27 rue de fleurus
Amidst the facade of the roaring 20’s and the allegedly “Lost Generation”, there was one building masked under the beauty by the side of La River Gauche that hosted a certain crowd, who then in their lives had an unprecedented acknowledgement and admiration of each other, which in many ways has perhaps altered our perception of history. On a typical Saturday evening one would have found Gertrude Stein at her post in the atelier, garbed in brown corduroy, sitting in a high-backed Renaissance chair, her legs dangling, next to the big cast-iron stove that heated the chilly room. A few feet away, Leo Stein would expound to a group of visitors his views on modern art. In the very room, abandoning any cruel co-incidence would be Ernest Hemingway, sipping away on wine unsolicited, nor unwelcomed. On the other side of the house would be Picasso, Pablo; re-inventing modern paintings while articulating his subtle sexualities of whomsoever the maid he chose for that evening. Often times, this little party would have the almost insignificant honor of hosting the Fitzgeralds who need no introduction nor a claim to fame to associate with such an ensemble. This little room boasted some of France’s finest, having Henri Matisse and Picasso’s works lying around corners while wineglasses clanked between Fitzgerlad and Hemingway; all too non-chalant, too lost and never truly realizing their influences in time. It could be unquestionably agreed that the gatherings in the Stein home “brought together confluences of talent and thinking that would help define modernism in literature and art.”
Perhaps it was what Paris offered then, not just a City that shone like pearls under moonshine, not just the Siene flowing and dancing around during the daytime or the streetlights that make midnight paradise. Perhaps it was the promise that in a place that holds such unreal beauty, that feels so ridiculously tangible, there might be hope for dreams to come true. Paris held together a mirage of this intellectual occult that would gather about, influence the modern ways of lifestyle, Prais took this mirage and made it real. This was not just true in case for the events at 27 rue de fleurus but many times in the past, there has been change that roots back to fine offerings of heavenly, albeit humble Paris. “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast” said Hemingway, epitomizing the wonder within the capital of France.
What would it take for all of the world to recreate this? What would I not give to spare a few moments in that space, to breathe in same vicinity as them? All this is but meagre rhetoric trying to encapsulate the prowess of a room full of artists. How something so seemingly minuscule, a room with painters and poets, could hold it’s place in history as something more than just a fine co-incidence. It kills me to not know if others as significant, past this period, used to look back and ponder if they could too accompany these folk. What would have happened if Gandhi was in there? Would Hitler be who he was if he too could be critiqued by Stein? It’s these historical hypotheticals that keeps people awake or ties about what wonders this world could hold. It certainly takes more than just a con-incidence to create anything of such a magnitude but a co-incidence looks like a good start.
How often do we look back to such times and wonder at how gracious we are that it happened? Are we at least acknowledging the immaculate significance of not just this, but any particular such incident. Are we not, in some way, a product of their thought and thus in a loose way, their creation? The very idea of my senile reasoning having in an any way originated from that room being true would and could be the greatest happening in my lifetime. So, if I reflect and look, it takes me not long to ponder, not that in what way I benefit from their thinking but in what way that I could either acknowledge or honour their achievement. Of course, I could just pour my thought into words but perhaps that is all it takes. After all, even they were merely thinkers who gathered to share and learn. It takes only a group of committed intellectuals to bring about a change, we all know that can invariably happen but when some magical occurrences, such as that which happened at the Stein’s Salon, take place, it brings about an understanding of why there is a mysticism to our world. An understanding, for the lack of a better word, that when there are thoughts of an open mind, flowing away around those of as capable and creative psyche’s as the ones shared in that room, can together go about to create or even recreate new chapters in our world. Art, a resounding medium capable of inflicting thought like nothing else is the product of that creation. Art, that hold unparalleled feats in pushing our race forward and art that seems invaluable for it not only holds the creation of an intellectual, but binds together the future perceptions and the present articulations. Art, as beautiful as thought could get.
The Skookum 