History has a fickle memory. Why else would
the Algonquin Hotel be remembered as New York City’s quintessential
literary salon while the equally fascinating arts commune at
7 Middagh St. in Brooklyn Heights is all but forgotten? Is it
simply the age-old prejudice that places Manhattan ahead of Brooklyn,
no matter the quality? Compare a list of the core members from
both groups then judge for yourself.
In the former, you have Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woollcott,
Heywood Broun and Robert Benchley. In the latter, W.H. Auden,
Carson McCullers, Benjamin Britten and Gypsy Rose Lee – a best-selling
mystery writer as well as the century’s most celebrated stripper.
Whatever the reason behind the historical neglect, author Sherill
Tippins has graciously rescued Brooklyn Heights’ improbable (yet
true) experiment in communal living from yesteryear’s dustbin
with her new book "February House" (Houghton Mifflin
Company). Her affectionately recounted if somewhat incomplete
portrait of the enterprise gives a long overdue nod to a remarkable,
pre-war hothouse in which a handful of major 20th-century artists
lived, thrived, suffered, matured, collaborated and clashed in
the early 1940s.
The idea for the actual February House – christened as such by
none other than visitor Anais Nin because so many of the residents
were born in that month – purportedly came to editor and social
butterfly George Davis in a recurring dream. Davis, who had recently
left his job at "Harper’s Bazaar," had taken the young
literary sensation McCullers under his wing and the two were
enthralled with the notion of creating an environment where artists
could exchange ideas and nurture one another’s work.
As Tippins narrates the individual stories leading up to the
household’s inception, the sense of possibility is palpable.
McCullers is at the start of her career, Auden has already hit
full stride and Davis promises to be the human lightning rod
who’ll charge their careers, as well as those of anyone else
within striking distance. The addition of Lee transformed the
household into an event. Narrated in a style made warm by Tippins’
use of first names when referring to most major players, "February
House" initially feels as optimistic and promising as the
undertaking it describes.
Yet the author’s ardor for her subjects actually ends up being
the work’s undoing. Like an overzealous doctoral student committed
to proving her thesis regardless of the facts, Tippins is overly
insistent that February House was a watershed for all artists
involved, even while reality begs to differ.
Initially, her premise is substantiated. McCullers, fresh off
the success of her debut "The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter,"
crystallized her novel "The Member of the Wedding"
while living at 7 Middagh St. The main characters for her masterpiece
"The Ballad of the Sad Cafe" were inspired by a pair
of real-life counterparts first glimpsed at a neighborhood bar.
Auden, similarly, was in the midst of a creative streak with
timeless poems like "Leap Before You Look" and "In
Sickness and in Health" coming to fruition at this time.
Even Lee, for her part, penned the runaway hit "The G-String
Murders," while under fellow resident Davis’ astute guidance.
Sadly, once Lee left for Chicago and McCullers’ health deteriorated
(in part because of a severe drinking problem), the house itself
seemed to fall apart. Auden and Britten’s joint effort, the opera
"Paul Bunyan," was a critical flop and the influx of
Thomas Mann’s political offspring shifted the house’s raison
d’être. By the time Jane and Paul Bowles sublet the second
floor, the internal conflicts had become so pronounced that February
House resembled a pre-war literary precursor to MTV’s "The
Real World."
Tippins spends too much time following the accomplishments of
those who left instead of fully reconstructing the often-disturbing
dynamics among those who followed.
The final three years before the house was destroyed to make
way for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway in 1945 have been condensed
into a series of asides in the cursory epilogue. That’s unfortunate.
While many of the later residents – such as Broadway set designer
Oliver Smith and composer Colin McPhee – lack the cultural heft
of their predecessors, one tenant did not: the black author Richard
Wright.
Entering after the makeshift artist colony’s heyday, the author
of "Native Son," his white wife and their baby elicited
a violent reaction from the surrounding community, a neighborhood
that had been fairly accepting of the late-night parties with
their boozing, pill popping and homosexual carousing (not to
mention circus performer tenants with monkey in tow). According
to the epilogue, it seems those outlandish shenanigans paled
in comparison to the idea of miscegenation, which provoked neighbors
to throw stones through a window at one of the most respected
black writers of the 20th century. Perhaps somebody else will
pick up this fascinating story where Tippins left off. There’s
much more to tell.
Author Sherill Tippins will read from her book "February
House" (Houghton Mifflin Company, $24) at Barnes & Noble
(106 Court St. at State Street in Brooklyn Heights) on Feb. 3
at 7 pm. For more information, call (718) 246-4996.
