Mina
Loy (1882-1966) in conversation with Stan Rogal
No love or the other thing
Only the impact of lighted bodies
Knocking sparks off each other
In chaos
— from: Songs
to Joannes XIV
It was late afternoon, a cold
and dreary November Friday, threat of snow. I was leaving the Edward Street BMV
planning to head to the Eaton Centre, wander around for a couple of hours, kill
time, maybe grab a bowl of wonton in the below-ground food arcade, when
something in the bookstore window caught my eye. It was a colour poster with a
photomontage by Hannah Höch, The
Beautiful Girl, advertising an event to occur that evening at the Arts
& Letters Club. A ‘Dada Extravaganza’ the headline read, that promised an
all-star cast of performers including Tristan Tzara, Francis Picabia, Gertrude
Stein, Filippo Marinetti, Giovanni Papini, Sophie Taeuber-Arp, Emmy Hennings
and Hugo Ball (this last couple being co-founders of the Dadaist Cabaret
Voltaire in Zurich, 1916) plus many other surprise guests. What was most
interesting to me was that the person listed as organizer and Mistress of
Ceremonies was none other than Mina Loy, British-born artist, writer, poet,
playwright, novelist, painter, maker of assemblages, designer of lamps, and
celebrated bohemian beauty. Also, much regarded as the ideal modern woman at
the turn of the twentieth century, labeled a Futurist, Dadaist, Surrealist,
feminist, conceptualist, Modernist, and Postmodernist; having numerous love
affairs, perpetually traveling internationally, and writing controversial
poems, specifically with a bent for subverting traditional tropes and
expectations of love poems throughout her work.
Impressive?
You bet. I likely performed a comic double-take as I took in the news and the
first thought that struck me was (perhaps not too surprisingly) one of total
self-interest: why hadn’t I been contacted to interview her? Before I had a
chance to feel sorry for myself and whine and complain to the powers that be,
the penny dropped, as I realized — but, of course! — this wasn’t the real Mina
Loy back from the dead, no. This was an actor taking part in a theatrical
production, along with other actors portraying other characters from the past.
Not as overwhelming and exciting as I’d first imagined, still, being a fan of
the riotous environs of Dada and its hell-raising Boho crowd, I was intrigued
and curious to know more.
The Arts
& Letters Club was only a couple of blocks away and I was vaguely aware
that the public was allowed to check out the facilities between the hours of four
and seven on a Friday. I decided to pay a visit, and, who knows? I might be
lucky enough to bump into the character of Mina Loy and gather some information
about the production, maybe even offer to write an article that I could send
out over the transom to various publications. It was just past four, so I
shifted into high gear and marched on over.
As I
climbed the stairs I spotted a hand-printed sign taped to the door: Sorry, No
Visitors Today. Rehearsal In Progress. Rats and damn, I thought. Strictly by impulse,
I tried the door and discovered it was unlocked. Swell. I went in and climbed
another flight of stairs where I was met by a uniformed security guard who was
intent on ushering me back from whence I came. I argued that I was from the
press, here to interview Mina Loy. The guard was unimpressed and unmoved,
stating she had no information of that nature and would I be so kind as to
remove myself from the building, whereupon she stepped down a few steps and
placed a strong hand on my shoulder, clearly meant to help me reverse my
direction. Meanwhile, I continued my process of verbal protest and even flashed
a worn press card I had once used to enter a Harbourfront event. Suddenly, a
woman stuck her head out from the cocktail lounge and asked what the commotion
was all about. She bore an excellent resemblance to Mina Loy, though looking
even more strikingly beautiful and radiant than in pictures I’d seen, which
raised another red flag as to her authenticity, I judged. At any rate, I held
my wallet open and shook it in the air. I’m from the press, I announced. Here
for an interview about the show, if you don’t mind. She smiled, waved, and
invited me to join her inside. The press is always welcome, she said. The guard
grunted, reluctantly removed her hand, gave me an unpleasant look, and made her
way back to her post. I said thank you and scampered past.
I’m sitting
at the bar, said the woman, going over my notes. She motioned with a hand. And do
call me Mina. I deplore long, drawn-out introductions. And you are? I told her
and took a stool next to her. Now, what is it I can do for you, she asked? I
dropped my recorder on the bar. She wore a non-descript pale brown linen dress
done up with large red buttons from her waist to her slim neck, around which
hung a single strand of coral beads. A slash of the same coral colour stained
her lips. The dress was loose-fitting, long-sleeved, casual, almost sack-like,
and looked somehow terrific on her, or, I should say, she looked terrific in
it. I’m drinking champagne, she said. Veuve Clicquot. I hope you like it. The
bartender filled two glasses. I was never one for sparkling wine, personally,
but, I had to admit, this was heads above what I’d ever experienced before, and
quite delicious. A votre santé, we
toasted.
Stan
Rogal: Just to be clear… (I inched
my recorder slightly closer to her). I’m talking to Mina Loy, is that
correct? The organizer and Mistress of Ceremonies for tonight’s Dada event at
the Arts & Letters Club.
Mina
Loy:
That’s correct. (She flashed another wide
smile at me and crossed one leg over the other. Her dress hem hung just above
her ankles and she wore a pair of 1920s reddish-brown strap pump shoes. I thought,
was she joking with me, or what? Or was it one of those crazy Stanislavsky theatre
exercises where the actors remain in role the entire day of the performance to
add some extra layer of credibility to their portrayal or whatever? Rather than
possibly interfering with a ritualistic stage process, I decided go along for
the ride and see what I could tease out, if anything).
SR: Your
poster advertises a Dada Extravaganza. Is it a play that you’re putting on?
ML: Not a
play, in the formal sense, no. I mean, there’s no actual script, though there
is an outline as well as a certain order of key performances and presentations.
Having said that, the evening will include several short plays or vignettes
alongside other entertainments and spectacles, and it will often be the case
where some of these elements overlap, or else even occur simultaneously. So,
less a conventional play than a multimedia event, or happening.
SR: I see. Sounds
ambitious and I can’t help but pose the question. That is, there have been —
it’s been well documented, at any rate — certain Dadaists who had a rather perverse
sense of humour, in that they would invite an audience to attend an event at a
particular time and place, only to discover it was a hoax. They were in fact, “the event,” and the Dada members would be safely
squirreled away nearby, having become the audience. Is that likely to happen
here?
ML: Ha-ha,
yes, I remember, and, no, the participants we have tonight are far too eager to
perform again. There’s no fear of a hoax, I can guarantee that.
SR: Without
giving too much away, can you elaborate?
ML: Well… (She opened her notebook and flipped through
pages covered with hand-written text and pencil and ink drawings and doodles of
characters, costumes, pieces of set and props and so on). There’ll be the
usual folk songs, bawdy bordello songs, and savage political numbers, of
course. Emma Hennings’ voice is in fine form. Tristan
Tzara will sing his little ditty, The
Song of a Dadaist. Hugo Ball will be performing his sound poem, Gadji Beri Bimba. At this very moment
he’s helping put together his original costume: legs in cylinders of shiny blue
cardboard that come up to his hips. A cylinder covering his torso. Smaller
cylinders for arms. A huge coat collar cut out of cardboard, scarlet inside and
gold outside. A high, blue and white striped witch doctor’s hat, so that he
resembles an obelisk. (She smiled
playfully, spread her fingers and ran her hands up and down her body to outline
the cardboard torso). The costume makes it impossible for him to walk, of
course, so he needs to be carried out to the stage on a stretcher and stood up.
(She mimed the action). Then, as he
recites: “gadji beri bimba glandridi laula lonni cadori…” these others will
parade around him, playing percussion instruments and chanting. Who knows,
there might even be gunshots at some point. We’re striving for a certain amount
of pandemonium and chaos within the structure. There’ll be assemblages, found
art pieces, photomontages, and collages strewn throughout the theatre thanks to
Sophie Taeuber-Arp, Hannah Höch, Beatrice Wood, and so on.
SR: I
imagine some of these art pieces will be in the audience seating area?
ML: Seating
area? (She tossed back her head, laughed —
she had a wonderful laugh, warm and inviting — placed a hand on her coral beads
and sipped her champagne). What an entirely bourgeois concept. There is no
seating area. The audience is free to roam around the theatre, drink in hand,
to take in whatever attracts them. We have small tables situated on the floor
with poets reciting poems as well as typing poems upon request, magicians
performing card tricks, chess matches, and, naturally the clairvoyants, fortune
tellers, and necromancers who were so integral to bringing the participants
back to life for this event.
SR: Excuse
me?
ML: What? (She continued to toy with her necklace. I
realized that I was well into my second glass of champagne and the bubbles were
going to my head. I sat fascinated, staring at her slim fingers caressing the
coral beads. What did I recall about the colour coral? An activating,
life-affirming colour. Revitalizing, the way the vibrant colour orange is, but
with a softening edge to its pink tones. The result is a feeling of freshness,
liveliness, and a deep sense of optimism and joy. It’s a very positive colour
with strong physical energy and a need for social interaction. Also open to
flighty and irrational behaviour. The pink, of course, representing the erotic
and the colour of the sexual organs, the tip of the penis and the vulva. But
wait! Hold on a moment, here. I realized I was getting way ahead
of myself. Down, wanton, down. I shut my eyes and gave my head a shake to snap
my focus back to the job at hand).
SR: Well, when
you say that these people were integral, what do you mean?
ML: (She leaned her face closer to me and
continued to fiddle with the necklace beads. It was driving me crazy, and I’m
sure she knew it). What do you mean by what do I mean? (She was thoroughly enjoying my obvious bafflement and discomfort due
to her presence and she wasn’t about to make it any easier for me).
SR: Um… (I tried to take a deep breath to gather my
thoughts, but found it impossible, my chest felt so tight). You said. To
bring the participants back to life. The clairvoyants, fortune tellers, and
necromancers. How do you mean?
ML: Oh, I
see! Well, just that. Once the audience is settled, there will be a sort-of mass
séance, and a certain amount of theatrical hocus-pocus, that will be used to
introduce our cast of characters.
SR: Uh-huh.
That’s it?
ML: What more did you expect?
SR: Well,
nothing, I guess. (I drained my glass and
the bartender was quick to provide a refill).
ML:
You’re
very strange for a reporter, do you know that? (She finally released her grip on the beads and I was once again able
to breathe normally). Speaking of strange, Marcel Duchamp will arrive as
his drag queen alter-ego, Rrose Sélavy. He — or she — will be overseeing the
chess matches, naturally.
SR: Naturally.
(I was aware that Marcel Duchamp, besides
being a chess fanatic and famous for his readymade art pieces, was also
well-known for his love of pranks and puns, ‘Rrose Sélavy’ being a homonym for
‘eros, c’est la vie.’ He had also created an art piece by filling a bird cage
with 152 marble sugar cubes, a thermometer and a cuttlefish bone. The title was
‘Why Not Sneeze, Rose Sélavy?’ A sneeze was considered by those in the know to
be a metaphor for orgasm. He added the second ‘r’ to his assumed name later,
for reasons unknown).
ML:
The
Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven will bless us with her company, likely
dressed in one of her wonderful costumes comprised of found materials she’s recovered
from the city streets and alleyways.
SR: Right. (The Baroness, though born in Germany, was
active in the Greenwich Village scene from 1913-1923, and was considered one of
the most controversial and radical women artists of the era. To add a soupçon
of Canadiana here, the Baroness — often referred to as the Mama of Dada ((or,
at least, one of them, as there have been several recognized over the years)) —
had once been married to Prairie novelist and translator Frederick Philip Grove,
under suspicious circumstances. Of course, she also had sexual relations with
numerous others, including Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, Berenice Abbott and Djuna
Barnes. She was a busy gal who hobnobbed with the crème de la crème of the art
world. Never one to shun the outrageous, she’d commented on the all-consuming worship
and love that Americans had for plumbing, and took a 10½ inch high cast iron
plumbing trap, assembled it in a phallic-like manner, turned it upside down,
mounted it on a wooden mitre box, and titled it “God”). As I understand it,
and, as has been said by others, she both critiqued and challenged the
bourgeoisie notions of feminine beauty and economic worth by adorning herself
with utilitarian objects like spoons, tin cans, and curtain rings, as well as any
street debris that she came across.
ML: Yes.
She used her body as a medium to transform herself into a specific type of
spectacle. By doing so, she controlled and established agency over the visual
access to her own nudity, unhinged the presentational expectations of
femininity by appearing androgynous, drew upon ideas of women's selfhood and
sexual politics, and provided emphasis on her anti-consumerism and
anti-aestheticism outlooks. She included her body's smells, perceived
imperfections, and leakages in her body art. Intriguing, yes? (She smacked her coral lips). We’re
fully expecting her to perform her notorious “The Baroness Elsa Shaves Her
Pubic Hair.” It caused quite a scandal at the time.
SR: Given our
more sensitive theatre-goers these days, who demand to be given extensive
disclaimers and trigger warnings before they venture forth, I think it’s safe
to guess her performance may still cause somewhat of a scandal.
ML: Do you
really think so? (She beamed at the
possibility, raised her glass and clinked her rim to mine). To divine
decadence! (We drank and ran our tongues
across our teeth). Oh! Giovanni Papini and Filippo Marinetti will be on
hand to amuse us with something from the Futurist grab-bag. If nothing else,
I’m sure it will be loud. (She
mock-covered her ears and grinned impishly).
SR: Hm. The
three of you were involved in a love triangle, yes? In Italy.
ML:
Yes.
Until I became disillusioned with the whole macho-destructive business and
left. Both them and the Futurist movement.
SR: It was
at that time you wrote your Feminist
Manifesto.
ML: Which
remained unpublished in my lifetime. (She
fluttered a hand in the air). Goes to show.
SR: Uh-huh.
So, tell me. Don’t you find it a bit awkward having Papini and Marinetti
involved with this event? I mean, aren’t you concerned they might still hold
feelings for you?
ML:
Feelings? That’s an understatement. They absolutely lust after me. They trail
around behind me like a couple of stray horny puppies. It would be cute if it
weren’t so pathetic. Anyway, they’re generally harmless and easily distracted.
We’ve set up a miniature train set in one of the rooms where they can amuse
themselves by crashing trains into each other and blowing up bridges.
SR: Ha! (I danced my champagne glass in the air).
Your thirty-four poems, Songs to Joannes,
were written on the subject of your failed relationship with the pair, yes? “We
might have coupled / In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment / Or broken flesh
with one another / At the profane communion table / Where wine is spilled on
promiscuous lips.”
ML:
“We
might have given birth to a butterfly / With the daily news / Printed in blood
on its wings.”
SR: (I thought I might catch her off-guard by
reciting one of her poems, but she was smack dead-on with her response and
never missed a beat). Very good. Excellent.
ML: Well,
in all fairness, I did write the poem.
SR: Yes. You
did. Tell me, will you be reciting any of your poetry tonight?
ML: Not
anything officially scheduled, though, who knows? I might toss in a verse here
or there. What I am doing is a repeat performance of the short one-act poetic
play Lima Beans, by Alfred Kreymborg,
along with William Carlos Williams. We play a husband and wife complete with a
cast of puppets constructed by Sophie Taeuber-Arp. (Just then, a familiar portly figure approached us, grinning and
rubbing her hands eagerly together). Ah, Gertrude, comment ça va? (The two women
shared kisses on the cheeks).
Gertrude
Stein: Je vais très bien,
merci! I’m here to begin arranging my salon for later this evening. I’m
expecting a large crowd. (She turned to
walk away, then spun on her heels toward Mina). Oh, I almost forgot,
Picasso sends his regrets. C’est dommage.
Though the Delaunays can both attend, which is marvellous. If we can manage to
limit the alcohol intake of monsieurs
Ernest Hemingway and Wallace Stevens we might be able to prevent them from
coming to blows, though there’s no guarantee. Then again, what’s a party
without a brief display of testosterone-driven fisticuffs to settle artistic
differences? Well, bonne chance,
Gertrude! (She gave a small wave and
walked to the rear of the lounge).
SR: (At this point I began to notice that my
champagne glass was always full, no matter how much I drank. It was either a skillful
magic trick, or else the bartender moved silent as a ghost topping up the
glasses. I had no idea how much I’d had to drink. I did know I was getting
pleasantly plastered). She called you Gertrude, or…?
ML: My
middle name. She calls me that as a friendly tease, to show that we’re
sympatico, since she likes to tell everyone that I’m one of the few people who
can understand her writing without putting in the commas. (Obviously delighted with this compliment, she made a popping sound
with her lips). BUT…she’s reminded me of something I haven’t mentioned to
you yet.
SR: Which
is? (I grinned dopily at her and rested
my chin on a fist).
ML: As part
of our set design, we’ve constructed a boxing ring on the stage where I will
make my announcements over the microphone and within which several of the
performances will be held, culminating with the grand feature of the night.
Arthur Cravan and Jack Johnson will re-create their historic heavyweight boxing
match.
SR: (Boxing was much in vogue and popular with
the Dadaists, as I recalled, and Arthur Cravan — Swiss born writer, poet,
artist, boxer and nephew of Oscar Wilde — due to his rough vibrant poetry and
provocative anarchistic lectures and public appearances ((often degenerating
into drunken brawls)) earned him the admiration of other young artists and
intellectuals. His proclivity for shock ((during one such “lecture” he
announced that he would commit suicide by drinking a carafe of absinthe in
front of the crowd whilst wearing only a jock-strap “for the benefit of the
ladies,” and delivered his pre-suicide récit with his testicles draped on the
table))
endeared
him to the New York Dadaist movement, who adopted him as their poster boy after
his death by misadventure at the untimely young age of 31. His death ((never
mind his life)) involved a very complex and twisty story that would make a
swell movie, I thought, if it all didn’t sound too far-fetched and implausible,
if anyone took a notion. Arthur and Mina were lovers who married in Mexico City
after she became pregnant with his child. As Cravan was a draft dodger being
pursued by American secret police, the pair sought to escape Mexico City
separately and meet up again in Argentina. He was presumed drowned after
attempting to sail a rickety old boat alone to Puerto Angel, a few days up the
coast. After that, Mina always claimed that Arthur was the one true love in her
life). Then, Arthur Cravan is here? (I was, on some personal level, disappointed at the news, as one might
imagine, and saw myself alongside the likes of Papini and Marinetti, only able
to admire Mina from a distance).
ML: Oh no,
not yet, at the penultimate moment we expect. We hope, at any rate.
SR: He
doesn’t need to rehearse?
ML:
Rehearse? (She widened her eyes and
stared at me in utter astonishment). You must be joking. What need is there
for rehearsal? He is Arthur Cravan, after all, formidable poet and boxer. Six
feet four inches tall, two hundred and thirty pounds of seething energy, muscular
and broad shouldered, more a force of brute nature than a mere mortal.
SR: (Her report was wistful, glowing, if not a
trifle warped by her feelings for the man. According to reliable reports,
Arthur was mostly a fraud and an imposter; a third-rate poet and worse boxer,
who never won a professional bout in his short career. The fight between him
and Jack Johnson in Barcelona had been fixed. Arthur took an agreed dive in the
sixth round, then absconded with the gate money and fled to New York. Ah, well,
as they say, love is blind, and no point in me attempting to confront her with
the facts. Besides, the night’s performance was all theatre and play-acting
anyway, right? And, who knows, maybe it was Jack Johnson’s turn to hit the mat
after a phantom punch to the jaw and Arthur could finally move beyond his usual
exaggerated prowess in the ring and claim victory. As for me, I was defeated
from the start. What start? There was no start? What had she once said about
Arthur and their relationship? Oh, yeah: “Tenderness awakened in him, and
tenderness in a strong man is always a deluge.” That says it all, brother. Step
to the back of the line). You’re looking forward to seeing him, I can tell.
ML: More
than you can imagine.
SR: Well,
it all sounds like it’s going to be a terrific evening’s entertainment. (I finished my champagne and laid my palm
over the glass before the bartender could refill it). I would love to
attend. Where can I purchase a ticket?
ML: (She stretched her mouth and sucked a breath
through her teeth). Oh, sorry, we’re entirely sold out, even overbooked,
with a growing waiting list. Have been since we announced the event.
SR: I don’t
doubt it. Congratulations. I wish you every success. (I secured my recorder, stood — a tad unsteadily, I admit, due to the
amount of champagne I’d consumed, meanwhile, Mina appeared unfazed and
unaffected — extended a hand, and we shook. Best to end it at that, I thought.
In a businesslike manner. As I reminded myself, it’s never a good idea to fall
in love with a ghost. It can only end badly. A phone rang and she withdrew a
cell phone from her dress pocket and tapped the faceplate to read a text. ‘Cell
phone’ I thought. Another piece of evidence showing she’s not who she appears
to be. Or is that ‘whom’? I was definitely rattled. Her head sagged and her
lips formed a silent ‘what?’). What is it? Is anything wrong? (I didn’t dare hope that it had something to
do with Arthur Cravan, and yet…).
ML: It’s a
message from Bill — William Carlos — he can’t make the performance tonight,
he’s come down with something. Not COVID, he tested. Maybe the flu, maybe food
poisoning, but he can’t get out of bed, except for the toilet. How sad.
SR: Yes, it
is. You and he were going to…
ML: Lima Beans. The Alfred Kreymborg play.
SR: Husband
and wife. And puppets. That’s a shame.
ML: It is a
shame. I was looking very much forward to it. (She slit her eyes, pursed her lips, and clutched her coral beads with
her fingertips. OMG, I thought, not again). Can I ask you? (We locked eyes). Have you ever acted on
stage?
SR: In
university, the odd time, nothing too serious. (I blurted the lie, and hoped she couldn’t read the truth in my eyes,
which her gaze was boring into).
ML: You
could fill in. It’s a short play. I can walk you through it. You can be on
book. Won’t matter. There’ll be so much going on anyhow. What do you say? It
would mean so much to me. And the others, it goes without saying. (She continued fondling the coral beads with
one hand while pressing the other against her chest).
SR: Yes. Of
course. I’d be delighted and honoured and... Anyway, I’m a quick study. I might
surprise you.
ML: You
might, might you? (She laughed).
Well. You’re quite the rascal, aren’t you? How charming. Wonderful. Follow me.
We’ll have you fitted for a costume.
I stuck my recorder in my coat
pocket as she led me to the theatre entrance. She asked if I was prepared to be
amazed. I said yes. She gripped the door handle, looked at me, smiled, bent at
the waist, kissed me softly on the mouth. “We have flowed out of ourselves,”
she said, “Beginning on the outside / That shrivvable skin / Where you leave
off // Of infinite elastic / Walking the
ceiling / Our eyelashes polish stars.” It was her poem titled The Dead. My head was spinning. I didn’t
know if it was the champagne or the kiss. Those coral lips. She pushed the door
open and dragged me inside. The lights were up full and dazzling and art works
and faces I had only recognized and admired through books and gallery visits suddenly
took on life. And I was to be a part of it. I was to become William Carlos
Williams sharing spit on stage with the fabulous Mina Loy. Amazed? Oh, yeah. I
didn’t know what more to expect. I didn’t care. Mina led the way and I
followed.
It was
all I could do.
Stan Rogal
lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs. His
work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The
author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection was published in March 2025 with ecw press. Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and
former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
