Helen Frankenthaler
MEMORIES OF THE SAN REMO
9 MARC H 1982
Sunday I read Anatole Broyard's piece in the
Times,
a
preface to a n essay by the late Milton Klonsky. I found it cu riously
mov ing; I say curi ously because whil e I was neve r "clo e" to either of
them I had a sudde n , vivid ly etched th rowback to them a nd our
environment. A gia nt step backwa rds, more tha n three decades.
I keep a pile of literature nex t to my bed on top of whi ch that
art icle of Ana tole's in the Book R eview sec ti on has re ted fo r seve ral
days. I suppose it osmos ized in to my awake-ye t-dream life, and
a round 1 A.M. thi s mo rning I found myself pu tt ing the li ght on,
q uickl y j otting notes, trying to record a n a lready clearl y focused
pictu re of that moment. A with a pa inting, or a symphony, one
often has to race to art icul ate the already give n perfectl y fini shed
pictu re in the mind . T he image of the Sa n R emo R es taurant ,
September 1950. A reverie.
I first went there in the la te forties - a place "down there in the
Vill age," threatenin g to my mother : dange rous, it implied heavy
drinking, loose sex , and the a po theos is of wha t was
not
prescribed for
a collegia te Upper Eas t Sider. I'd ofte n go there with Gaby Rosen–
berg (Rodge rs)* a nd our da tes; Ni ce J ewi sh G irls down from
Bennington a nd M oun t Holyoke. We we re bohemi a n-bent. I read
Tiger's Eye, PR , Kenyon R eview,
went to poe try readings a t the New
School.
T he San R emo, corner M acDou gal and Bleecker , 1948 ,49 :
Ita li an food! Chianti! Spaghetti al dente with white clam sauce,
"good" bread , and danger lurking a t the ba r or seated , either
hunched ove r or freewheeling a t the cafe tables. Every time, there
was Milton waiting for Ana tole o r vice ve rsa. Milton seemed dark ,
silent , brooding, letha rgic. I remember him usua lly looking down
and occasionall y looking up a nd pe rha ps monosyll abic in a call ed-for
· her name as a hopeful actress
