Business and the Arts: Some Progress to Be Reported
As announced elsewhere in this issue (see pages 188 and 189), nominations are again in order for the fourth annual “Business in the Arts” Awards. These are again, as they were last year, cosponsored by this magazine with the Business Committee for the Arts, that “quiet conspiracy” of a hundred corporate leaders across the country, to increase business participation in the arts on a massive scale.
Although I have read John Steinbeck’s entire literary output and most of that which has been written about him, it somehow never occurred to me that he was an idiot. Two things bother me about the article, however. First, I was disappointed that in the name of scholarship author Frazier did not break the promise he made to Steinbeck on his deathbed:
Just about a year ago, this column had the honor of introducing Esquire’s new co-Art Directors, Jean-Paul Goude and Jean Lagarrigue, and a new Associate Art Director, Robert “Cool Hand” Daniels. This month we are happy to announce Messieurs Goude and Lagarrigue’s change of status to Art Consultants.
Both William F. Buckley Jr. and Gore Vidal have contributed to this magazine over the past eight years. Differences existing between the two were no concern of Esquire’s until Buckley proposed the article he subsequently published in our August issue, at which point Vidal was contacted and invited to respond, turning the argument into a family affair.
Verdi’s setting of Arrigo Boito’s libretto to Othello is the most continuously successful marriage of literary and musical sensibility in the history of opera. Bernard Shaw once pointed out that in this marriage Shakespeare was the more complaisant partner — that the three main characters of the play are “monsters” and the plot hinge of the handkerchief is a device similar to the stuff on which librettists traditionally feed.
Tea at four, drinks at half-past six, dinner one hour later, bed at ten, seven poems a year
<p>The table had been laid the night before. Now Chester has pushed his place aside; surrounded by scraps of paper and dictionaries, he toys with Sunday’s crossword puzzles. He wears pajamas and a dressing gown. A gross, ungainly man, with dull and knobby eyes, he has the look of one become too old to play the naughty cherub anymore.</p>
Sunday brunch has become so popular in restaurants all over the country that even Emily Post’s Etiquette, in espousing it in the 1969 edition (the 1950 edition called it “improper taste”), had no diminishing effect on the many thousands of people who make it a weekly event.
One of the main themes in the last volumes of Proust’s great novel is the impact on French society of the Dreyfus case. The question of the guilt or innocence of a minor Jewish staff officer tore political and social France in two. In fiction, it divided the Duc de Guermantes from his cousin the Prince de Guermantes.
It happens that Anthony Quinn invades my imagination oftener than almost any other star—not because I’ve so admired his performances, but because he has come to embody (for me and, I daresay, millions) a certain approach to life, idea about life.
Svetlana Alliluyeva’s second book since she turned her back on the U.S.S.R. and settled in America (Only One Year, Harper & Row, $7.95) is, in a vast and diverse literature, incomparably the best account so far available of Stalin, her father, and of the Soviet regime and how it works; not to mention of herself—a woman of uncommon interests and gifts.
On page 103, the photo of Nixon is courtesy U.P.I.; page 104: Russell and Chinese soldiers, U.P.I.; hair outfit, The New York Times; Shirley Temple, Culver Pix; page 105: Melvin Laird and Jackie Kennedy, U.P.I.; cuff links, Dino Drops Inc.; page 106:
Alexandre Dumas (père) Invites You to the Feast of Noël
Red wine with the fish? Apple jelly before the roast fowl? Naturellement, vous ne le saviez pas?
Roy Andries de Groot
The author of The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo was the most romantic adventurer, the most undisciplined acolyte of Bohemianism, and the most controversial gourmet of his time. During the early and middle decades of the nineteenth century, Alexandre Dumas grew vastly rich by writing novels and spent nearly every franc organizing lavish pleasures — open house every day in his apartment in Paris or his Château de Monte-Cristo in the country, dinner parties for five hundred guests.
The dawn of each new decade of this century has carried its own generation of travel forecasters, and some of them have been spectacularly wrong. In 1910 the Scientific American said, “To affirm that the airplane is going to revolutionize the future is to be guilty of the wildest exaggeration.”
Full fathom five the oldest archaeological site in the western hemisphere lies. It was not always so
Martin P. Works
When the federal government drowned Marmes Man—or when they piddled on him, if you want to look at it that way—a lot of people were upset. The archaeologists who had found him were upset. One of the greatest archaeologic discoveries of the past two or three decades had been snatched from their grasp, and for no reason.
What's a good briefing without a hospitality suite?
As far as sales conventions go, the one at the Sheraton-Park Hotel in Washington, D.C. last September appeared to be a humdinger. Pretty, mini-skirted hostesses greeted buyers with hugs and kisses. Showrooms were packed with ingenious displays of next season’s line.
In which the Messrs. Steve Allen, Dalton Trumbo and Arthur Schlesinger Jr. debate the true meaning of liberalism
Arthur Schlesinger Jr.
<p>Mrs. Beata Inaya February 26, 1969 Los Angeles, California Dear Mrs. Inaya : Thank you for your letter of February 25th which I am answering five minutes after reading. I’m sorry to report that I’m already committed for the evening of Friday, March 14th and will therefore not be able to have the pleasure of attending the party that evening in honor of Mr. Bradley.</p>
And a prayer for the Sixties: Please bless the Prez we’s Got now. Mistah Mill-house Nix. He ain’t much, Lawd. But he’s all we’s got!
An impressive new playwright of the theatre is Charles Gordone, “part Indian, part French, part Irish, part nigger.” His new play, No Place To Be Somebody, adds immeasurably to the literature of self-identification for the American Negro, as does the following exchange between Gordone and himself, an informal rap on the possibilities of a race war.
That's Jack Ryan at left, on one of his 140 telephones. Come on over and have some corn on the cob
The smell of fresh, undiluted money, masked with the aroma of tropical plant life: Bel-Air, California. The Jack Ryan estate, second-oldest of the stately homes of Bel-Air, stands behind a high Greek Revival Moorish archway off the leafy, residential portion of Sunset Boulevard.
Under the white leather, a body broken many times not so much for you as for the hell of it
<p>I have a friend who believes that by spreading his arms and balancing carefully he can bring the most difficult aircraft safely to earth. I lack his skill—only with misgiving find myself strapped again in the silver cigar-gut, the prole ward of a Boeing 707.</p>
Last month when we brought you all the bright new gadgets for the Seventies, you sat bemused, doing nothing as usual. And now la veille de Noël is upon you and you’ve nothing to show. Take our advice: think costly and think small; the bargain hunters have gone before you and there is no time now to await deliveries.
Ronnie hooked his hands around the top bar of the grid in the barred door of the cell. Hanging there, stripped to his shorts against the summer heat of the cell, he watched the changing colors and cloud forms of the riotous Florida sunset.
<p>After nine years of getting hoarser and hoarser in the wilderness, we were just about to call this whole thing off when we discovered that one, just one of you, is beginning to get his priorities in order. A highly credible source reports that Neil Armstrong (the first man on the moon, remember?) read our July, 1969, article on the immortal words of great discoverers and, according to an associate, “must have worried about it all the way to the moon,” where he took the trouble to construct a few suitable opening remarks.</p>
A few words in its defense by a writer who has been there, together with a portfolio of richly interpretative paintings by an artist who has not
Everyone hates Palm Beach, and that is a great pity. Miami hates Palm Beach, Hobe Sound hates Palm Beach, Charlotte Curtis of The New York Times hates Palm Beach, raking the poor old place over the coals with furious gusto. Even West Palm Beach hates Palm Beach, which is getting awfully close to home.
What more could a man ask of life on earth than a name, rank, and serial number?
A lean and red-cheeked seventeen-year-old soldier stood with one elbow on a plywood counter in an Army personnel building. The building was wooden and painted a dull yellow, a single-story building somewhere in the maze of two-story barracks buildings of the Basic Training Center at Fort Belvoir, Virginia—home of the Army Engineers.
BEING A CYBERNETICIST, I WIELD A REMARKABLE AMOUNT OF POWER. I SAY THIS NOT OUT OF ANY CONCEIT OF MY OWN, BUT MERELY AS, WHAT I TAKE IT TO BE, A TRUISM. THE FRENCH WORD CYBERNÉTIQUE MEANS "ART OF GOVERNMENT,"1 AND TO DIG BACK TO THE GREEK SOURCE, KYBERNAN IS "TO STEER, OR G OVERN.”
The really remarkable thing about resort wear this holiday season will be its range and diversity. In no season within memory have stylings touched so many different bases. And this is all to the good, for no other kind of clothing should offer so many options, so much opportunity for personal preferences.
There is really no great sense to encasing the torso in a tank suit. For one thing, it shields from the sun (which is not precisely the purpose of going to the beach), and, for another, it constricts the swimmer. But herein is posed a question, to wit, “Since when has fashion felt obligated to be functional?” So, in 1970, there will be, in bathing wear, a certain concern with the look.
“Cool-looking” is the compound adjective for Mexican cotton, a fact that has inspired Xavier de la Torres, the Puerta Vallerta designer, to create the ensembles below, all of them appropriate for indoors and outdoors on warmish evenings.
The only thing that the clothes on these eight pages have in common is their coolness. The styles vary greatly, but the coolness is consistent. This is the miracle of materials—the feasibility of adapting the Norfolk jacket to the stifling days of the resort season, the easy access of what up until now have been winter stylings into the world of hot-weather wear.
This is the memoir of an addict. While bad stuff is flying in Vietnam, Chicago, our universities—and where not?—it matters to me whether a team of strangers wins or loses a game. Which is madness. I like to think of myself, in the privacy of self-concern, as a serious man.