BECOMING
(continued)
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
(continued)
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
Chapter 5: I Become My Father’s Masterpiece My father was not terribly unsuccessful as a painter. Prior to my birth he had exhibited several times in a small gallery in North Beach and had even sold several of his smaller paintings. Although a talented and accomplished draughtsman, he did not, in the eyes of the general public, use his abilities to commercial advantage. He was constantly being advised “to paint straight,” not “weird.” By this his critics were referring to his propensity to skew the details in what could have been fine representational canvasses. Into a wonderful arid desert scene he would plant a conifer grove, with monkeys collecting pine cones; he rendered the Last Supper as an event in a tree house with the disciples and Jesus dining on walnuts and drinking scotch; a matador in full regalia fought Lucy the Borden cow. His masters, naturally, were two Spaniards: Velázquez and Dalí. He vehemently disliked the impressionists; was unenthusiastic about abstraction; ardently championed the Surrealists. Had he been born a generation earlier (or 300 years before that) he would no doubt have already had a triumphal career. As it was, Surrealism was waning, and the royal courts no longer employed painters to render the nobility. |
A few weeks after I was born he decided to paint my portrait. My mother was delighted as he had promised her that it would be a realistic tableau, suitable for framing. He first filled a sketchbook with drawings: of my little hands, feet, head. He couldn't resist a departure from reality now and then: a giant tabby carrying me in her mouth by the scruff of my neck; adding horns and mustache to my infant head; making my genitals half the size of my body. But generally he restrained himself.
I was an agreeable model, happy to lay quietly for hours on a blanket on the floor. Finally, after several weeks of sketching, he brought out the oils, and working from his drawings began to produce a large canvas. It was, by all accounts, a work of genius, one a Renaissance master—even the great Velazquez himself—would have been delighted to claim. I, unfortunately, never got to see it (at least that I can remember) for on the day he finished it a dealer or a crony or someone came by, offered my father $250 for it on the spot (more than he'd ever received for a painting) and before the oil was even completely dry, he whisked it away.
My father vowed to paint another one which could not be bought for any price, but as far as I know never did. He also vowed to turn over future proceeds from his paintings to my mother and not to use the money trying to win the trifecta, but as far as I know, he never did that either.
Chapter 6: I Become A Grandchild
My mother both welcomed and dreaded the arrival of my grandparents from Colorado. She was naturally eager to present me to them, but was slightly less enthusiastic about introducing them for the first time to my father. Her concerns on the latter score turned out to be unnecessary, for on the day they arrived my father promptly disappeared. The problem was not with his absence, rather that he neglected to inform my mother that he had decided to go elsewhere. As a result, during the first 24 hours after my grandparents had alighted from the California Zepher, my mother was fraught over what had happened to him. She suspected that he had simply decided to lay doggo for a few days, but as she was always one to conjure up scenarios of death and mayhem, she was actually quite anxious--not to mention embarassed--over what indeed had transpired. And so while my grandparents were doting on me, she was futilely calling the police from a pay phone on the corner.
The mystery was finally solved when on the second day of my grandparents' stay, the neighborhood cafe owner sent one of his waiters over to inform my mother that Joe had telephoned from Del Mar to say that he had been called out of town unexpectedly and would return in a week. Although relieved to know that the man was still breathing on the planet, she also knew the only thing in Del Mar to appeal to my father was the racetrack. In her words, she was so angry she "could spit."
I have never understood the correlation between anger and spitting, but I know that when my mother was that angry it meant she really wanted to throw things, perhaps even resort to a quick homicide. For the sake of her parents, though, and I'm sure to save her own pride, she simply told them that my father had had to go out of town suddenly on business and that he had left a note, but she hadn't seen it, and that unfortunately he would not be able to get back until after they themselves had returned to their abode in the mountains of Colorado. I'm sure that neither my grandmother nor grandfather were taken in at all by this, and I'm sure my mother knew they weren't, and I'm sure that they knew my mother was aware that they knew what was actually going on, but as my family were always virtuosos at pretending that what is, isn't, that one does not probe into matters of the heart, they all engaged themselves in the deception, substituting my gurgles and squeals and gas pains and slight movements for any missing pieces of reality.
Chapter 7: I Become Entwined with Good Luck
My father returned from Del Mar the day after my grandparents left. I have no idea what he said to my mother, or what she said to him, but I do know why she allowed him back into the house: he produced a little over $2000 in cash. A longshot in the tenth race, Chris' Folly, had treated him right, coming in first at 21 to 1 to round out a day of extraordinary luck: two trifectas and seven wins. Although all his handicapping instincts had told him not to waste his last bet of the day on such a surely disastrous choice, he couldn't resist putting some money on a horse that bore the name of his own son. It was fortunate that Chris' Folly ran in the tenth race; otherwise he would have undoubtedly attempted to continue capitalizing on his winning streak. And though this accounts for his holding on to his winnings, why, contrary to form, he turned all this money over to my mother is a mystery to me, and was, I'm sure, an even greater one for my mother. I'm certain it was proferred as a way of seeking readmission into the household, but $500 would undoubtedly have greased the wheel of absolution just as handily.
My mother wasted no time ensuring that my father's windfall at the track was quickly put to good use. Within a few weeks she had used the cash to make a sizable down payment on a new three-bedroom tract house in San Mateo. Why or how any of this happened is unknown to me, but I do know that before I was a year old I was removed from the charmingly squalid flat on San Antonio street and set up in my own square room in the rectangular ranch house that we now called home, or that at least my mother called home, for my father, since this was long before BART was even a twinkle in the eye of city planners, was less than thrilled at leaving behind his old North Beach stomping grounds. He so disliked the new place, in fact, that he only could bring himself to stay there a few days a week. The rest of the time he slept on couches or in recliners or on a spare matress spread on the floor in the apartments of his cronies in the city.
I'm sure this must have bothered my mother a great deal, but perhaps not as much as it might have, since shortly after acquiring the new house, she also acquired a roommate in the form of my Uncle Jack, who had just washed up in San Francisco after being demobilized from a tour of duty in the navy. Having by now seen something of the world, like his sister, he was wont to return to the Colorado homestead. But as he was also still slightly intimidated by the bright lights of the big city, he didn't mind living out "in the sticks," as he referred to San Mateo. My mother was delighted to have the company—she had always been close to her younger brother—and even more thrilled that he and I took an immediate shine to one another. This meant that that he’d happily entertain me for hours, leaving her to venture back and forth to work, or to get back to writing her ever-lengthening novel of a young woman with a baby living in California just after the war who was involved with an alien painter.
Things went along rather harmoniously like this for a while, until one day, around the end of the month, my uncle announced that he’d used up all his savings and, therefore, wouldn’t be able to contribute his share to the household until he’d found a job. My mother was initially understanding, but after several weeks, when her brother showed no inclination that he was even looking for work, she became less and less conciliatory, and ultimately issued him and ultimatum either to get a job or get out.
It was this, indirectly, that led to us all getting out. My uncle, try as he might, could only find work in the city as a chorus member of the San Francisco Opera. As a result, he informed my mother that as much he hated to leave her high and dry, he would have to find a place in town. And so finally, with a fair amount of nudging from my father she relented, rented out the suburban palace, and we all moved back to San Francisco, this time into an apartment in North Beach that accommodated us all.
My father was delighted, not only for himself but for me, convinced that I had been rescued just in time from the damaging effects of the suburbs. I was starting to become sensate, he explained, and as everyone knew, growing up in the suburbs undeniably led to the wholesale and very often permanent destruction of a child's creative and emotional psyche.
Chapter 8: I Become A Resident of Mexico City
I've heard so many different explanations over the years from various quarters that I am really at this point totally unsure of what was really behind our leaving San Francisco so precipitously. I do know for certain that somehow my father gambled away the house in San Mateo, that my uncle took off for Colorado to join the Denver Opera, that somehow we acquired a car, and that for one reason or another my mother relented to going along on the joy ride south. None of this explains, though, why we actually left. According to what my father told my uncle, two of his alien friends had been busted by immigration and deported and he feared he'd be next. Mexico was chosen because the government was friendly toward exiles, there was a sizable community of Spanish Republicans in Mexico City, the Mexicans spoke Spanish, and it cost a lot less to go to Mexico than back to France.
According to my mother, my father had run up such gambling debts that even after losing the house he still had thousands more to pay off. Fearing that the Mafia goons would come round to collect, he borrowed some money from someone, bought a car, and packed us up in the middle of the night without saying a thing about where we were heading.
According to my uncle, my father was afraid that he would be arrested for some reason (by immigration or just the local cops was never clear) and so he decided to head out to Mexico on his own. My mother, fearing that she'd never see him again, insisted that she and I accompany him.
Over the years I've never been sure which version was the more accurate. Perhaps none of them has it quite right; then again, maybe all of them are true. Regardless of the why, the what is clear. By my second birthday we had set up house on Orizaba street, moving into quarters previously occupied by some crazy Americans who had abruptly left the city after a run-in with the police. My mother apparently did not want to move into an apartment that had previously been the scene of some domestic dispute, but my father prevailed, telling her that the difficulties the gringos had gotten themselves into had nothing to do with the place, but with them. And besides the price was right, as the landlord was eager to have a nice Spanish-speaking family residing on his premises after the last horrors he had experienced.
I was an agreeable model, happy to lay quietly for hours on a blanket on the floor. Finally, after several weeks of sketching, he brought out the oils, and working from his drawings began to produce a large canvas. It was, by all accounts, a work of genius, one a Renaissance master—even the great Velazquez himself—would have been delighted to claim. I, unfortunately, never got to see it (at least that I can remember) for on the day he finished it a dealer or a crony or someone came by, offered my father $250 for it on the spot (more than he'd ever received for a painting) and before the oil was even completely dry, he whisked it away.
My father vowed to paint another one which could not be bought for any price, but as far as I know never did. He also vowed to turn over future proceeds from his paintings to my mother and not to use the money trying to win the trifecta, but as far as I know, he never did that either.
Chapter 6: I Become A Grandchild
My mother both welcomed and dreaded the arrival of my grandparents from Colorado. She was naturally eager to present me to them, but was slightly less enthusiastic about introducing them for the first time to my father. Her concerns on the latter score turned out to be unnecessary, for on the day they arrived my father promptly disappeared. The problem was not with his absence, rather that he neglected to inform my mother that he had decided to go elsewhere. As a result, during the first 24 hours after my grandparents had alighted from the California Zepher, my mother was fraught over what had happened to him. She suspected that he had simply decided to lay doggo for a few days, but as she was always one to conjure up scenarios of death and mayhem, she was actually quite anxious--not to mention embarassed--over what indeed had transpired. And so while my grandparents were doting on me, she was futilely calling the police from a pay phone on the corner.
The mystery was finally solved when on the second day of my grandparents' stay, the neighborhood cafe owner sent one of his waiters over to inform my mother that Joe had telephoned from Del Mar to say that he had been called out of town unexpectedly and would return in a week. Although relieved to know that the man was still breathing on the planet, she also knew the only thing in Del Mar to appeal to my father was the racetrack. In her words, she was so angry she "could spit."
I have never understood the correlation between anger and spitting, but I know that when my mother was that angry it meant she really wanted to throw things, perhaps even resort to a quick homicide. For the sake of her parents, though, and I'm sure to save her own pride, she simply told them that my father had had to go out of town suddenly on business and that he had left a note, but she hadn't seen it, and that unfortunately he would not be able to get back until after they themselves had returned to their abode in the mountains of Colorado. I'm sure that neither my grandmother nor grandfather were taken in at all by this, and I'm sure my mother knew they weren't, and I'm sure that they knew my mother was aware that they knew what was actually going on, but as my family were always virtuosos at pretending that what is, isn't, that one does not probe into matters of the heart, they all engaged themselves in the deception, substituting my gurgles and squeals and gas pains and slight movements for any missing pieces of reality.
Chapter 7: I Become Entwined with Good Luck
My father returned from Del Mar the day after my grandparents left. I have no idea what he said to my mother, or what she said to him, but I do know why she allowed him back into the house: he produced a little over $2000 in cash. A longshot in the tenth race, Chris' Folly, had treated him right, coming in first at 21 to 1 to round out a day of extraordinary luck: two trifectas and seven wins. Although all his handicapping instincts had told him not to waste his last bet of the day on such a surely disastrous choice, he couldn't resist putting some money on a horse that bore the name of his own son. It was fortunate that Chris' Folly ran in the tenth race; otherwise he would have undoubtedly attempted to continue capitalizing on his winning streak. And though this accounts for his holding on to his winnings, why, contrary to form, he turned all this money over to my mother is a mystery to me, and was, I'm sure, an even greater one for my mother. I'm certain it was proferred as a way of seeking readmission into the household, but $500 would undoubtedly have greased the wheel of absolution just as handily.
My mother wasted no time ensuring that my father's windfall at the track was quickly put to good use. Within a few weeks she had used the cash to make a sizable down payment on a new three-bedroom tract house in San Mateo. Why or how any of this happened is unknown to me, but I do know that before I was a year old I was removed from the charmingly squalid flat on San Antonio street and set up in my own square room in the rectangular ranch house that we now called home, or that at least my mother called home, for my father, since this was long before BART was even a twinkle in the eye of city planners, was less than thrilled at leaving behind his old North Beach stomping grounds. He so disliked the new place, in fact, that he only could bring himself to stay there a few days a week. The rest of the time he slept on couches or in recliners or on a spare matress spread on the floor in the apartments of his cronies in the city.
I'm sure this must have bothered my mother a great deal, but perhaps not as much as it might have, since shortly after acquiring the new house, she also acquired a roommate in the form of my Uncle Jack, who had just washed up in San Francisco after being demobilized from a tour of duty in the navy. Having by now seen something of the world, like his sister, he was wont to return to the Colorado homestead. But as he was also still slightly intimidated by the bright lights of the big city, he didn't mind living out "in the sticks," as he referred to San Mateo. My mother was delighted to have the company—she had always been close to her younger brother—and even more thrilled that he and I took an immediate shine to one another. This meant that that he’d happily entertain me for hours, leaving her to venture back and forth to work, or to get back to writing her ever-lengthening novel of a young woman with a baby living in California just after the war who was involved with an alien painter.
Things went along rather harmoniously like this for a while, until one day, around the end of the month, my uncle announced that he’d used up all his savings and, therefore, wouldn’t be able to contribute his share to the household until he’d found a job. My mother was initially understanding, but after several weeks, when her brother showed no inclination that he was even looking for work, she became less and less conciliatory, and ultimately issued him and ultimatum either to get a job or get out.
It was this, indirectly, that led to us all getting out. My uncle, try as he might, could only find work in the city as a chorus member of the San Francisco Opera. As a result, he informed my mother that as much he hated to leave her high and dry, he would have to find a place in town. And so finally, with a fair amount of nudging from my father she relented, rented out the suburban palace, and we all moved back to San Francisco, this time into an apartment in North Beach that accommodated us all.
My father was delighted, not only for himself but for me, convinced that I had been rescued just in time from the damaging effects of the suburbs. I was starting to become sensate, he explained, and as everyone knew, growing up in the suburbs undeniably led to the wholesale and very often permanent destruction of a child's creative and emotional psyche.
Chapter 8: I Become A Resident of Mexico City
I've heard so many different explanations over the years from various quarters that I am really at this point totally unsure of what was really behind our leaving San Francisco so precipitously. I do know for certain that somehow my father gambled away the house in San Mateo, that my uncle took off for Colorado to join the Denver Opera, that somehow we acquired a car, and that for one reason or another my mother relented to going along on the joy ride south. None of this explains, though, why we actually left. According to what my father told my uncle, two of his alien friends had been busted by immigration and deported and he feared he'd be next. Mexico was chosen because the government was friendly toward exiles, there was a sizable community of Spanish Republicans in Mexico City, the Mexicans spoke Spanish, and it cost a lot less to go to Mexico than back to France.
According to my mother, my father had run up such gambling debts that even after losing the house he still had thousands more to pay off. Fearing that the Mafia goons would come round to collect, he borrowed some money from someone, bought a car, and packed us up in the middle of the night without saying a thing about where we were heading.
According to my uncle, my father was afraid that he would be arrested for some reason (by immigration or just the local cops was never clear) and so he decided to head out to Mexico on his own. My mother, fearing that she'd never see him again, insisted that she and I accompany him.
Over the years I've never been sure which version was the more accurate. Perhaps none of them has it quite right; then again, maybe all of them are true. Regardless of the why, the what is clear. By my second birthday we had set up house on Orizaba street, moving into quarters previously occupied by some crazy Americans who had abruptly left the city after a run-in with the police. My mother apparently did not want to move into an apartment that had previously been the scene of some domestic dispute, but my father prevailed, telling her that the difficulties the gringos had gotten themselves into had nothing to do with the place, but with them. And besides the price was right, as the landlord was eager to have a nice Spanish-speaking family residing on his premises after the last horrors he had experienced.
NOTE BENE: Alyscamps Press in Paris, has just put out a chapbook by Chris Sawyer-Lauçanno,
Just Words: Homage to Roman Jakobson. Sawyer-Lauçanno tells us that it was based on notes he kept when he was under Jakobson's tutelage as a graduate student. These were later discovered by the author's granddaughter when sorting through items to go to UC Santa Barbara as part of his archives there. The chapbook is available from: In the UK: Julian Nangle [[email protected]] In France: Michael Neal Books, [michaelnealbooks.wordpress.com] In the U.S.: Karl Orend/Alyscamps Press: [[email protected]] |