An
encounter with Beatrice Wood in 1996;
sometimes referred
to as the mother of Dada
by Walter J. Christensen Jr.
As I walked along a country road in Ojai
California, to each side of me undulated knolls of Irish green
grass together with tough chaparral. I recognized the rusty red
and beige buckwheat and the aromatic sage and an occasional patch
of Jimson Weed. Upon one of the knolls lay a broken-down old
rusted tractor halted years ago by hardy vegetation. The air
was cool and fragrantly earthy. At my feet small white puff-flowers
danced in the breeze near a weathered fence post that lunged
dangerously up at me at a steep angle. It resembled some forgotten
tombstone. The wood was deeply lined and layered; holes and rusted
barbwire adorned it with distinct character. It reminded me (from
photographs I had seen of her) of the many armlets, rings and
beaded necklaces the famous, if not notorious, artist wore whom
I was seeking that day. Her name was Beatrice Wood and she was
the “Mama of Dada.”
The Dada art movement originated through
Marcel DuChamp (one of her many purported lovers, as was Henri
Pierre Roche who co-founded "Blind Man," and in 1910
and wrote the famous book "Jules and Jim" based
on the relationship between Duchamp, Beatrice, and himself).
In contrast to the busy Parisian and New York scene Beatrice
lived, her land filled my senses with quiet solitude while its
beauty sang an aria to creation. It seemed its abundant source
emanated from the very abode where Beatrice created her provocative
works of art.
In the far distance I gazed up at the mystical
mountain called Topa, Topa—a stratified peak that for as
long as the town of Ojai California can remember inspired their
own woman legend, Beatrice Wood. In 1948 she came to Ojai to
be near the Indian sage, J. Krishnamurti. She was also intimate
with Man Ray, Francis Picabia, Albert Gleizes and Walt Kuhn.
In more contemporary times Beatrice was the inspiration in the
Titanic movie's 101-year-old character of "Rose." She
made her last public appearance during the premiere of this film
with the director and close friend James Cameron.
At three o'clock I arrived at the modest
domicile of Beatrice Wood. David VanGilder greeted me. He was
Beatrice's assistant in matters of convention (which I believe
Beatrice never followed nor did David). Kevin Settles and Jamie
Roth were also there, all wonderful, keeping conversation alive
and interesting like Shakespearean actors on a stage.
As I entered I was told Beatrice had recently
suffered double pneumonia and probably wouldn't be seeing anyone
today. With my searching eyes I explored a realm of wonder and
beauty. I peered ahead into her one-room art gallery made of
small cubicles illuminated by ceiling-mounted lights. The first
piece I encountered was a lustrous caramel bowl resting upon
four obscure monk-like figurines, themselves on a plinth with
faces formed into the base. It was as edible as butterbrickle;
yet I felt as if it were consuming my being. I wanted to touch
it, give it an offering.
Next I was drawn to her painting. Simple
lines forming a face...rather mountains...no they were luscious
breasts. Minimal effort, maximum emotive response. It is similar
to what great theoretical physicist hope to achieve: minimal
symbols describing maximum natural beauty. All beings at her
level speak the same language, be it Krishnamurti or Picabia.
It was roughly eight by eight inches and signed BEATO. Below
her painting were clay figures of Adam and Eve, glazed turquoise,
separated by a desolate tree, wrapped and draped by a comical
long-fanged snake. At its plinth were the words "THE SNAKE
WAS INNOCENT." A sense of earnest humor pervaded me. My
god! Do such creative beings so full of life truly exist! I wondered.
There was more! Leaning against the wall were framed scenes of
a bordello made out of clay--man in bed with a woman of cream
and spice. The piece was entitled "MADAM LoLoo PLEASURE
PALACE."
Drawing by Beatrice Woods & Walter
J. Christensen, Jr.
My venture into the gallery had hardly
begun when David swept me away into another room by. The gesture
made me aware precious moments were slipping away. If only
I could glimpse the Philosopher of Art who claimed pottery making
was only a distraction from the more important questions of
life.
David pointed to her collection of dolls. These were the ones
from Beatrice’s childhood when she had peeked at Monet
painting in his garden. The largest doll, sitting on a rocking
chair, had reddish-brown hair and donned a chocolate brown blouse
and tan skirt down to its ankles. She was handsomely fitted with
hazel shoes. Placed in her lap were tiny dolls, some naked without
arms or legs, about the size of the pinky from the tip to the
first knuckle. There were many wooden statues possessing almond
eyes. Most were from India. There was an assortment of other
tribal ones too. Her bookshelf was packed with such books as "Art
of India;” “The Indian Dance;” “The Living
Art of India;” “Art of the Ancient and Near East
and so on.
Suddenly I glimpsed a sparkle of excitement
dash out of another room. The shimmering magic of this elfin
woman illuminated us from within. Apparently several people had
arrived unbeknownst to me; it was enough to entice Beatrice Wood
out for the event. Cautiously I entered the very room she had
scurried into. There she was an angel incarnate possessing a
smile that was timeless, and twelve. She was dressed in a gorgeous
silky baby-blue sari. Beads galore! More rings than fingers and
armlets upon her forearms that spoke of independent artistic
power. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid my eyes
upon.
Waiting with respect, and knowing she had
recently lost much of her hearing, I approached Beatrice and
handed her my thoughts on paper. She read my statement and without
hesitation launched into those grand eternal questions.
"The great question...the whole god
bang universe...and why we human beings?"
Guests and attendants stared in shocked
surprise (maybe that is why she chose to title her autobiography “I
Shock Myself.”) Her words, few dared to speak in life.
I felt warmth rushing into my veins. Here was someone who grasped
the notion that if we are to do worthwhile things during our
brief span we must first seek the purpose of our actions! Quite
seriously I answered Beatrice.
"Grace with universal consciousness,
otherwise we live only in a mechanistic universe, cold, no grandness.
We need spiritual connection as much as the Great Spirit needs
us; Grace."
"I believe it," she replied,
then went on to add, "There are three things important in
life: honesty, which means living free of the cunning mind; compassion,
because if we have no concern for others, we are monsters; and
curiosity, for if the mind is not searching, it is dull and unresponsive."
Open-eyed I listened hearing rare truths.
She added, "It is hard to face ourselves
inwardly. Our minds are devious."
I told her, “Oscar Wilde once wrote
that people were afraid of their true nature.”
She said, "Our goal is to be honest,
face what is not good inside. That is why I sign myself immoral
but virtuous."
Gently, I kissed the hand of Duchamp's
lover good-bye; she flushed and I fell in love.
Drawing
by Walter J. Christensen, Jr.
As I departed from
Beatrice's place I noticed her infamous landmark: a pink mailbox
labeled
WOOD. It struck
me queerly reminiscent of a child. Maybe that was one of her
secrets. Yet, I was more struck by the thought that though
her hands played with "mere" clay, she pondered upon
profound truths and the results were deeply stunning and beautiful.
I
peered again at those mountains called Topa, Topa and was filled
with connected truth, creative passion and love for someone
who was willing to share an honest, compassionate, curious moment
with me.
