REVIEWING MY COLLECTION:Alone!Alone! Lives of Some Outsider Women by Rosemary Dinnage

I was, by the account of every family member senior to myself, a cypher straight from the moment I gasped my first lusty breath.I was certainly a maddening, stubborn and temperamental child bent on having her own way at all costs, including the flat-out refusal to sleep, the latter with which I plagued my family from earliest infancy. I was also preternaturally shy and prematurely bookish, with my reading life commencing at age three. I was, most fortunately, blessed with a mother who encouraged me to be true to my quirky nature. Thus, while I grew up at odds with boring normalcy, I rarely worried about fitting in and was entirely impervious to peer pressure.The path of genuine, unencumbered eccentricity is still a hard one to trek but it is vastly easier to accomplish today than at any previous time.

'Alone! Alone! Lives of Some Outsider Women' focuses on the life journeys of more than 2 dozen individuals, many of them creatives or intellectuals in their own right or, in some cases, appendages or muses of well-known men. Rosemary Dinnage approaches her subjects with temperate illumination, understanding and breadth. She does not overstate things that she cannot know undeniably but presents her hypotheses with grace, thoughtfulness and skillful scholarship.

The women profiled came to inhabit their outsider status through paths varied and predictable; nor can their marginalization and relative isolation be perfectly, neatly pinpointed. With so many personalities,backgrounds and quirks under the magnifying glass of our attention, it is natural to gravitate towards certain of the women while remaining aloof from others.I have always had an affinity for Katherine Mansfield and an aversion born of bafflement for Simone Weil.Both writers were prickly, brilliant, erratic and self-important yet I feel a kindred spark to Mansfield's brand of egoism and sheer annoyance with Weil's inept self-sacrifice, which is full of its own brand of vanity.Although this book did nothing to change that bottom line, it did carve new nuances into my long-held prejudices, which is hard to accomplish.

She gives equal attention to the famous and the obscure, and to those who fall into the netherworld between those parameters.Painter and free-spirit Gwen John and diarist Alice James step,briefly yet unforgettably, out of the shadows of their famous brothers.Dinnage also profiles entire categories of women--including prostitutes and witches--which gives the book a wider imprimatur than it would have if it was limited to a collection of postage-stamp biographies. It becomes, in an informal way, a sort of sociological treatise on rebel women and their place, or lack of it, in society.

PHOTOS, TOP TO BOTTOM: ALICE JAMES,KATHERINE MANSFIELD

A Small Press Life:Sorta Outside Rebel Leaders

"Yeah, I get this idea of us being a pair of sorta outside 'rebel leaders' of a group of neo-Lost Generation types who reap heaps of cash for the quality stuff they do, unaffected by some talent-free corporate big wig who would ruin everything."

The above quote, while a bit off-the-cuff, and less tongue-in-cheek than you might expect, captures the spirit and driving force of "A Small Press Life" with humorous perfection. It was said--typed, rather--by my excellent friend and collaborator, Kevin, during a convo on Facebook this past weekend. He lives in Korea; I do not. The Internet is the conduit that keeps our mutual creativity flowing uninterrupted.
While we may practice that creativity in private, as all artists ultimately must, it is through a sense of connectedness and community that we find inspiration, hope and the ability to continue moving down such a difficult path. A support system is a necessity to the well-being of any artisan: it lessens the isolation in-born of such consuming intellectual yet hands-on endeavors.
For some, that serves; it is enough. For others, it is a jumping off point to different ambitions. Such is my case, and Kevin's. The quote is not the result of an unbridled, flagrant ego: it is born of a positive, open desire to spread talent far and wide, ours and that of countless others.
I have jokingly referred to us as like a poor man's Elaine May and Mike Nichols. This is probably unfair to us as individuals and artists, as we are distinctly ourselves. Perhaps, as outsiders, we are more akin to Robert McAlmon and Kay Boyle. Everything that we do, separately or together,is small-scale, though well-regarded: and, in following the muse, we try to include others in the ride.
McAlmon and Boyle, to be sure, never collaborated as such, and neither do Kevin and I. They published their goods--poems, stories, articles, criticisms--in the same places. She edited periodicals, so did he: they ultimately printed each other's work many times over the years. They were friends, insightful to each other's singular talent and life. Their career-boosting and warm regard were mutual. The lives of both were a long saga of creating, inspiring, and trying their damnedest to spread the work of fellow wordsmiths to as many people, in as many corners of the world, as possible.
While Kevin and I are unlikely to re-create a Lost Generation type environment--at the very least we would need Paris and London for that--there is a true spirit behind our intentions and what we do. Our refusal to give in to big media, and remain craftily independent, while encouraging others to do the same and enjoy the ride with us, makes at least part of his quote ring true. Every day that artisans embrace their uniqueness, and set to work doing only what they can do, without ceding to others' requirements, they are holding true to Lost Generation ideals. Rebel leaders? We all are!

It's a Small (Press) Life For Me

A surprising majority of the finest writers of the early Twentieth-Century found their only ready audience in the small bands of readers, usually subscribers, of the "little magazines". These were often kitchen-table affairs, funded on non-existent budgets and the hard-wrought words of dedicated and often neglected artists. The rostrum of publishers, editors,columnists and contributors to these independent periodicals offers an amazing roll-call of the innovatory, diverse and brilliant talent so associated with the writers of that era. To list them all here, while impressive,would be ridiculously space-consuming. I will make do with a representative few: James Joyce,Ford Madox Ford, Kay Boyle,Gertrude Stein, H.D.,Marianne Moore,T.S. Eliot,Ernest Hemingway, Ernest Walsh,Mina Loy, Ezra Pound,Wallace Stevens, Edith Sitwell,Robert McAlmon, D.H. Lawrence,Glenway Wescott and Djuna Barnes.

As with countless wordsmiths before and since,many writers and poets of the '20's had to make do financially,often only scraping by,working day-jobs or accepting hand-outs. T.S. Eliot famously worked for a banking house in London while Kay Boyle was the shop girl for the Parisian retail establishment of Raymond Duncan, Isadora's half-charlatan brother.Across the Atlantic, Marianne Moore was a librarian in New York City and William Carlos Williams a small-town (i.e. poorly paid) doctor.

Eighty or ninety years ago, these small, passionately produced magazines weren't just a romantic, idealistic alternative to the big glossies. For many, publishing works in the always-revolving coterie of arty mags was the only way to get published at all. There were a few "big name" affairs to be found in New York City, Paris and London.They tended to be traditional, stuffy things, exclusive in their outlook and hard to break into.

Groups of artists, sometimes with the help of a moneyed backer or two, more often relying on their own spare change or donations, formed reviews and journals as a method of disseminating their work.They wore many hats while touting the work of themselves, friends and often complete strangers.In their limited way, they served a function similar to that of the Impressionists when they broke free the Academy and its esteemed show, the Salon de Paris,to exhibit without restraint as the Societie Anonyme Cooperative des Artistes Peintres, Sculpteurs, Graveurs. Both came about through a combination of forced circumstances and exceptional avocation.Neither was a cohesive movement at the time;labels came later.

Their writing careers were usually aided with the occasional book deal, often with equally independent publishing set-ups, such as: The Hogarth Press ( created by Leonard and Virginia Woolf), Contact Editions (Robert McAlmon) and the Black Sun Press (Harry and Caresse Crosby).

Literature, no less than any other art form,is a tough world in which to find one's way,or to even stay afloat.For every true star-by which I mean any one widely known outside of company circles--there are hordes of aspiring or working writers piled leagues deep.The difference between an aspiring writer and a working one can be as simple as taking matters into your own hands, i.e. the willingness to act as publisher,editor,agent and anything else that may be required.That is exactly what the aforementioned poets, novelists and essayists did.Many of us , even in a world of vaster choice, continue to do the same.

Today,there are countless outlets and, with a bigger population,more readers to be engaged. The Internet alone has drastically changed how, and who,any one writer can reach. Yet, limiting ourselves to paper editions alone,we still find our selection to be much superior,at least in number,to what Boyle or Eliot had to pick from a mere 80 years ago.Even the big glossies are more numerous in our time.A career can, if one is willing to tow the line of writing to order, in subject and style,be found in penning product for the fancy, still well-read magazines.

For certain of us, myself included,that could never be an option.I am an avid,unashamed reader of a plethora of magazines that I would never write for.I may be a Cosmo girl but I am not a Cosmo writer.The world has enough of those:I would rather lend it my small, eccentric voice than change it to suit others, however gargantuan that audience may be.

Don't misunderstand:I wish to have readers for my writing. If I didn't, I would not be on here nor would I work with the wonderful independent presses that publish my work elsewhere.I would, doubtless, write on the sly,hiding my work in a sewing basket whenever a family member entered the room. No, wait. That is another Austen, Jane.

I simply wish to maintain a level of control over my work that I would be forced to cede if working for glossies.While I am happy and eager to have others edit and critique my writing, I would become demented and austere if unable to be the full mistress of my subject matter; it is mine, not a foreign thing to be dictated and directed by others.

There is a satisfying synchronization to what I do that I believe would diminish if the end-result of my art was writ large rather than small.Every encouraging comment, erudite opinion and insightful appreciation that I have ever gotten has been genuinely received.

My refusal to go mainstream with my artistic and intellectual goods is not born of ego.It is the result of a conscious choice to be sovereign, to be outside yet to be connected to a lasting movement, of creators creating what they choose and helping each other in the endeavor.

"A Small Press Life" will be a regular column on 1000 Follies, appearing at my whim and discretion, naturally!

Photos, Top Row :Mina Loy, Ford Madox Ford.

Middle Row: Djuna Barnes

Bottom Row: James Joyce.

Zelda :The Other Fitzgerald

"My few friends admire or love me not for what I've accomplished, but for what they think I might have done. And ultimately a work of art that does not exist is the most beautiful work of all--it's a rich blend of nostalgia, stoicism, and futility."-Colin McPhee

There are a thousand, a million, uncountable Zelda Fitzgeralds. Every time that her husband F. Scott hijacked her look, her words, her mannerisms, her sentiments--sometimes dipping into the sacred vessel of her diary--part of her was spun off, and a new incarnation was born. The famous flapper grows a new persona every time we, the public, thrusts a projection onto her. She is a member, however unwilling, of that most elite of groups: the perennial star.

She manages a most difficult feat, that of being spectacularly of her time and yet engagingly modern. However watered-down and cliched our repetitive analysis has made her personality, she is not a cardboard creation like so many of her contemporaries. This may very well be due to F. Scott's pilfering of her most private being. What we can trace back to him, we know to be a genuine, though skewed,portrait of his wife's vulnerable elan vital

Over the years, several writers and historians have made a case for or against Zelda Fitzgerald, the artist. This war is not confined to the merit or potency of her work. Rather, it begins--and for some, ends--with whether or not she may be called artist in the first place.

Art is, as life is: entirely subjective. It is not necessary to agree with, like, or even understand a painting, a meal, or a pair of shoes for it to exist as such, exactly as it was intended: as a painting, meal or pair of shoes. Stealing someone's right to call themselves an artist simply because you do not like what they create or, worse, because you do not think that they, because of who they are, even have the right to make the attempt, is elitist bullying. That is a treatment that Zelda Fitzgerald has received from many people who should know better.

Many couples have created art, if not exactly side-by-side, while engaged in intimate relationships. In all of the examples one could put forth, there is not one instance of them achieving, or maintaining, equal stature. One is bound to soar higher than the other.

Going into their relationship, F. Scott was the creator, Zelda the carefree debutante. A ballerina in her youth, by the time she met her future husband she had ceased her studies; her dancing was limited to social occasions. After their marriage, when literary acclaim was already his to hold, she was asked, doubtless tongue-in-cheek, to review his latest book. It was her first published piece, revealing a fluid vocabulary and a style distinct from her husband's.

The bulk of her writing career consisted of magazine articles. Her only finished novel, "Save me the Waltz", was published in 1932, when she was living in a sanatorium. As autobiographical as anything written by F. Scott, "Save me the Waltz" is laden with lovely, masterful language and the voice is certainly her own.

Her artistic aspirations were not limited to words. She was widely ridiculed for a last-ditch attempt at a ballet career, begun at 27, an age far from realistic for any chance of success. She had talent, and there were those who believed in her, but her timing was sadly amiss.

The pursuit to which she devoted the most time, over the greatest number of years,and with the largest output, was painting. She painted during the long years spent in the sanatorium, until her death in 1948, as a result of a fire.

Zelda Fitzgerald the woman, in life and death, is doomed to an impossible comparison. She is held to the mirror of both her fictional counterparts and the mythos built up around her real-life exploits. Zelda Fitzgerald the artist is doomed to an even more futile, fruitless comparison, to her husband. A war of creativity waged between them when they were married; they both were losers, as individuals, artists and partners.

The slivers of artistic vision which she was able to develop reveal a gift of singular sensibility, her raw ability yielding under a surprisingly effective command. Zelda Fitzgerald is best known as an ultimate liver of life, a rare talent at which she excelled with panache, humor and fortitude. She was also a creator, of things beautiful, witty, complex and sensual. How much was left unrealized, we will never know: that answer died with her.

The greatest work of art that it is in our limited power to create is that which we fashion, edit and salvage from the raw material of our lives. Zelda Fitzgerald, in potential and adversity, made much of what she was given, as a human being and as an artist.

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald

Zelda - by amisslis on Polyvore.com