Later in the week on Friday 8th - I went with Carol to
see the showing of Julian Schnabel's new film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007.) As you know Schnabel was
a massive hero of mine – I knew almost all his paintings - I had seen his two
excellent previous films (Basquait (1996)
which was about the painter Jean-Michel Basquiat and Before Night Falls (2000) which was about the Cuban poet Reinaldo
Arenas) and I had read literally hundreds of reviews on his exhibitions. So
when I heard he would be giving a Q&A after the film I had to be there. The
night before the film I was in the pits of despair. I wondered if I would have
the courage to ask him anything. I wondered what I could say. I wondered what
he might make of my work if I showed him it. Then I recalled what I had written
of him – the praise and the critique. I knew he’d like the former and hate the
latter. Which only served to depress me even more. So by the time I got to the
Irish Film Centre - I was in a full-blown self-loathing and self-important
panic. Fortunately the film was wonderful and a salutary lesson on how we
should always remember there are many people in the world far worse off than
ourselves – not that that old simplistic truism ever seems to help anyone
except those that like to lecture.
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, a
French language film – was based on the book by the same name - by
Jean-Dominique Bauby (often called Jean-Do by his friends in the film.) Bauby
was the elegant jet-setting editor of the French Elle fashion magazine in Paris
in the 1990s. He was married with two children (in the film there are three
because Schnabel said two children seemed too lonely and the little girl was
too cute not to put in the movie) and lived a carefree life of parties and
mistresses.
Then suddenly at the age
of forty-three, he had a massive stroke - which left him paralyzed from head to
toe. The film started at the point when Bauby woke up from a coma - and
discovered he could not move or speak or even swallow. We saw what he saw
through his eyes. He was told he had ‘Locked-In-Syndrome’. To add insult to
injury his right eye - had to be sown up for fear it might become infected -
leaving only his left eye open and able to blink. So most of the film was scene
from Bauby’s point of view – literally – when he blinked the camera blinked -
and we spent the film looking up at people who loom in and out of view. The
effect was terrifying but never melodramatic. This of course could have been a
nightmare of a film to watch. But Bauby’s humour never left him and he fell
back on his memories and imagination to pass the long ‘locked-in’ hours.
Bauby’s
beautiful therapist taught him to how to communicate with the world by
blinking. But he was as interested in looking at the lovely therapist as
communicating messages to the world. She
recited the alphabet and he blinked when she arrived at the letter he was
thinking of and she wrote it down. So throughout the film the French alphabet
was recited - and it took on a tragic, lyrical and bittersweet quality.
Placed in this unimaginable prison
of the body he called the Diving Bell – Bauby’s decided to write a book on his
life – if only to give himself a task to concentrate on and distract him from
the sorrow, boredom and fear of his condition. Thus the film weaved in and out
of memory, fantasy and reality as Dauby - was condemned to see it. We learnt
about his old beloved father, his put-upon wife, his mistress and his precious
children – none of whom he could hold or touch.
Unlike Schnabel’s previous films – The Diving Bell and The Butterfly never
descended into mawkish sentimentality. Bauby became a kind of everyman in this
film – dealing with the terror of illness, death and nothingness that we will
all face in the end. This was not your usual vomit-inducing Hallmark Channel story of disability –
for one thing there was no miracle cure - and Bauby died ten days after his
book was published. However it was still a film of hope – that we are all part
of something larger – that there is some meaning to our personal trials. It was
notable that later in the talk Schnabel said that he thought art could never be
pessimistic even when it dealt with the darkest themes - because creativity was
always somewhat optimistic. As with
Schnabel’s previous films - I was struck by the visual beauty and quirkiness of
his storytelling in both imagery and dialog – though I was a bit annoyed to see
him yet again stick his own paintings and sculptures and photographs of his
children in all over the place for no apparent reason.
Afterwards
Schnabel came into the auditorium and gave a brief Q&A with John Kelly from
The View arts programme on RTÉ 1.
Julian had a big black winter coat on covering up his caramel coloured jacket
under which he was wearing pyjamas - in a deep, rich, shade of purple he often
uses in his canvases. His hair was longish and wild and his beard thick. He had
a pair of yellow tinted black glasses on - and a green scarf wrapped around his
neck. Someone asked him why he wore
pyjamas he said something about it being like a suit and yet more comfortable.
I thought he did it to be different. Everyone needs a gimmick.
Then some
batty woman asked him what he was going to do about the plight of all the old
people in care homes in a similar state! What more was he supposed to do? He
had just spent two years making this film to give shape to this kind of human
tragedy and not in the usual glib: “I do a lot of work of charity” - kind of
bullshit way. But Schnabel deflected the question very diplomatically and said
his next film would be about the lives of Palestinian women.
In fact, the Julian
Schnabel I saw was not the brash arrogant Yuppie I had seen and read in interviews
in from the 1980s. Perhaps the critical lashing of his reputation as a painter
non-stop for over twenty years - and the death of his mother and father
recently had lead him to a far more human understanding of himself and his life
– maybe he just grew up. Though, I had to smile a little when I heard him give
out about his daughter Stella who is a poet and actress. She was having a strop
and Schnabel cut her up: “Stop feeling entitled to everything! The world
doesn’t owe you a living! I still love you! Call me when you change your
attitude!” Or something to that affect. He was basically attacking an
egotistical flaw in her character he had been castigated for possessing - by
art critics like Robert Hughes, Donald Kuspit and Brian Sewell in the 1980s.
However I thought Schnabel must have been a great father to have – he spoke
with real tenderness of his five children and gave special attention to a young
boy called Noah in the audience. I wondered what my life would have been like
if my father had lived.
Near
the very end, I tried to ask a question by timidly raising my hand. But
thankfully I was not picked. When the talk was finished – I lunged up to
Schnabel in a panic. “Julian! Julian can you sign my copy of CVJ?” (CVJ was Schnabel’s autobiography of 1987 - which I had bought in
1992 and cherished ever since.) “Yeah sure!” He replied cautiously. “I’m sorry
it’s a bit battered!” I apologized. “Don’t worry that means you read it!” He
replied. I could hardly bring myself to look him in the eye – I was so
terrified. “I fucking love your work! You’re a Hero of mine!” I proclaimed –
but still unable to look at him full on. “Gosh thanks.” He replied rather
bemused. “I have a new signature I am using.” He said “Oh right cool!” I
replied. “Eh I don’t have a pen, have you a pen?” He asked. “Yes! Yes!” I
replied - handing him a thick black permanent marker. “What’s your name?” “Eh,
Cy… Cypher.” I stammered. “Cypher with an i or a y?” “Eh a y.” I replied almost
trembling. He signed on the front cover of CVJ:
‘To Cypher From Baby Pint 08’. “Thank you so much!” I replied. I had brought
two of my catalogues in to maybe show or give him - but I quickly decided not
to. I did not want to spoil the moment. I didn’t want the rejection – not from
him. I fled.
Some girl asked
him something and he said: “Ask Cypher! You two should exchange numbers!” But
my head was swimming and all I wanted to do was run away. But then the line to
get out of the cinema was so long that I was stuck in the line near him! He was
talking to the little boy Noah and saying he would try to get him a poster and
sign it. “I don’t usually like posters, I want people to but my paintings!” He
told the boy. “You know this is my first time in Dublin I like it!” He said to
someone else. Later outside I saw him with friends as I came back from the
toilets - but I could not even look at him. My girlfriend took some great
photographs of him signing my book.
That
night I was plunged again into utter despair thinking of everything Schnabel
had achieved compared to me. I thought about how; so many of my paintings -
were nothing but brazen rip-offs of his various styles – except without his
scale, originality or ambition. Then I thought about how utterly selfish and
self-obsessed I was - and how little I contributed to society and the lives of
other people. Then I thought about the disease of fame and my own sickness. But
the following day I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. There were few
other people in the world I would care to meet and that at least for the sake
of my nerves was a good thing.