The Hôtel des Terrasses on rue de la Glacière functioned as residential headquarters for Hungarian artists in Paris. Miller’s closest friend among them was the photographer Gyula Halász, better known by his artist name, Brassaï (meaning ‘from Brasso,’ his hometown). Brassaï arrived in Paris in 1924 intending to become a painter, but soon fell under the spell of photography through the influence of his countryman, Andre Kertész. In one corner of his hotel room he set up a makeshift photo lab and began producing the Parisian streetlife images that would make him famous.

Brassaï was nocturnal, rising at sunset and spending the darkest hours on long walks around Paris in search of subjects for his photography. His favorite hunting grounds were the bordels, dancehalls and late-night cafe’s where he captured the Parisian nightlife of street thugs prostitutes, cabaret entertainers,—or the unpeopled dreams of the gaslit Paris streets. His photos became iconic images of Paris in the thirties.

Henry Miller, who dubbed Brassaï “The Eye of Paris,” in his famous essay of that title, was fascinated by Brassaï’s evocative images and felt a strong sense of identification with them. “I saw my own sacred body exposed, the body that I have written into every stone, every tree, every monument, park, fountain, statue, bridge, and dwelling of Paris.” ‘The Eye of Paris’ became the monicker that would stick with Brassaï throughout his career. “When you meet the man you see at once that he is equipped with no ordinary eyes,” Miller wrote. “His eyes have that perfect, limpid sphericity, that all-embracing voracity which makes the falcon or the shark a shuddering sentinel of reality.”¹

Miller visited Brassaï in the Hôtel des Terrasses and “for hour after hour he pored over [the] nightly harvest of photographs” which were spread about the pieces of furniture in Brassaï’s room:²

And when one day the door was finally thrust open I beheld to my astonishment a thousand replicas of all the scenes, all the streets, all the walls, all the fragments of the Paris wherein I died and was born again. There on his bed, in myriad pieces and fragments, lay the cross to which I had been nailed and crucified, the cross on which I was resurrected to live again and forever in the spirit.³

Miller joined Brassaï on several his nocturnal photo expeditions and he included the photographer in Tropic of Cancer:

Then one day I fell in with a photographer [...] We didn’t go to the show places familiar to the tourists, but to the little joints where the atmosphere was more congenial, [...] We explored the 5th, the 13th, the 19th and the 20th arrondissements thoroughly. Our favorite resting places were lugubrious little spots such as the Place Nationale, Place des Peupliers, Place Contrescarpe, Place Paul Verlaine. Many of these places were already familiar to me, but all of them I now saw in a different light owing to the rare flavor of his conversation.⁴

In what appears to be entirely fictional passage of the novel, Miller claimed that he earned a few francs by posing for pornographic pictures which Brassaï sold to tourists.

Brassaï, who made a lifelong task of documenting the artists he knew in Paris—both in photography and in print—is the author of two biographical memoirs about Miller, Henry Miller: The Paris Years and Henry Miller: Happy Rock.

Brassaï at the hôtel des Terrasses, 1931-1932 © Estate Brassaï – RMN / Michèle Bellot source

Henry Miller at the hôtel des Terrasses, 1931 © Estate Brassaï – RMN / Michèle Bellot source

Another artist at the Hôtel des Terrasses was the Expressionist painter Lajos Tihanyi, who had been introduced to Miller by his wife June during Henry’s first trip to Paris in 1928.⁵ Stricken with meningitis as a child in Budapest, Tihanyi was now completely deaf, but he had no trouble communicating with the affable Miller. The two understood each other in a kind of “deaf-and-dumb language,” as Alfred Perlès recalled. It was Tihanyi who had first introduced Miller to Brassaï in 1930 at Le Dôme.⁶

The Hungarian contingent at the Hôtel des Terrasses also included Frank Dobo, a literary agent who helped Miller place articles in foreign publications and who negotiated the first English language edition of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night. The German painter, Hans Reichel, was another artist in residence, having lived at the hotel since arriving in Paris in 1928. Reichel would become the subject of Miller’s essay “The Cosmological Eye” and was a frequent guest at the Villa Seurat during the years he lived on the impasse du Rouet.

Notes

1. Henry Miller, “The Eye of Paris”
2. Brassaï, Henry Miller: The Paris Years, 30
3. Henry Miller, “The Eye of Paris”
4. Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer, 193-195
5. Henry Miller, Nexus 2, Vacances à l’étranger, 31
6. Karl Orend, “His Eyes Were the Color of the Sea…”, Nexus vol.5, 179

Brassaï & the Hôtel des Terrasses posted by: Walking Paris with Henry Miller

The room is in a state of complete disorder, as usual. The enormous table is piled with books and manuscripts, with pencilled notes, with letters that should have been answered a month ago. The room gives the impression somehow of a sudden state of arrest, as though the author who inhabited it had died suddenly and by special request nothing had been touched.¹

Fraenkel was enthused at having a companion to harangue about his favorite subject: the spiritual death of modern man. This “death theme” which Fraenkel laid out in his book, Werther’s Younger Brother, was a subject of endless discussion that summer and Miller warmed to the debate.

The conversations in the Villa Seurat sparked Miller to begin writing the book that would become Tropic of Cancer. Fraenkel encouraged him to abandon the manuscript he had been laboring over (Crazy Cock) and begin writing the way he talked.² As Miller wrote to his friend Emil Schnellock, “the process of losing myself began at the Villa Seurat.”³ He refashioned Fraenkel’s death theme for use in Tropic of Cancer, an early draft of which began, “I am living at the Villa Seurat, the guest of Michael Fraenkel. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere or a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.”⁴ Later, the name of Villa Seurat was changed to “Villa Borghese” and Fraenkel became “Boris”.

Miller’s second stay at this address began three years later when, on the very day that Tropic of Cancer was published—September 1, 1934, he moved into the top-floor studio at 18 Villa Seurat where he remained until May of 1939. The rent was negotiated by Anaïs Nin, who briefly shared the apartment. He reported to Schnellock that “it is a marvelous place—with sun parlor, bath, steam heat, space, etc. and the price has been reduced to 700 francs a month for me, tout compris.”⁵ And to Fraenkel he announced:

I am singing and I want the neighbors to hear. I am moving in, my neighbors. Moving in to the Villa Seurat. I am the last man alive. They say these are bad times. Perhaps they be. But they are good times for me. I move with the changing climate. I move with the sun and the light. With the birds. With the wildflowers.⁶

Miller’s gregarious nature soon made the Villa Seurat a hive of artistic activity. Friends and fellow writers dropped in frequently. Alfred Perlès relates that the apartment was host to “cranks, nuts, drunks, writers, artists, bums, Montparnasse derelicts, vagabonds, psychopaths.” The visiting writer Cecily MacKworth recalled:

When the writing moment came, it made no special difference. If there were visitors, they went on playing jazz on the gramophone, reading their poetry aloud to each other or doing whatever they happened to be doing at the time. Henry just moved over into the table in the corner and started to write. Once he began, he went on, apparently never feeling the need to take a walk or go to bed. He wrote on without fuss; pages of Tropic of Capricorn piled up beside him while the red wine in the bottle at his elbow sank lower and lower.⁷

During this stretch, Miller completed Tropic of Capricorn, Black Spring and Max and the White Phagocytes. Perlès recalled the sense of electricity that Miller’s creativity produced:

Henry Miller radiated from No. 18. Radiated is the correct word. There was a quixotic mood of coercion hanging about the place, like an atmosphere. On approaching, the least sensitive visitor must have become aware of an exceptional presence. Even I who had by now known him for nearly six years, even I couldn’t mount the stairs to his first-floor studio without experiencing a queer feeling of exultation and enthusiasm. I seldom entered without pausing outside the door for a minute or two to take in the familiar Miller noises within. Usually it was the clatter of the typewriter I caught. The door to the sanctum was peppered with notices and avis importants: “If knock you must, knock after 11 A.M.”—”am out for the day, possibly for a fortnight.”—“La maison ne fait pas de crédit”—”Je n’aime pas qu’on m’emmerde quand je travaille.” And so forth.⁸

Villa Seurat was designed as an artist community in the nineteen-twenties and many famous artists lived on the short street. In addition to Miller, there were at various times: Antonin Artaud, Chaïm Soutine, Salvador Dali, Andre Derain and Chana Orloff. The street is named for the French pointillist painter Georges Seurat.

Notes

1. Henry Miller, “Max”, The Cosmological Eye, 25-26
2. Michael Fraenkel, The Genesis of Tropic of Cancer, 25
3. Henry Miller, Letters to Emil, 116; April 11, 1933
4. Michael Fraenkel, The Genesis of Tropic of Cancer, 43
5. Henry Miller, Letters to Emil, 149; May 12, 1934
6. Michael Fraenkel, The Genesis of Tropic of Cancer, 48-49
7. Cecily Mackworth, Ends of the World, 5
8. Alfred Perlès, My Friend Henry Miller, 132

Villa Seurat posted by: Walking Paris with Henry Miller

Hans Reichel was a German abstract painter with a mercurial personality. Sensitive and gentle when sober, he was prone to violent, deranged outbursts when drunk. Miller dreaded the alcoholic rages, but admired Reichel’s talent and devotion to his art. He would later regard the watercolor lessons Reichel gave him as “life therapy”. A description of Reichel’s ground-floor studio appears in “The Cosmological Eye”:

when you enter his room, which is in a cheap hotel where he does his work, the sanctity of the place breaks you down. It is not quite a hovel, his little den, but it is perilously close to being one. You cast your eye about the room and you see that the walls are covered with his paintings. The paintings themselves are holy. This is a man, you cannot help thinking, who has never done anything for gain.

The association of Reichel with a “cosmological eye” is due to the frequent inclusion of eye-like designs in his paintings, of which he said, “I want that the pictures should look back at me; if I look at them and they don’t look at me too then they are no good.” Reichel’s paintings are often compared to those of Paul Klee. You can see examples of his work here.

David Edgar, described by Perlès as “the most lovable neurotic America ever produced”, was an intellectual whose pedantic fascination with esoteric subjects both charmed and exasperated Miller. Perlès recalled that, along with Miller,

We often spent whole days or whole nights together, the three of us, in speculative talks on life, after-life, post-after-life, the Lemurian age, Atlantis, the meaning of myths and legends, occult powers and principalities, the relative spheres of influence of Lucifer and Ahiram, life in Devachan, and so on and so forth.

—My Friend Henry Miller

Unlike Perlès and Reichel who chose this address in the impasse du Rouet for its cheap rent, Edgar he could have easily afforded more luxurious quarters. He occupied a “squalid little room” two floors below Perlès’ and his living conditions seemed to match his neurotic intelligence.

Edgar was always seen carrying around some unusual book or other which he relentlessly impressed upon his friends. Miller credited Edgar’s pestering with opening him up to some entirely new avenues of thought, including a deeper appreciation of Zen Buddhism.

Resources

More information on Hans Reichel can be found here. He is buried in the Montparnasse cemetery in Paris.

For more information on David Edgar and Alfred Perlès, consult these posts from the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company:
The Booster Editorial Staff: David Edgar
Alfred Perlès – A Biography
Alfred Perlès – Renegade & Writer (Part 1)
Alfred Perlès – Renegade & Writer (Part 2)

impasse du Rouet posted by: Walking Paris with Henry Miller

One particular evening at the Bouquet d’Alésia stood out for Miller. Having stopped for a quick beer, he took a seat on the terrace which provided a view to stimulate his astrological interest:

I had just passed the Bouquet d’Alésia which faces the church and as there were still a few moments before closing time I saw no reason why I should not sit down on the terrace and enjoy a quiet beer all to myself. There was always a red glow about the church which fascinated me—and at the same time from where I sat I could look at my benevolent planet, Jupiter.

Whatever benevolence the planet offered would not be enough to protect Miller this evening. On returning to his studio in the Villa Seurat, he decided to climb up on the roof for another glimpse of Jupiter and fell from the ladder, crashing through a window of his apartment. He was badly bruised and covered in blood from the cuts, but managed to summon the help of a neighbor who rushed him to the American Hospital in Neuilly. Anaïs Nin spent the next ten days nursing him back to health.

Le Bouquet d’Alésia posted by: Walking Paris with Henry Miller

Miller and his boon companion Alfred Perlès favored the Zeyer when they were “in funds” or whenever they could coax Michael Fraenkel, who often dined here alone, to treat them to a meal. Perlès would remember the Zeyer as, “a gaudy place with red plush and mirrors and polished brass; the perpetual odor of choucroûte garnie, gauloise bleues and fine à l’eau.” Fine à l’eau (brandy and seltzer) was their regular drink here because it was the cheapest option at one franc seventy-five.

On November 1, 1935, Miller, Perlès and Fraenkel were gathered for a meal at the Zeyer. As was usually the case when Fraenkel was present, conversation soon turned to the subject of death. Fraenkel was enthralled with his own conception of the spiritual death of modern man: The world was dead, civilization was dead and the Great War had only served to make the fact apparent to all. As such, the only possible course was to accept the death, to close ones eyes and die to the modern world and so begin the process of bringing a new civilization to life.

Miller loved these death talks. Fraenkel was an erudite thinker and a stimulating conversationalist. In his interminable pursuit of the death theme he was liable to drag the discussion all over the philosophical terrain.

With a few drinks under their belts, the trio began to lament that such invigorating conversations would not be preserved for posterity. And then the idea occurred to them to collaborate on a book that would exhaust the subject—a monumental and abruptly ended tome, like the death itself:

“A thousand pages!” Fraenkel shrieked. He was already a little tipsy. “A thousand pages—no less!”

“No more either,” I said.

“Don’t worry, Joey. We’ll make it a thousand pages, not a line more—even if we have to stop in the middle of a sentence,” said Henry

The book was to take the form of an exchange of letters and for its subject they eventually settled on Shakespeare’s Hamlet, whose famous contemplation of suicide was sure to provide endless fodder for discussion. Perlès dropped out before the project was complete, but Miller and Fraenkel charged ahead, eventually publishing Hamlet in two volumes under the imprint of Fraenkel’s Carrefour Press. Miller’s contribution began with a nod the the Zeyer:

We sit in the Café Zeyer and we decide to write this book. It is not a book that the French will like. It is not a book for our American compatriots either. Yet this book is born of France and of America. Born in a moment of extreme lassitude, born out of a despair created by the inertia and paralysis surrounding us.

Le Zeyer posted by: Walking Paris with Henry Miller