Read Outside the Dog Museum Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
Outside the Dog Museum (5 page)
THERE IS AN ART
to falling down, you know.”
to falling down, you know.”
I continued looking at the camera, afraid to let my eyes click over to him as he got up off the floor. His assistant stood nearby, but obviously knew he wanted to get up alone; to achieve the small victory of rising after the large defeat of falling down for the third time since I’d entered his studio with my father.
Robert Layne-Dyer was the first homosexual I had ever recognized, if that is the correct word. Since I was only eight, I had no idea what was “with” him, other than his gestures were more theatrical than what I was accustomed to in other men, and his speech was overly precise, his voice too sweet. I knew my father’s Southern accent and elbows on the dinner table. I was used to my dad’s friends, who talked about money and women, politics and other things, with the same appreciative deep-chested chuckles and rumbling growls of indignation or anger.
Layne-Dyer was a flit. That is not a nice word to use these days because it’s like calling a woman a “bimbo,” but let’s face it, there
are
flits and bimbos in this world. However, the flit who had me posing for him was one of the most famous photographers in the world. Thus he was allowed, back in those dark Republican days of the 1950s, to wave his homosexuality like a mile-long banner at the world. When I think now how much courage it must have taken for a man to behave like that in 1957, it’s awe-inspiring.
are
flits and bimbos in this world. However, the flit who had me posing for him was one of the most famous photographers in the world. Thus he was allowed, back in those dark Republican days of the 1950s, to wave his homosexuality like a mile-long banner at the world. When I think now how much courage it must have taken for a man to behave like that in 1957, it’s awe-inspiring.
My father, who even then was rich and influential, had decided it was time I had my picture taken. A devoted and voracious reader of magazines, he leafed through Mother’s
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
almost as carefully as she did. On the basis of photographs he’d seen there, he chose Layne-Dyer to immortalize me.
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
almost as carefully as she did. On the basis of photographs he’d seen there, he chose Layne-Dyer to immortalize me.
After due inquiry and negotiation, Dad and I arrived one July morning at the door of an attractive brownstone house in Gramercy Park. On the cab ride over, I was told the photographer was probably a “fag,” but that I shouldn’t let it bother me.
“What’s a fag, Dad?”
“A guy, backward.”
“‘Guy’ backward is ‘yug.’ ‘Fag’ is ‘gaf.’”
“You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”
What I saw was a very sick man. He answered the door and, smiling, shook hands with both of us. But there was so little light left in him. He reminded me of a lantern with only a very small flame inside.
He was about thirty-five, middle height and build, with a blond wave of hair sweeping down over his forehead like a comma. His eyes were green and large but rather sunken in his face, diminishing their size until you looked carefully. Which of course I did because I kept looking for the “fag” in him. He was also the first person who ever called me “Mr. Harry.”
“So, the Radcliffes have arrived. How are you, Mr. Harry?”
“Fine, Mr. Layne. I mean Mr. Dyer.”
“You can call me either. Or Bob, if that’s more comfortable.”
Then he fell down.
Just boom! No warning, no tripping or flailing of arms—one moment up with us, the next down on the floor in a heap. Naturally I laughed. I thought he was doing it for me—a crazy kid’s joke. Maybe that’s what Dad meant when he said fags were guys backwards.
My father gave me a jab in the ribs that hurt so much I cried out.
Layne-Dyer looked up from the floor at him. “It’s okay. He doesn’t understand. I fall a lot. It’s a brain tumor and it makes me do some strange things.”
I looked at my father for explanations. We were pals and he was usually straight with me, but this time he gave a small head shake that meant “wait till later.” So I turned back to the photographer and waited for what he’d do next.
“Let’s go in and get you set up.” He pushed himself slowly off the floor and led the way into the house.
To this day I remember the way his place was furnished: Dark “Mission” furniture, pieces of ornamental glass everywhere—Steuben, Lalique, Tiffany—that caught and turned light into beautiful, intricate performances for anyone interested.
Some of his more famous photographs were on the walls: Fellini and Giulietta Masina eating a picnic lunch together on the set of
La Strada;
Tour de France bicycle racers steaming in a tight pack together down a Paris street with the Eiffel Tower looming behind them like a monstrous metal golem.
La Strada;
Tour de France bicycle racers steaming in a tight pack together down a Paris street with the Eiffel Tower looming behind them like a monstrous metal golem.
“Did you take that picture?”
“Yes.”
“It’s President Eisenhower!”
“Right. He let me come to the White House to do it.”
“You were in the
White House?”
White House?”
“Yes. A couple of times.”
I didn’t know who Fellini was, and anyone could race a bicycle, but to be invited to President Eisenhower’s house to take a picture meant you were big stuff, in my book. I followed Bob closely to his studio.
Later I read in Layne-Dyer’s autobiography that he hated being called anything other than “Robert.” But “Bob” is a pair of soft familiar jeans to an eight-year-old boy, rather than “Robert,” which is
the black wool suit you’re forced to wear on Sunday to church, or the name of a distant cousin you instantly hate on meeting for the first time.
the black wool suit you’re forced to wear on Sunday to church, or the name of a distant cousin you instantly hate on meeting for the first time.
“What kind of picture are you going to take of me?”
“Come on in and I’ll show you.”
The studio was unremarkable. There were lights and reflectors around, but nothing challenging, nothing promising besides many cameras that said only matters were more formal in here, watch your step a little more. But I was eight, and having my picture taken by someone famous seemed only right: a combination of what was due me because I was Harry Radcliffe, third-grader, and because my father, a rich and nice man, wanted it. At eight you’re dead serious about what the world owes you: Civilization starts in your own room and moves out from there.
“Sit here, Harry.”
A pretty assistant named Karla started moving around the room, setting up cameras and tripods. She smiled at me sometimes.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Harry?”
Looking to see if Karla was watching, I said confidently, “Mayor of New York.”
Layne-Dyer ran both hands through his hair and said to no one in particular, “Humble fellow, isn’t he?”
Which made my father laugh. I didn’t know what the word meant, but if Dad laughed then it must be okay.
“Look at me, Harry. Good. Now look over there, at the picture of the dog on the wall.”
“What kind of dog is that?”
“Don’t talk for a minute, Boss. Let me get this right and then we’ll chat.”
I tried to watch what he was doing out of the corner of my eye, but couldn’t make my eyeball go back that far. I started to turn.
“Don’t move! Don’t move!” FLASH. FLASH. FLASH. “Great, Harry. Now you can turn. It’s a Great Vendean Griffon.” FLASH. FLASH.
“What is?”
“The dog on the wall.”
“Oh. Are you finished taking my picture now?”
“Not yet. A little while longer.”
Halfway through the session he collapsed again.
“There’s an art to falling down, you know. When you go like I do, with no warning, just
plotz,
you learn after a few times to watch and take as much with you as you can before you hit. The design on the drapes, whatever you can grab with your eye, a hand … Don’t go empty-handed, don’t just go down scared. Do you understand what I’m talking about, Harry?”
plotz,
you learn after a few times to watch and take as much with you as you can before you hit. The design on the drapes, whatever you can grab with your eye, a hand … Don’t go empty-handed, don’t just go down scared. Do you understand what I’m talking about, Harry?”
“No, sir. Not really”
“That’s okay. Look at me.”
The dying have a quality that even a child senses. Not because they are already removed, but because even young hearts sense their inability to stay longer. Behind the looks of sickness or fear is also the look of the long-distance traveler, bags on the floor, eyes tired but nervous for any change that may come. They are the ones going on the twenty-hour flights, and although we don’t envy their coming discomfort or time-zone skips, tomorrow they will be
there
—a place that both terrifies and thrills us. We peek at the ticket they hold, the inconceivably far destination written there, impossible yet monstrously alluring. What will it smell like for them tomorrow? What is it like to sleep there?
there
—a place that both terrifies and thrills us. We peek at the ticket they hold, the inconceivably far destination written there, impossible yet monstrously alluring. What will it smell like for them tomorrow? What is it like to sleep there?
“Are you sick?”
Karla stopped walking across the room and looked away. My father started to say something, but Bob cut him off.
“Yes, Harry. That’s what makes me fall down.”
“Something’s wrong with your feet?”
“No, my head. It’s called a brain tumor. Like a bump inside there that makes you do odd things. And ends up killing you.”
I am convinced he didn’t say it to spook or scare me. Only because it was the truth. Now I was entirely impressed by him.
“You’re going to
die?”
die?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird. What does it feel like?”
The camera flashgun in his hand went off, making us all jump. “Like that.”
When we’d shivered back to earth, he put the flashgun on a table and gestured with his head. “Come with me a minute, Harry. I want to show you something.”
All three of us would have followed at that moment if he’d asked. I looked at my father to see if it was okay to go, but couldn’t catch his eye because he was watching Layne-Dyer so intently.
“Come on, Harry, we’ll be back soon.”
He took my hand and led me farther back into the studio, through a large woody kitchen with silver pots of different sizes hanging from the walls like drops of frozen mercury, a big bunch of red onions and one of ivory garlic.
“Does your wife like to cook?”
“
I
like to cook, Harry. What’s your favorite food?”
I
like to cook, Harry. What’s your favorite food?”
“Spare ribs, I guess,” I said disapprovingly. Men weren’t supposed to cook. I was not happy with his disclosure, but he
was
dying and that was thrilling. At my age I’d heard a lot about death and even seen my grandfather in his coffin looking rested. But being near a death actually taking place was something else. Years later in a biology class, I watched a snake devour a live mouse bit by wriggling bit. That is what it was like to be with Layne-Dyer that single day, knowing something was killing him even as we stood there looking at his red onions.
was
dying and that was thrilling. At my age I’d heard a lot about death and even seen my grandfather in his coffin looking rested. But being near a death actually taking place was something else. Years later in a biology class, I watched a snake devour a live mouse bit by wriggling bit. That is what it was like to be with Layne-Dyer that single day, knowing something was killing him even as we stood there looking at his red onions.
“Come on.” We left the kitchen and came to one last room that was quite dark and empty but for something that made me gasp: a house. A house the size of a sofa. From the first moment, it was clear this was no rinky-dink girl’s dollhouse full of pink curtains and little fringed Barbie beds. This was big serious stuff.
“Wow! What’s that?” I didn’t wait for an answer before going over.
“Have a look before I tell you.”
I was a kid who loved to talk unless something was so fascinating that it shut me up without my knowing it, or stunned me into silence, or so glutted me with its presence that I’d lose all appetite for talking.
The photographer’s house did it. Later, when I studied architecture and learned all the formal terms, I realized the house was postmodern long before the term ever existed. Its lines, columns, and color combinations predated the work of Michael Graves and Hans Hollein by at least a decade.
But eight-year-olds aren’t silenced by postmodernism. They are silenced by wonder, the orange flame and thunder crack of the miraculous right in front of them. What was, then, so completely absorbing about Layne-Dyer’s model? The perfect details, at first. Carved brass doorknobs the size of corn kernels, stained or bottle glass in most windows, a copper weather vane shaped like the dog in the photograph in the other room. The more complete something is, the more it reassures us. Time was spent here, someone’s world stopped for a while—hours? days?—while they worked to get it right. Their result tells us it is possible to do things till the end, till
we
—not God, not fate—decide it is finished.
we
—not God, not fate—decide it is finished.
I couldn’t stop touching the house, and everything I touched was beautifully or solidly made. The only odd part was that on one side of the building a portion of the roof had been removed and one of the upstairs rooms seemed to be under construction. It looked like a cutaway diagram in a do-it-yourself repair magazine.
After the initial delight passed and I’d run my hands over it like a blind man, pausing everywhere for little detours and hidden wonders, a second level of awareness set in. It eventually struck me that things actually went
on
in this house: Homework was finished, bread was baked, checks written, dogs ran across wooden floors when a doorbell rang.
on
in this house: Homework was finished, bread was baked, checks written, dogs ran across wooden floors when a doorbell rang.
I watched “Twilight Zone” and “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” on television and had seen shows where doll’s houses were malevolent, dangerous things full of toys from hell, or worse. But despite the very strong sense of motion and real life around Layne-Dyer’s model, I felt no danger; didn’t feel frightened or threatened by it.
“I’ll show you something.” Coming around me, he went to the section where the roof had been taken off and put his hand down into the exposed room. When it reappeared, it was holding a bed the size of a small loaf of bread.
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