# The Dial (Third Series)/Volume 75/Modern Art (November 1923)

MODERN ART
HAD I arrived two days sooner in Paris I should have seen the décor that Juan Gris made for the Ballet Russe charity performance in the Salle des Glaces at Versailles. Gertrude Stein had a card to see it privately in the afternoon and could have taken me. Gertrude liked it very much. From the description it certainly was new in idea—quantities of tin being used, covering the floor, I believe, and the steps to the platform, and gilt joining in—but startling only to those capable of being startled by ideas, for the passionately fashionable charitable folk who paid immense sums to attend seemed unaware that there was a décor there at all, taking the setting casually as a part of the original salle. Alice Toklas said it was not objectionable to walk upon—though any one who has ever attempted to walk upon a tin roof would recoil from dancing upon tin. But those Russians really are very expert and recoil from nothing.
That Juan Gris should be known to Diaghilev and that Braque, Picasso, and he should do décors for him is merely one hint that the pre-war receptivity is still on. Indeed the receptivity is almost frantic, but beyond the admittance of our own Man Ray to the ranks of the magicians there seems to be no new name to be learned. The Parisians are just dying to have an affair with some new artist, but the boldness of the blandishments they offer seems to frighten rather than attract, and young geniuses, if they exist, are incredibly coy. One does not hear of them even at the Café du Dôme. Speaking of blandishments, the Ballet Russe projects one of Molière's pieces with musique by Gounod re-arranged by Erik Satie and with a décor by Juan Gris. It is a project and not a certainty, but merely to think of such a combination is going some in the way of liberality; is it not?
Pascin gave me a miniature banquet—moi qui vous parle. That is, there were at least twenty at table and that, I think, entitles it to be called a banquet. I had supposed I was dining seul, but when I reached the top of the almost endless series of stairs on the Boulevard de Clichy I found ladies, exuberant children, a solid bourgeois who had been rendered more distingué by the loss of one eye ​at the front—and a measurable family atmosphere that was a distinct surprise chez Pascin. In a minute we all descended to the street made more than usually noisy by the Fêtes de Montmartre then in progress and I did my share in marshalling the exuberant children among whom and the most so, was a young mulatress of about ten. As it couldn't possibly be a French party without somebody getting lost we promptly discovered that three or four of us were missing. But we soon found them. The one-eyed gentleman—whose name I never mastered—and several of the children were discovered astride the shiny fat pigs of the merry-go-round whirling in the air above our heads. Then we were re-united only to be separated again into different taxis for it seemed we were to go to the Café du Dôme for the apéritifs. The ride across town was extremely gay, made so by the children who were continually crying and waving to each other from the various vehicles and inciting the chauffeurs to race. Pascin and I had the young mulatress with us and she was enchanted that we won the race. We made a distinct sensation arriving at the Café du Dôme, and without in the least meaning to boast I think I may say that I shared the honours with the young mulatress. People did look at us. If there is receptivity for art in Paris there seems even to be plenty of this commodity for art critics and there was a constant stream of persons coming up to claim acquaintance not only with Pascin, but with me. So much so that we scarcely had a moment actually to sit and Mahonri Young who had thought perhaps he might be of service to a newcomer retired abashed after one curious glance at the young coloured person. The café terrasse was crowded with the usual early Saturday evening crowd of students, oh, so much more gaunt and hollow-cheeked than they had been two years before; or so they did seem to me, comfortable in the knowledge that I certainly was to have a dinner. This festivity took place finally in a restaurant over near the Bal Bullier and the eats and the spiritual uplift were quite all right though the one-eyed gentleman took the host to task for allowing the men to be seated at one end of the table solidly and the ladies at the other; "If there is any possible way to bungle it trust Pascin," said he, with affectionate wrath. It was this gentleman who owned the large touring car that awaited without and into which about ten of us were whisked to the Café Suédois later on, standing up or clinging to side-steps as best we could, college boy ​style. Of the children who had gaily started out from Montmartre with us only the young mulatress was left and she was still maintaining a social status when I retreated from the Café Suédois at the discreet hour of minuit. At this party I met among others MacOrlan the writer and Laborde the artist, both of them keen and delightful, with worldly success apparently staring them in the face and André Salmon, the critic, equally delightful, but not so certain to get on in this life; and renewed acquaintance with Madame Pascin, one of the most remarkable women in Paris, which is saying much, and Mina Loy, the poetess.
At the banquet I asked Pascin when I could have a second look at his drawings and he suggested coming to lunch the Monday following. Galanis was there when I arrived and two young women who seemed not enthusiastic over my advent. Afterward I learned that Pascin had forgotten having asked them for Monday or had forgotten having asked me and they were promptly chased away. However they said bon jour with the calmness of duchesses and will have had it made up to them by Pascin later, doubtless. Then after Galanis left I was allowed to look through piles of drawings, including all the ones made in Tunis and which I like particularly, and the series of mocking allegories in which "offrandes to Venus" and hitherto suppressed details in the life of Scheherazade are lightly sketched. From the débris on the table I turned up two books, both of them inscribed. One was Paul Morand's Fermé la Nuit which contained on the fly-leaf the author's wish that Pascin might illustrate the work sometime. Morand is about to have his wish, I understand, Pascin having undertaken to do the drawings. The other book was by Cocteau also with compliments upon the fly-leaf. Then, too, Meier-Graefe is to do a Pascin album; so here is one artist at least who cannot complain of an indifferent press.
We lunched at the Café Manière. At the café we found MacOrlan and Laborde, both of whom were charming as usual and full of curiosity in regard to America. When I told MacOrlan that I had dined at Brancusi's and that Brancusi himself had acted as chef and had énormément de talent comme cuisinier, he said that to cook was quite à la mode now.
The dinner was wonderful—but gracious heavens—I see I have not left myself space enough in which to describe it. Believe me it would require space!
Henry McBride