 1894-1983). Lyons and Macpherson had looked after the ageing Scots-Austrian writer, Norman Douglas, on Capri, until his death there in 1952.

Bryher (Winifred Ellerman), photo by Islay Lyons

Bryher was the daughter of shipping magnate Sir John Ellerman, who in the 1920s was thought to be the richest man in England. Both Bryher and Macpherson had been lovers of the American imagist poet H.D., Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961) in one of the twentieth century’s more bizarre ménages à trois. Macpherson and Bryher went on to conduct further affairs, he with men, she with women. Husband and wife remained lifelong friends.

This was the deep, not much glimpsed, homosexual literary world of the inter-war years. Lyons was one of the last sleepers in the homintern (based on Comintern: Communist International), a coinage attributed to the poet W. H. Auden, himself a paid-up member: the lavender conspiracy, as a similar term more evocatively puts it.

Bryher’s The Heart to Artemis: A Writer’s Memoirs (1963) spans a late Victorian childhood, two world wars and her peripatetic life among the literati, bankrolled by her father’s considerable wealth. A lifelong lesbian, she circumspectly expunges the word while at the same time leaving us in no doubt: “no single act gave me greater pleasure than having my hair cut short in 1920”.

Bryher, with a short back and sides, photographed by Man Ray, circa 1923

She changed her name by deed poll to Bryher, one of the Scilly Islands, in an attempt to free herself and her writing from family strictures. Her memoirs are remarkable not only for their sweep and poetic clarity, but also for the way she presents an open secret, deftly remaining within publishing convention in those years between the Wolfenden Report of 1957 and the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967. “I watched the seamen enviously because the thing that I wanted most was a boy’s sailor suit,” she writes of those “hot summer crossings” to Dieppe in the decade before the Great War. The French writer André Gide transported her “instantly to the Channel steamers of my childhood and the decks full of people in black and white cheviot ulsters”.

In America she entered a first morganatic marriage with Robert McAlmon, himself homosexual. She proposed to him over afternoon tea in the Hotel Breevort on Valentine’s Day 1921. They were married at New York City Hall later that same day and sailed to London on the White Star Liner Celtic, one of her father’s ships. She describes this arrangement matter-of-factly:

He wanted to go to Paris to meet Joyce but lacked the passage money. I put my problem before him and suggested that if we married, my family would leave me alone. I would give him part of my allowance, he would join me for occasional visits to my parents, but otherwise we would live strictly separate lives. It must be remembered that I had been brought up on French rather than English lines and that arranged marriages were perfectly familiar to me … we neither of us felt the slightest attraction towards each other but remained perfectly friendly. We were divorced in 1927 but could have got an annulment just as easily…

With Bryher’s family money McAlmon founded Contact Editions in Paris, publishing many of the expatriate American writers of the day, including Hemingway and a stable of lesbian writers – Gertrude Stein, Djuna Barnes, H.D. and Bryher herself.

In his early novel, Village (1924), McAlmon fictionalizes the South Dakota town of Madison, and his first love – for Gore Vidal’s father, Gene. McAlmon was fourteen, Gene fifteen. In what must be a rare excursus by a homosexual writer, Gore Vidal revisited McAlmon’s account of his father’s small-town teenage dalliance in his own memoir Palimpsest (1995).

Robert McAlmon: it is curious – to say the least – to encounter one’s father as a boy of fifteen as seen through the eyes of a boy of fourteen who is in love with him. I was intrigued by the possibilities of all this as I was by Jimmie’s sudden interest in Walt Whitman.

Jimmie was Jimmie Trimble, the love of Gore Vidal’s life, dead at Iwo Jima, March 1, 1945, age 20.

In 1932 McAlmon published A Scarlet Pansy in New York, under the pseudonym Robert Scully. This scurrilous, camp roman à clef lifts the lid on the gay goings on of the Roaring Twenties and on his marriage to Bryher. The pansy protagonist in question is Fay Etrange, from Kuntsville, Pennysylvania. Like McAlmon, she supports herself by working as a nude model. Bryher’s fictional counterpart is Marjorie Bull-Dike. A Scarlet Pansy takes embittered revenge on such Left Bank luminaries as Sylvia Beach, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, given names such as Fuchs, Pickup, Butsch, Godown and Kuntz. James Joyce described McAlmon’s later, above-the-counter account of literary Paris between the wars, Being Geniuses Together (1938), as “the office boy’s revenge”.

Graeme Taylor, John Glassco, Robert McAlmon, working on their tans, Nice, circa 1929

Bryher’s second marriage, to Kenneth Macpherson, seems also one of convenience, perhaps to do with inheritance. Though her only brother inherited the lion’s share of the family fortune, Bryher’s wealth allowed her and Macpherson to indulge a shared passion for experimental film, literature and travel, centered on Switzerland and Berlin before the rise of National Socialism put an end to all that. She flits in and out of literary history as the millionaire writer, dispensing cash. James Joyce, among others, benefited from Bryher’s largesse, via a monthly stipend from McAlmon. She came up with the cash for more than one apartment in Paris for down-at-heel artists. From 1933 onwards she was a benefactor to German Jews escaping the Nazi regime, notably facilitating Walter Benjamin’s escape.

Kenneth Macpherson, photo by Islay Lyons

Macpherson, Bryher and H.D. spent much of the 1920s and ‘30s on the shore of Lake Geneva. Bryher had been counseled by her father to take up residence in Switzerland as a tax shelter. They lived initially at Territet, near Montreux in Canton Vaud, which the Ellermans had used as a base for their extensive travels around the Mediterranean. Bryher’s father had been something of a mountaineer. Bryher first met the imagist poet H.D. in Cornwall in July 1918.

The door opened and I started in surprise. I had seen the face before, on a Greek statue or in some indefinable territory of the mind. We were meeting again after a long absence but not for the first time… the voice had a birdlike quality that was nearer to song than speech. There was a bowl of wild flowers on the table, another pile of books on the chair. We sat down and looked at each other or, more correctly, I stared… It was the moment I had longed for during seven interminable years.

Macpherson and Doolittle began their affair in 1926. Bryher divorced McAlmon in 1927 and married Macpherson in the same year, as a screen for all three of them in various ways. In 1929 H.D. became pregnant by Macpherson and had an abortion. Territet was also home to two tiger cubs, dogs, cats and monkeys. H.D.’s nine year-old daughter Perdita, from an earlier relationship with the Scottish musicologist Cecil Gray, joined this menagerie. She was formally adopted by Bryher and Macpherson and took the name Perdita Macpherson.

Kenneth Macpherson and H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) nursing tiger cubs, Territet, Switzerland, 1928

Bryher and Macpherson built the marvelous modernist-inspired Villa Kenwin (its name a merger of their names, Kenneth and Winifred) near Montreux in 1930. “It was the time of the Bauhaus … I loved the new functional furniture, the horizontal windows and the abolition of what I thought of as messy decoration.” Kenwin’s first architect was Hungarian film set designer and architect Alexander Ferenczy, a pupil of Alfred Loos, who died in a car accident in 1931. Ferenczy designed sets for such greats of the film world as Alexander Korda (Samson and Delilah) and Friedrich Zelnik.

Villa Kenwin on Lake Geneva

The villa retains his cinematographic stamp and awareness of the uses of light. Hans Henselmann, later appointed head architect for the city of Berlin in 1953, took up the project upon Ferenczy’s death. Though much of Bryher’s and all of Macpherson’s writing has fallen out of fashion and fills the shelves of the antiquarians, the house which bears their conjoined names has stood the test of time.

Robert Herring, Kenneth Macpherson and Bryher, Spitsbergen, Norway, 1929

“Switzerland was the perfect place for our headquarters. It was possible to see French, German, American and English films all in the same week,” writes Bryher. It was here that this arty ménage published Close Up, one of the first critical journals of film as an art form. They conceived and filmed Borderline (1930), starring Paul Robeson and H.D., focusing on race and a triangular relationship.

Borderline (1930) starring a young Paul Robeson, reissued on DVD

Believed lost, a copy was rediscovered in Switzerland in 1983. In 2006, the British Film Institute restored it and a screening and eventual DVD release has led to renewed interest in Macpherson as a pioneering cinematographic modernist. The spare lines, nautical detail, tiling and open spaces of the Villa Kenwin have also recently been restored to Bauhaus glory following decades of neglect.

Bryher and H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) during the filming of Borderline (1930)

The Second World War, which Bryher had predicted, found her with uncertain status as an English national in Switzerland. Her work on behalf of German refugees left her vulnerable in the event of a German invasion, a real possibility at the time:

There came the day when the Swiss radio warned us of imminent invasion. All the population was invited to resist. We were to disregard any further broadcasts, soldiers not with the army were to fulfill orders previously given to them, civilians were to make sure that they were equipped with brassards bearing the Federal Colours and then turn hoses of boiling water on the enemy… I was told afterwards that the main bridge at Basel was to have been destroyed after twelve minutes and it went to eight minutes before the order was countermanded.

After the war, Macpherson and boyfriend Islay Lyons settled into the Villa Tuoro on Capri, along with longtime resident and citizen of the island, the infamous Scottish-Austrian writer Norman Douglas (1868-1952). Bryher, as so often, funding the arrangement, persuaded Macpherson and Lyons to look after the ageing Douglas until his death.

Norman Douglas, the old roué, photo by Islay Lyons

The island had a long history of depraved goings-on, from the orgies of the Emperor Tiberius at Villa Jovis to the shenanigans of Baron Krupp in the first decade of the twentieth century. Douglas’s long scandal-dogged life of boys, booze and books had included numerous brushes with the law. He liked, according to Lyons, the “squawks and squeaks” deaf-mutes made in orgasm. Bryher describes his entourage: “and then there were the ‘crocodiles’ as we called the dark-haired, mischievous urchins with Renaissance names who ran errands and ate, as reward, plates of pasta like miniature mountains”. Douglas’s dying words were “get these fucking nuns away from me”.

Much is left unsaid in Bryher’s The Heart to Artemis, chief among the elisions being money. Money greased the introductions, the travel, and is the unmentioned small print of her two marriages: she was the original trust fund baby. She was generous, nonetheless, both with herself and her funds. History gives a deceptive tidiness to their lives. What was it drew Bryher to H.D. so that their relationship endured despite absences and Bryher’s marriage to Macpherson? Was Macpherson, by all accounts a debonair cultivated man, in it for the money? When he met Lyons after the war, what was the spark that ignited the love of his life?

Gracie Fields, the lass from Rochdale. Photo by Islay Lyons

Islay Lyons’ camera eye recorded them all under the midday sun. With the passage of time, his photos have taken on a bittersweet backward glance that recalls Auden’s valediction to the sunny south, ‘Goodbye to the Mezzogiorno’:

                       The Greeks used to call the Sun

He-who-smites-from-afar, and from here, where

Shadows are dagger-edged, the daily ocean blue,

I can see what they meant: his unwinking

Outrageous eye laughs to scorn any notion

Of change or escape, and a silent

Ex-volcano, without a stream or a bird,

Echoes that laugh.

These striking portraits date from the postwar period when la dolce vita had become fashionable in Hollywood and the Marshall Plan was pouring dollars into Europe’s reconstruction. Capri was an escape from the North, for Lancashire-born singer and entertainer Gracie Fields; an escape from Puritanism and the law for homosexuals on the lookout for amore (“better down South and much cheaper”). They are celebrity photos away from the limelight. The pinched saurian face of Somerset Maugham smiles for once above a clutter of tea things – the original “shit in the shuttered château” of Larkin’s poem.

American writer Mary McCarthy, photo by Islay Lyons

Norman Douglas, author of South Wind, is never far from a smudged brandy glass, clad in the crumpled linen of the old roué, still sporting the centre parting he affected when he was twelve, in Karlsruhe Gymnasium, in another century. Mannish Bryher, her swept back hair lightly oiled, Prussian features classically severe, doesn’t quite meet the photographer’s lens.

Charlton Heston on the set of Ben Hur. Photo by Islay Lyons

All the shiny people on terraces, under pergolas, caught congregating in the noonday sun like lizards: gimlet-eyed Nancy Cunard, bangled and ringed, a flapper gone to seed and looking ruefully at the world. And dancers and choreographers who for now have all their hair, cheekbones and musculature in place.

Nancy Cunard, still flapping. Photo by Islay Lyons

                                                      If we try

To ‘go southern’, we spoil in no time, we grow

Flabbily, dingily lecherous, and

Forget to pay bills

These are not so much the bright young things but what the bright young things become after a world war, too much money and sun. A pensive Graham Greene weighed down by the knowledge of sin; debonair, limp-wristed Noel Coward in good ducks, painting with one hand in his pocket.

Swimming pool at the Foro Italico, Rome. Photo by Islay Lyons

In this photograph taken in 1958 of the swimming pool at Foro Italico (originally called the Foro Mussolini) in Rome, the lines create an off-centre perspective. The fascist-era athletes in mosaic on the wall play off against the lounging boys on the bleachers.

On Macpherson’s death in 1971, Islay Lyons inherited what remained of the Ellerman shipping fortune that had come down through the morganatic female line via Bryher. The term ‘morganatic’ derives from ‘marriage with a morning gift’, itself a priceless comment on relations between the sexes. Lyons also inherited Douglas’s papers, his signed first editions, volumes on the history of Calabria and Capri, much of which has ended up in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale. It was this movement of inherited wealth that I first heard about twenty-five years ago on the banks of the Chao Phraya. Algernon Islay de Courcy Lyons died in Chiang Mai, in northern Thailand, in 1993. His adopted Thai son, Manop Charoensuk, inherited what was left of his good fortune.

Unidentified boy, photo by Islay Lyons

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