Keeper of the Flame

Writer and photographer Carl Van Vechten was an American Renaissance Man who epitomized the witty and rambunctious cultural scene of the Roaring Twenties. Today he is less celebrated than he deserves, and his clever novels of sophisticates and bohemians, such as The Blind-Bow Boy and The Tattooed Countess, as well as his trendsetting critical essays, are rarely mentioned. This is due partly to the lasting controversy surrounding the title of his best-known novel, Nigger Heaven, set in Harlem, despite his being a lifelong champion of African American causes. Among his achievements, Van Vechten set up the James Weldon Johnson Memorial Collection of Negro Arts and Letters at Yale University. Carlo, as he liked to be called, had a profound influence on future generations of artists, writers and photographers. 

The following is an article of mine published in The Village Voice 30 years ago this month! My how time flies. The piece (slightly abridged and revised) examines the scrapbooks that Carl Van Vechten had left to Yale after his death in 1964 and which had been recently unlocked. The eye-opening insights into the homosexual underground in New York provided by Van Vechten were a surprise and a delight to historians of gay culture. George Chauncey's ground-breaking study Gay New York, which explored the queer scene of the early 20th century, came out the same year this piece was published. James Smalls' book, The Homoerotic Photography of Carl Van Vechten, from 2006, delved deeper into the "Public Face; Private Thoughts" of this overlooked genius. Edward White's thoughtful biography of Van Vechten, The Tastemaker, which discusses the collections in detail, appeared in 2014. James Polchin's 2019 investigation of gay crimes, Indecent Advances, contains several references to them as well. Bruce Kellner, author of Carl Van Vechten and the Irreverent Decades (1968), quoted in my article, died in 2019.

Lately it seems as if Van Vechten's star is on the rise once more, thanks to numerous blogs and podcasts discussing his career and circle of friends. So I am reposting this article here so new readers can find it. I had been under the impression that it was available online in the Village Voice archives. But the paper's issues from the 90s and beyond do not seem to be included yet. NOTE: all photos used here for illustration purposes are from the Library of Congress collection of Van Vechten's photographs, not necessarily from the scrapbooks.

Carl Van Vechten, self-portrait. Library of Congress

 Carl Van Vechten's Secret Life

by Brooks Peters

"Come on in, Sucker!" "Recall the Gay Old Days!"

Thus begin Carl Van Vechten's 18 volumes of homoerotic scrapbooks that were locked away for 25 years after his death, following his strict orders, at Yale University, and which are now housed at the elegant Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. Filled with elaborate collages assembled from news clippings, arty male nudes, racy letters, sketches and gay erotica from the '20s, '30s '40s and '50s, these once-secret diaries provide a rare and insightful glimpse into New York's early "subterranean set."

Opened in 1989 with little fanfare, Van Vechten's scrapbooks are a treasure trove of historical documentation. An incorrigible pack-rat, Van Vechten kept every scrap of paper from the most ridiculous to the least sublime. Nothing escaped his eye: coat check stubs, movie tickets, matchbooks, even an extra-large condom, as well as engraved invitations to a party on the Ile de France hosted by "Herr Ibiter Tittoff and General Kutscha Kokoft." Only someone with Van Vechten's mischievous sense of fun (Dorothy Parker, who didn't care for him, put it best when she said he always had "his tongue in somebody else's cheek") could have compiled these monuments to bad taste. Cataloging was his trademark. Like Jean Cocteau, he considered art to be the rehabilitation of the commonplace. These scrapbooks, while scurrilous and at times downright sophomoric, attest to that lifelong creed.

Whether these tomes were meant to be a time bomb or simply a time capsule isn't clear. Until the boxes containing them were unwrapped, no one had a clue they existed, not even Van Vechten's close friends. "For years, we had all been sitting around taking bets on what would be in them when we opened them," says Bruce Kellner, Van Vechten's biographer. "We had all planned to have a big party and an unveiling and break out the champagne. But Donald Gallup, who was Carl's literary trustee, said, 'No, I will open these myself and see if a party is justified.'" When the seals were broken, the gift proved to be "a surprise and a disappointment," says Kellner. Instead of written material (Kellner had hoped for some additions to Van Vechten's daybooks), what Van Vechten had enveloped in so much suspense appears to be a practical joke. Or was it?

Originally from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Carl Van Vechten first made a name for himself as a music critic at The New York Times, where he helped popularize Stravinsky, Strauss, and jazz. Moving on to dance criticism (he introduced New York to Isadora Duncan and Nijinsky) Van Vechten later contributed to Vanity Fair and H. L. Mencken's Smart Set. As a literary critic, he helped rekindle interest in the work of Herman Melville and championed his good friend Gertrude Stein. He ended up being her literary executor.

Van Vechten also found time to write seven stylish novels, including Peter Whiffle: His Life and Works; Spider Boy; and Parties, as well as books of his essays. In the 30s, he abandoned fiction to pursue photography. His celebrity models included F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tallulah Bankhead, George Gershwin, Mabel Mercer, Leontyne Price, and Paul Robeson.

Paul Robeson, Library of Congress

 

Though he married twice and spent time in jail for failing to pay his first wife's alimony, Van Vechten's homosexuality was hardly a secret. One collage proclaims: "I've been leading a double life and I don't intend to stop." Van Vechten spent much of that double life in Harlem, where sexual liberation was an intrinsic part of the jazz revolution. In one essay, gay historian Eric Garber relates Van Vechten's frequent visits to a popular manor uptown, a center of New Negro creativity where leaders of the Harlem Renaissance, including Langston Hughes and Wallace Thurman, rented rooms. Occasionally the manor's guests would engage in what one observer called "the diversions of the cities of the plains." The scrapbooks provide compelling evidence that similar escapades often occurred south of 125th Street.

A Freudian could have a field day with these scrapbooks. Throughout them, Van Vechten displays a morbid obsession with phalluses and castration anxiety, clipping dozens of headlines that exclaim such comments as "Well of all the meatless wonders!"; "IND Queens Lines Cut Off!"; "Big Ones Don't Get Away From Carl." Occasionally, the juxtaposition of images alone is amusing, as when Van Vechten places a suggestive snapshot of a man pleasuring himself next to a clipping from Ripley's Believe It Or Not of an actor playing Popeye, who could put the tip of his nose in his mouth.

Many of the nude photographs are typical of Van Vechten's signature style -- the subject is posed against a sensual, exotically textured background, perhaps cellophane or tiger skin, and lit severely among shadows. In Volume 17, there are revealing shots of Dame Judith Anderson (you can tell by the famous mole on her chin) and dancer Hugh Laing, who recreates many of Nijinsky's notorious poses. 

Hugh Laing, Library of Congress

 

Not all the pictures are by Van Vechten. Many are simply period erotica, which is of historical interest in itself. The most sensually charged nudes, set against a Venetian backdrop, were done by Van Vechten's close friend Max Ewing, author of Going Somewhere. A provocative rear shot was submitted with "best wishes" by Man Ray. Baron von Gloeden's kitschy nudes grace many a page, as do beefcake stills of Joe Dallesandro. Also included are stunning portraits by Van Vechten of Marlon Brando from 1948 when he was making a splash on Broadway in "A Streetcar Named Desire."

Brando 1948 Library of Congress

 

Whole volumes are dedicated to erotic drawings by Van Vechten's pen pals George George (a sculptor and soldier he met at the Stage Door Canteen where he often helped out), Dick Sharpe, Thomas Handforth and Roi. A sketch by Tchelitchew of Charles Henri Ford appears in the collection in 1940. Many of the most appealing images remind one of Cocteau. They might even be by Cocteau -- it's hard to tell -- since few are signed. Later entries could be by Andy Warhol. The sheer number of the drawings is staggering. Van Vechten himself gave up trying to sort them all. The last volume, which is not bound, contains dozens more slip-cased in envelopes.

There are also play programs, including one from May (sic) West's Pleasure Man, on September 24, 1928; and ads for Blair Niles's pioneering 1931 gay novel, Strange Brother. Strewn across the pages are rare copies of Weimar era homoerotic magazines, schedules of "For Bachelors Only" cruises to Europe, and souvenirs from early queer bars such as Finocchio's in San Francisco. Van Vechten pasted in promotional material for a '30s flick called Chained, a "forceful picture of the Third Sex," shown at the Acme Theatre on Union Square. The producers warned parents to protect their "children against the vicious morals of the world's worst influence... the super curse of civilization." 

Drag figures prominently, too. Van Vechten documents a Carnegie Hall recital by Francis Renault, "the Last of the Red Hot Papas," performances by Julian Eltinge in The Fascinating Widow, and a revue by Karyl Norman, "the Creole Fashion Plate," at the Pansy Club at 48th and Broadway. A '20s article in Rosener's Pan proves an invaluable source for the lingo of the times, listing terms like "she-rake" for lesbian, "he-hussy" for drag queen. The editors warned would be partygoers not to join in the outré festivities: "We pray you, do not listen to this insidious propaganda, but hie you to the nearest Greek restaurant, see there what a nation has come to because it allowed such shenanigans." Van Vechten also assembled numerous articles about early transsexuals such as Christine Jorgensen and John Breckenridge, the inspiration for Gore Vidal's ribald satire Myra Breckinridge. 

Gore Vidal by Van Vechten

 

Van Vechten's scrapbooks also reveal the homophobia rampant in pre-Stonewall New York. While the gay world made inroads in society, the straight media openly mocked them. A tabloid called Brevities published an article in 1932 entitled: "Fag Balls Exposed: The Third Sex is Flooding America." That same year, the New York Amsterdam News decried the popularity of the Hamilton Lodge drag parties at Rockland Palace in which thousands of cross-dressers jammed the ballroom. Things deteriorated into a "revolting revel" when the "impersonators started making promiscuous passes at the spectators." By the '50s the media's tone had turned even harsher. A clipping in 1953 stated that along the "Bird Circuit," a strip on the East 50s, "it's Old Homo Week all year long." A similar diatribe by Robert Sylvester in the Daily News two years later had this to say about gay bashing: "Let us agree, for the sake of argument, that a homosexual silly enough to pick up a stranger deserves his lumps... it probably isn't important if a homosexual is roughed up by a hoodlum. But... when there are no available homosexuals any unprotected citizen makes a satisfactory substitute."

As the scrapbooks continue, their tone becomes more pointed and disturbing. Perhaps Van Vechten became more politically aware. Or maybe a desire for thoroughness compelled him to document the rise in gay-related crimes. The garish headlines say as much as any memoir can about the era's double standards, a time when blackmail and murder were a constant threat and suicide seemed the only dignified way out: "Man Found Hanging in Girl's Lingerie," "Male Model Admits Killing Art Salesman," "Theatrical Set Designer Murdered, Bound to Couch Flaming as Pyre," "Chorus Boy's Pal's Death in Bathtub Ends Queer Romance." But even amid the litany of horrors, Van Vechten never lost his sense of humor. On one particularly gruesome clipping, "Architect beaten on head with a statuette he was making of his roommate," Van Vechten scribbled: "Art Criticism?"

Van Vechten's last laugh appears in the front of the final scrapbook, where he announces: "This book could cause a lot of trouble... But it's worth it!" Then he appends a cartoon of a ghost sporting the caption: "A Warning to the Curious," as if Van Vechten, like some pharaoh of yore, were putting a curse on his buried treasure. Labeling his scrapbooks "One of the most significant contributions to American reference work we have had in English," Van Vechten poked fun at his own efforts. Yet despite the bawdy jokes and glib tomfoolery that's evident throughout, Van Vechten had the foresight to realize that 25 years after his death, scholars would have evolved far enough along to accept, and perhaps even value, his erotic obsessions.

The Summer of '74

 

[During a break from blogging these past few months, I have focused more on writing poems and short stories, including the tale below that I submitted to a local arts magazine not too long ago. They ended up using another of my pieces, so I thought why not present it here.  The timing couldn't be better. Lost and Found, while fiction, is based on an actual incident that took place fifty years ago. Copyright 2024.]

 

LOST AND FOUND  

A Short Story

by Brooks Peters

The bus was nearly empty, and overwhelmingly hot. The air conditioner wasn’t working. Most of the windows were cracked open, but a few of them didn’t function properly and remained shut. I chose a seat in the second to last row. The window there was down and there was a hint of a breeze, something I was grateful for since the back of the bus smelled pretty awful. I looked across from me. An old lady with a baby, perhaps her grandson, sat with a handkerchief covering her nose. Two nuns had boarded and were struggling to place some items in the overhead rack. I was about to get up and help them but a sailor jumped up and got the job done.

It was late July, early afternoon. A Pointer Sisters song played nearby on a transistor radio. I gazed out my window and watched as the few remaining passengers waited to get on. The driver was stowing people’s bags into a compartment below. There was a young man standing there alone. Straw-like hair, a tank top, cut-off jeans that looked a size too small for his athletic build. He had on paint-stained construction boots without socks. I noticed the thickness of his calves, as if he’d spent his whole life hiking up hills. Suddenly he looked up at me and I quickly turned away. But not before I had a chance to see his face. It was hard-looking, kind of rough, maybe from a couple days’ stubble, or lack of sleep. I’d dealt with guys like him at school, the ones that never seem to go to class and hang out by the bleachers smoking or drinking. I hoped that he wouldn’t sit anywhere near me. 

I felt restless. I’d left my friend's place outside Philadelphia earlier that morning in kind of a frenzy. He was a former cabin mate of mine from camp a few years back. He'd invited me down to Pennsylvania for a couple of weeks of fun and relaxation, and plenty of sunshine, since my activities involved helping out on the family's strawberry farm. I'd developed quite a tan and a few new muscles from all the hard work. 

The family packed me up and drove to the bus depot for the trip to the Jersey Shore, but as usual we were running late. His mother always took her time putting on her face, as she put it. And his dad had trouble walking and wasn’t able to drive. It had been a nervous trip to the station. When we finally arrived, my buddy slipped something in my hand. “In case you get bored on the bus,” he said, with a wink. It was his copy of the bestseller Jaws by Peter Benchley which I had asked him about during my stay. He had inscribed it to me. I was touched and thanked him, giving him a hug. My friend's mother handed me a lunch bag with a chicken salad sandwich, a carton of apple juice, and a slice of her famous strawberry rhubarb pie. Everyone was playing his part, but I have to admit I was relieved I was going.

The gig in Cape May was a lucky break. An aunt of mine, a former actress, knew a director there, looking for someone 17 or 18 to play one of the Jets in a dinner theater staging of “West Side Story.” I couldn’t imagine how they’d pull that off. But I didn't hesitate to accept. I needed the money and a few weeks on the beach seemed ideal. I could have stayed with my Dad in Connecticut, but he was traveling so often for work, and Mom was off on one of her seasonal retreats. I looked at the novel I'd been given. Horror at a beach resort. Not very reassuring, I thought with a faint chuckle, for my trip to the Shore, but it would pass the time.

As the driver cried out, “All Aboard,” I noticed that muscular guy I'd seen earlier outside. He lazily made his way down the aisle. There were plenty of vacant seats, but he sidled right by them. Our eyes met and an odd look crossed his face. Was it a smirk? I was sure he would turn back and take one of the spots closer to the front, but he kept on coming. I turned and stared out the window. A moment later I heard the sound of his knapsack sliding into the rack above and he dropped into the seat next to mine. He hadn’t asked if it was taken, but why should he? It was obviously free.

My neck felt sore from leaning sideways toward the window, but I wasn’t about to turn around. “Smells like a sewer in here,” I heard him say. But I didn’t respond. I had noticed another smell. His sweat. Not exactly a bad odor, but it was offset by the faint residue of tobacco smoke.

The driver started the engine and we finally rolled out of the station. I clutched the book. I thought maybe I’d start reading it. But I didn’t want to encourage the guy next to me to start a conversation. I closed my eyes and thought about how long this ride was going to take. 

No more than ten minutes had elapsed when I felt the guy’s leg pressing against mine. Maybe it was just the movement of the bus, but no, there was no mistake. He was deliberately pushing his knee against my leg. If I reacted, even slightly, he would think I was awake. Sweat beaded up on my neck and brow. I slowly shifted my weight to the right. I thought I heard him laugh. But he might have just been clearing his throat.

I feigned a yawn, adjusted my seat, and opened the novel: "The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail..." I had only read a few pages when I heard a strange, loud click -- a sharp snap, like something being popped open. I wanted to see what he was doing, but kept my eyes forward, rereading the lines I’d just finished. My eyes made little sense of them. Next I heard an odd scratching sound, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. I carefully looked down to my left. The guy was holding a sharp, shiny knife, the blade about three or four inches long. He was moving it back and forth across his denim shorts just above his knee.

I stopped breathing. A cold drop of sweat fell from my armpit and slid down my rib cage. I inched over, creating a gap between us. Should I pull the cord above the window and get the driver’s attention? My book fell to the floor under the seat. The dust jacket had come off partway. I leaned forward, and reached down for it. My hand was shaking. My neighbor chuckled and I heard him close the knife with a snap and slip it in his pocket. I didn’t make a sound. Although I could feel my heart pounding.

“You a big reader,” he said, after a long pause. His voice was deep, raspy. I didn’t respond. My face felt hot. My pulse raced. I stared at the country views outside. He jabbed me in the ribs with his thumb. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

 I turned back abruptly, and faced him. “Maybe. What of it?”  

“Nothing. Just curious.”

 “So am I.” I managed to catch my breath. “Do you always play with knives on buses?”

 He grinned. “I wasn’t playing. I was cleaning it. I use it sometimes in my work.”

 “And what kind of work requires a switchblade?”

“Sometimes I need protection. I sell stuff -- crystals, leather goods, pipes, and jewelry. You’d be surprised how often people try to steal it. But I’m ready for ‘em.” He grinned. “Wanna see some?”

“No that’s fine. I’ve got a bit of reading to do.”

“Don’t be like that,” he said. “You got all the time later to read that dumb book. Here let me show you.” He lifted himself halfway up and reached above with his left arm for his bag. His shirt pulled up, revealing a taut, flat stomach, tan and smooth. He slid back down and opened the knapsack. Inside were tiny plastic sleeves filled with brass bangles and small glass beads, polished stones. He pulled one out containing a ring made of dull metal. Nickel or silver, I couldn’t tell which.

“You don’t look like the type to wear a ring,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but it came across as snotty. He noticed.

“It’s not for me, man. It’s for the buyers. People like you.” 

“I can’t afford stuff like that,” I said. “I’m still in school. And besides I can’t wear jewelry. My fingers swell up.”

“Not a big deal,” he said, with a hoarse laugh. “It’s not all jewelry. Wait, maybe this one.” He dug into the bottom of his bag and pulled out a copper bracelet. “A lot of kids are wearing these now. It releases metals your body needs. Try it on. It’s only seven bucks.”

“That's a bit steep.”

He threw it back in his bag and shoved it under his seat. “No problem, man." After a pause, he said, "I’m on my way to Atlantic City. You going there too?”

I shook my head. “Not far from there.” He didn’t need to know my exact destination.

“Oh yeah? One of those beach towns? Stone Harbor, or maybe Wildwood? The boardwalk at Wildwood can be fun.” He punched me lightly in the ribs. “Very wild nights, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled to himself. “So where you going then?”

“I’m working at a theater company. In a dinner show. We're doing 'West Side Story.’”

He laughed, and pointed at my clothes, my khakis and short sleeve shirt. “You don’t look like the kinda kid to be in a gang. So you a dancer?”

I didn’t like the way he said the word dancer. “Not really. More of an actor. It’s a summer job.” Frankly it was none of his business. Better to change the subject. “What about you? You live in Philadelphia?”

“Nah. I’m from Chester. I’m meeting some buddies of mine at a concert near the boardwalk. Maybe sell some of my stuff. There's gonna be a couple of metal bands. You a fan?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Okay, I see.” He laughed, then combed a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. “Look, I better grab some shuteye. I had a crazy night last night.” He winked, and jabbed me in the chest again. “Kinda spent, you know what I mean?” He spread his legs wide and leaned back. His thigh pressed up hard against mine again. This time I didn’t slide over even though I could feel the handle of his switchblade rubbing against my thigh. 

After a few minutes, I dug out the bag of sandwiches and opened it quietly so as not to awaken my neighbor. I was about to open the carton of juice when the driver made a sharp swing to pass a car and jerked the bus hard to the left.  My head fell over onto the guy’s shoulder. It was exposed due to his tank top. His skin felt hot and slightly damp. I immediately pulled back. He seemed to be asleep but when the bus straightened itself, he moved closer to me and now leaned his head onto my shoulder.  I felt pinned to the wall. My right cheek was practically flat against the window. But if I pushed him away, I thought, he might get stirred up. I let him stay there. I was too tired to make a scene. The hum of the bus created a relaxing rhythm. I opened the novel and read a few more chapters. Gradually I nodded off too.

It must have been about forty minutes later when I woke with a start as we lurched into a large city station.  I looked to my left. The seat next to mine was empty. I checked the aisle. Passengers were getting off. I could just make out the pair of nuns and the sailor disembarking. The old lady with the kid had disappeared. The driver cried out: “Last call for Atlantic City. Next stop Ocean City.”

I studied the crowd by the bus getting their things. The blond was there, his knapsack on his back, clutching his duffel bag under his right arm. He saw me then raised his left arm and made a gesture. It wasn’t a wave. He was pointing at me, or something next to me. I couldn’t grasp what he meant. He smiled, pointed again, his voice rising. “On the seat! Next to you!”

I glanced over, looking for one of his bags, thinking he’d left it behind. I didn’t notice anything. But then in the corner of the seat something caught the light, one of his pieces of jewelry. I reached down and tried to grab it. But to my surprise it was attached to the cushion. I swung around, looking for the guy to tell him that I found it. But he was gone.

The bus roared into gear and we began to move. I turned back to his seat, unfastened the pin and held it in my hand. It was my turn to chuckle. My traveling companion had left me a souvenir — a swirl of rhinestones in the shape of a question mark.

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