THE MOVEMENTS OF THE SPHERES - Paul Nougé, La Jongleuse, 1929 The poet and philosopher, Paul Nougé (
THE MOVEMENTS OF THE SPHERES - Paul Nougé, La Jongleuse, 1929 The poet and philosopher, Paul Nougé (1895-1967) was an influential (though now fairly obscure) member of the Belgian Surrealist school, and a cohort of René Magritte. He was a founding member of the Belgian Communist party in 1921. Also a photographer, his images are pretty great. If inclined, you might wish to listen to this song, A New Way of Juggling, by Portland band Print (the) Seas, inspired by the image above. - Paul Nougé, Woman Frightened By A Ball of String, 1929-30 My research - admittedly annoying flawed, oh, internet, you have such gaps when it comes to the women of Surrealism - tells me that the woman in the photos above is Paul’s wife, Martha Nougé (or at least, this is how she’s credited in other group photos of the Belgian Surrealists) who otherwise has little in the way of visible biography. However… Here is a poem by Paul about Martha, translated (by William Kulik) and published long after both of their deaths, in 2006. It’s got echoes of Joyce’s Nora letters, I warn you, if you’re easily offended by graphic - and it also has some insight into the way a man such as Nouge might look at his wife (as well as other women - woefully). And the way she might look at him. There’s something desperately intimate, and blind as well, in this narrative. Outline of a Hymn to Martha Beauvoisin This blank page scares me because I've got to fill it with so many signs because I haven't lost a single drop of the life I've shared with you The drops of your life or if you like or even if you don't those delicate everlasting periods So I'll get right down to the sunlight of our days When did I see you for that famous FIRST TIME? I don't picture you the whole you any more only your lower lip trembling your incredibly white forehead the yellow Poiret coat and the odor of Jiky that male scent That lesbian perfume I remember you saying (how I love the rich resonance of your voice) you wanted to know if you could sit on the mantel I watched your hands that barely moved your lovely tapering finger and your nails Now I have to tell about the celebrated skin-tight white dress your breasts sticking out and what you knew that I didn't about your period Then you smoked a cigarette and started to cry speaking of S ... that you wanted to continue to make love to him then we were at it again Martha don't forget the rue de la Tulipe and the little street that opens onto the Galeries Saint-Hubert where we came so many times And remember while I had you my finger was inside you and yours in me --your nails glittered-- while you beat me with your heel between my cheeks Don't forget Odilon-Jean Pierre who surprised us by candlelight And rue De Tabora The banister and the staircase were so beautiful Where you aborted by coincidence on Bastille Day I remember Achille Burgoignie ogling your honeypot I remember we started making love again much too soon I remember your lovely shadow moving along the wall your belly in pain my father at the door bringing I'm not sure what concoction the picture of your brother I didn't even know yet your family portraits and the mother you had to be tactful with You recall my jealousy you unquestionably suffered from more than I did true I made you wear a bra because I wanted to hide your breasts from everyone which I can't recall without getting a lump in my throat or rue St-Jean entered by a huge slanting sun around six in the evening opposite the shop window of Monsieur Brin Gaubast where you saw yourself and told me at long last that you wore a little too much makeup Funny how I show no respect for sequence pressed by so many images Where was I? And who will I prey on now? On you Martha for certain For, as many have said, life's a funny thing I'm skipping years now I'm on rue Franklin thinking of that filmed procession of that New Year's Eve when we made love beside the radio which gave us the news of the horrible war in Spain --I still have the mark of your teeth on my penis-- and I instantly recall the first time I had you from behind You were kneeling on the edge of the bed and in my mind's eye I still have the image of your back more lovely than a grand sunset and the look on your face when you turned to see us one more time in the mirror (We don't need to fear repetition we never tire of that phrase "make love" repeated over and over in the mind like the magic tom-tom of impenetrable forests like Ravel's Bolero) The night is over it's starting to get cold think of the ballet you danced with your fingertips on the bare wooden table of the opening bars of the Toselli serenade (And why be afraid of the intimate reference to personal despair the knowing winks too bad for those who will not understand) Now I understand --and through what mental twists and turns-- the suffering I put you through I had you blindfolded cheated on you from the start You were called Paulette There was Jeanne Crickboom and Billy with her shiny nose There was that girl Breuer loved so much that wound up-- through what mystery of the telephone?-- being connected with me There was weeping Claude always in someone's arms There was Jenny Poteau with her saggy tits and her wide-open ass There was Jeanne Abel who we share memories of that may still be circulating on rue Markelbach There are so many things plus the horde of little maids and old ones (The exegete who later dives into this poem will not find swimming easy) There's also the cafe on avenue Cortenberg where you gave me Duchamp's address on rue Campagne-Premiere where you told me you made love to him "just one time" And Yvonne George who I loved so much who taught you to piss in a toilet the two of you watching the whore across the street turn a trick Yvonne who went down on you --I went down on her too-- poor little fool a great life wasted - Paul Nouge, 1953 - Rene Magritte, Portrait of Paul Nouge, 1927 See also, UNDERKNOWN WOMEN OF SURREALISM: Claude Cahun, Adrienne Fidelin -- source link