Second Workshop #6

Though we always begin the workshop promptly at 6:30, it is sometimes difficult to start our discussion amidst such a bounty of good food and drink. On this evening, workshop members filled their plates with my father’s old camp-cooking specialty, “bangers ‘n’ mash quiche lorraine,” a pan-European mongrel that is simply mashed potatoes with swiss cheese, onion soup mix, and smoky links (the links had been cooked in whiskey and maple syrup). Melia Donovan’s fresh green salad and superb brownies rounded out the meal. Scott Wayne Indiana brought Old Crow whiskey. I tried hurrying us into the discussion by handing out a proposal from workshop-member Stephanie Snyder.

Stephanie proposed that we try speaking in public where we are not invited. She reminded us of the old Wobbly actions, where one or more Wobblies would speak up in a bank lobby or a store, a restaurant or the public sidewalk, to tell the truth about what they knew, in public. Abi Spring suggested that we should do so in a place or manner that would connect disparate communities (so, for example, not in a gallery on First Thursday, nor in Pioneer Court House Square, but in a place where many, varied elements of the public gather). There was general agreement that we hoped to speak without being immediately dismissed as either crazy or as artists (both designations being handy ways that uninvited public speech is neutered and then ignored by those who hear it). Erik Palmer said he hoped we would not be annoying, which led us to reflect on the thoroughness with which any act of uninvited or unauthorized speech is erased by the narrow categories into which speakers are immediately placed (crazy, annoying, or artist).

Sergio Pastor suggested that the MAX train was a place where one might plausibly speak without being dismissed immediately, and we resolved to gather and plan an action at which we will all speak uninvited in public, together.

We turned to Gertrude Stein, the American writer whose approach to publication exemplifies the savvy use of material media (in her case, the printed book) to extend a very idiosyncratic body of work to reach readers and communities throughout the world. The enduring presence of Stein’s work, not only in American literary culture, but globally, is an astonishing triumph of material media. How did such a peculiar and private writing practice become an integral part of so many divergent communities and conversations?

We discovered that Stein was catholic in her approach to publishing. She never flinched at small runs or obscure publishers; she was interested in any offer and focused only on two things—the quality of the physical book (good printing, good binding, long life) and the qualities of the publisher. If Stein did not like some one (or, more importantly, if her lover Alice Toklas did not) there would be no work together. Sergio Pastor observed that Stein seemed to trust the object, a well-made book, to do the work in the world. So long as the book went out as Stein had intended it, the rest would be taken care of by the object’s movement through the world.

Stein’s forty or so years as a published writer were peppered with fascinating, often hilarious relationships and missteps with the unusual men (they were almost all men) who tried to publish or represent her work. An editor at a vanity press, Grafton Press, hired by Stein simply to print her book Three Lives, traveled to Paris to meet the author and offer extensive corrections to "some pretty bad slips in grammar.” His help was not appreciated. A cheap printer in Paris produced a copy of Lucy Church Amiably that was a great disappointment, riddled with typos and poorly bound. Upset by the results, Stein and Toklas bit the bullet and decided to hire Darentiére, the Lyon-based printer whose higher fees had discouraged them, for the next book, How to Write. Darantiére was a craftsman whom Sylvia Beach (proprietor of the bookshop and imprint Shakespeare & Co.) used to print Ulysses. Darantiére was not amenable to advice from the two ladies and he, too, produced a disappointing edition that convinced Stein the French were no good at printing.

Much of Stein’s work was self-published under the imprint Plain Editions, which Alice managed (as she did everything in their lives). Stein paid for Plain Editions by selling a Picasso painting through her friend Carl Van Vechten, in New York. (The painting was "Girl Sitting On a Horse;" she sold it for $12,000.) She was not rich and never had been; Stein grew up in a middle-class Jewish family in Oakland and San Francisco, orphaned at age 14, raised by her older brother Michael. But her acuity as a collector left her with some valuable capital that she occasionally “liquidated” to support her art.

Stein wanted a broad audience and worked hard to put her work in front of editors who could bring her one. The success of her 1933 “memoir,” The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, let her have her pick of the larger, more respected houses in the US and Britain, but Stein would not accede to their general request for “more of your open and public books.” She insisted that they publish her masterwork, The Making of Americans, a massive 1000-page “family history” that had only appeared in a very small subscription edition by Contact Editions. In the end, a brilliant young editor from New York named Bennett Cerf, co-founder of Random House, met Stein and told her we would publish anything she asked him to, and he did.

Stein’s tale (which is told in a dozen excellent books, not least of all Stein’s own Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and in her letters; though for class we relied on Hugh Ford’s wonderfully detailed and compact telling in Published In Paris) was uplifting because it showed us how one person of modest means and clear mind could make simple choices that resulted in a surpassingly effective use of material media. She reached communities near and far. Stein focused on people, not the dazzle and allure of a man’s position — If she liked someone, she worked with him; if not, not. She also never doubted the broad value and relevance of her work. Those who didn’t get her work, didn’t get it. But they would, eventually.

Stein was patient with the dull-headedness of others and neither railed against them nor subjected them to the drama of self-doubt. She simply did her work well and looked for partners to do the work of publishing well. She found partners in every possible circumstance: friends who liked her and would type or publish what she wrote; broke, talented men with printing presses; rich dotty men with no talent but with means; smart editors who could shepherd her most obscure work into enduring editions; distracted ones who could nevertheless pull the right strings to put her work in front of a large audience.

We discussed her surpassing confidence and agreed that it was an achievement; that is, she didn’t start that way and had to make a life in which she could be that confident. Her astonishing ability to sustain her focus amiably, indifferent to doubters, was a triumph we should all aspire to imitate.

Julie Mancini, the ex-director of Portland Arts and Lectures and, later, Literary Arts, was our guest this evening. She now runs a for-profit business, Lyceum, that arranges speaking engagements for writers, most of them well known and sought after (Tracy Kidder, Edmund White, Sue Monk Kidd, James Howard Kunstler, etc.). She also spends a lot of time fielding requests from people who want help finding support for new projects. Julie has a great Rolodex. As far as Lyceum goes, Julie confessed that when she fields requests from modest sized programs and non-profits that want to hire one of her speakers she is often “on the side of the venue.” That is, she figures out how to make the gig work, even though the speakers she represents command high fees. As we explored the other ways that Julie enables artists (and writers) to reach audiences — and the ways she helps people find collaborators who together can make big projects happen — we started to see that her work is very simply to make things happen. She listens to what people want and then she assembles those she knows who can help. This work of connecting people to people builds relationships that are the matrix of organizations.

Julie’s obvious pleasure in the capacity of creative people to get things done, and her enthusiasm about helping them by connecting them to sympathetic others, filled us with optimism and a sense of power and possibility. We were encouraged to think of ourselves as story tellers. If we can say what we want to do and how we want to get it done clearly, truthfully, compactly, we can make other people care and help. Beyond story-telling, Julie also seemed to be a great listener. To make these interpersonal connections work, we need to hear our collaborators as clearly as we hear ourselves. We were also struck by Julie’s ability to bring everyone together on common ground: she neither idolizes nor demonizes those who have money; they are equal partners in the collaborative organism of a project; they’re neither the magic ingredient nor are they an impurity.

This led us to discuss the problem of judging your worth in a project and making your worth clear to others. If what you’re contributing isn’t money it is often hard to give a clear account of your value. For example, what’s a writer’s mission statement for a new non-profit gallery worth? Should he or she be paid? Relatedly, how much should a painter ask for a painting? Luisa Guyer reminded us how important it is to present a clear assessment of your own value in any relationship with a funder. Don’t undersell yourself, thinking that’ll make it easier for the funder. It won’t. When an artist or an arts organization such as PICA (where Luisa raises money) insists on a realistic level of support — a level that often seems absurdly high to those in the arts who have grown accustomed to undervaluing their own labor — funders respond positively. A good example is P:ear (see the entry for second workshop #3), where the willingness and ability of its founders to tell their story well and make a realistic assessment of their worth has led to generous support from patrons. P:ear asks for and gets substantial donations, while similar organizations that under value their own worth do not. This returned us to Stein and her superb personal example. She maintained a steady, clear sense of the worth and value of her work, through thick and thin, and insisted that others, eventually, meet her there. And they did. We ended promptly at 10:05 pm.