By
the time we arrived at what Chinese Rita had called “the most wonderful
house on Ibiza” my head had cleared entirely and I put myself into what
I had come to call my ‘analytic’ mode. This was supposed to ensure that
I would take a sceptical attitude toward anything or anyone I was
supposed to evaluate. Objectivity was to underpin validity and I called
on my professional photographic sensibility to help me evaluate the
architecture of the place, the quality of its location and the nature of
its furnishings. I did all sorts of little exercises like that which
fit into my image of myself while in my ‘analytic’ mode. But there was
nothing for it. I just plain loved the place.
The
main house, which was a signal example of classical, traditional
Ibicenco construction and design, had been restored in a manner most
marvellous. The proportions were happily married and were celebrating
at least their 200th anniversary. During that time they had
become so integrated with the enveloping terrain that the two had
blended one into the other. It was almost impossible to determine where
the house began and where the natural flora surround ended. There were
oceans of flowers and gardens galore, but the greatest flower of them
all was the house itself.
The
main living area was a large and comfortable rectangular room with a
high ceiling. It was held aloft by very hard wood Sabina pine beams of
imposing bulk, which had been hand hewn from the raw trunk. When those
beams had been made, only the axe and adze could have hewn them. No saw
could cut the stone like wood. One could imagine the scene: two strong
men, geared together in a rhythm set by their muscle-needs for oxygen,
stood on opposite sides of a huge, trimmed, tree bole. It lay flush on
the ground, as if exhausted and defeated, on a thick, sorrowful carpet
woven of its own shorn branches. In their hands the men wielded heavy
headed axes to do the rough sizing. Then they used adzes to skilfully
cut and shape the gross, squared beam to exactly the wanted dimensions.
There was not enough energy for talking, so the work was done only to
the sound of heavy breathing. When it was finished, a very hard wooden
beam lay before them. It was perfectly suited to its intended function.
Though it would live for centuries, it had taken perhaps only half a day
to create. There is almost no Sabina left on the island today.
Inside, Jutta’s house was so beautifully furnished that one felt one was
entering a charmed and secret place. On the floors there was a generous
use of sparkling scatter rugs strewn over exquisite old tiles. And in
appropriate places, there were full size carpets from all parts of the
world. There were Keshan, Hamadam and Tariz Orientals, a French
Aubusson and Mughal dynasty rugs from Pakistan. Louis XIV side pieces
mingled with Chinese dragons leaping at you from bulging storage chests
standing alongside medieval suits of armour. It was a museum; no less.
And the paintings on the spotlessly white walls had not only been hung
to form engaging patterns of verticals and horizontals, but had been
chosen with a sense of universal appeal. Ernesto’s touch was
immediately evident to me. Each one was a unique object, but it also
blended effortlessly with the others of its group. And there were more
than a dozen groups.
I
held my breath and said to Jutta, “Only beautiful people could live in
such a beautiful place!” It was the end of my reserve. Like the
conclusion I had come to about her husband Emilio, that he had “no evil
in him”, I also came to the same about her. Jutta recognized the change
in me instantly, for it must have been clearly evident in my bearing, so
radical was it in my feelings. And it brought with it a so welcome
relief to both of us that involuntarily, we held both the hands of the
other, and then we embraced warmly.
The
next order of business was an inspection of Jutta’s guest house, Casa
Paput, which stood only about thirty meters away from the main house. I
had become very anxious to find a place in which to settle so that I
could get started working on my planned project for Ibiza. It was a job
for which I had a fine contract from a major publisher in New York,
McGraw Hill. Most of all, it was a very challenging assignment,
requiring the full use of my abilities and resources. My contract with
McGraw had grown out, of all things, the launching of the Russian
spacecraft, Sputnik, a few years earlier. The American reaction to that
had been, to say the least, agitated. In those cold war years the
international competition between the two great rivals on all levels was
ferocious. But it was particularly hard fought on the scientific front
in general, and especially on the only then emergent, space exploration
front, in particular. So when the Russians were the first to
successfully launch a satellite - called Sputnik - the Americans had
fits. They accelerated their research and investment in Space projects,
rallied their entire scientific establishment to the cause, and called
in the assistance of their national University system as well. Interest
and investment in the Humanities, the study of the Arts and of Human
Culture in general, fell by the wayside for several years. All energies
and focus were glued to Space. When, finally, the Americans caught up
with the Russians, and they did, a guilty awareness that the Humanities
had been seriously, even dangerously, neglected for decades, began to
sink in. While Science had expanded geometrically, the Humanities had
shrunk arithmetically. If things continued in such gross imbalance for
much longer, America would become culturally insignificant.
The
reaction to this awareness was to frantically reinvest in the
Humanities. Universities were prodded and financially helped to update
and modernize their Humanities departments. Humanities budgets were
enlarged all over the country to realize the new objective. Then
American publishers, especially book publishers, were strongly urged to
follow suit. To help them do so, the Government began to subsidize
them, so that they could afford to publish material which was less
commercial and more culturally oriented than they could otherwise have
afforded to produce. The trickle down effect made me, among perhaps
thousands of others, an immediate beneficiary of this national
educational convulsion.
McGraw Hill hired me to do a series of children’s books in Europe.
These books were to be strongly photographic in character but also
strongly narrative at the same time: they were to be designed to show
children in America, from the ages of eight to twelve, how their
counterparts lived in Europe. The contract was for six books, each one
to be done in a different European country, and each book to be a study
of the ordinary life of a boy or girl born into a different
socio-economic class from the others. It was a fine contract, indeed,
and it was high time I got down to working on the book which was the
second on my list. The first had been the French/Paris story which I
had completed about six months before I arrived in Ibiza. It was already
in use in hundreds of schools in the United States. The next book was
intended to tell the story of a boy or girl living and growing up in
Spain under a dictatorial regime. By default, I had chosen to write and
photograph it in Ibiza…by taking that monumental decision to make Ibiza
my permanent home. It was now time I found a place in which to live
because it was now time to go to work. Hence my intense interest in
Casa Paput. Would it do?
Jutta opened the front door. I stepped inside. It was delightful! It
would indeed do. There was a small American style kitchen to the rear,
left, which opened directly onto the main living space accessed directly
by the antique front door. A living space capacious enough for a family
of four. It was about eight or nine meters wide, four meters deep, and
it had built in bed and bench accommodation in the right places. To the
right, rear, behind the main room, was a small but complete bathroom.
Best of all, and quite unexpected, was the presence of electricity.
There was an up-pump system run by it, which made getting cistern water
to the roof an easy matter. From the roof, where the water was stored
in large tanks, gravity down-pressured it to the bath and the kitchen.
And there was even hot water, provided by a pressure driven gas-burning
water heater, right above the kitchen sink.
The
house itself was tucked away in a natural fold of the land and was thus
protected against north winds and storms. The view from its south facing
terrace was magnificent. There, before you, was spread out the whole
southern section of the island. Centred within that view was the Old
Town, boldly thrusting skyward toward the Cathedral, which, like a
medieval castle, overlooked the peaceful village below. The little house
itself was surrounded, almost drowned, by a wilderness of brilliant red
and purple flower bracts of bougainvillea. It was the cottage
dream-house kind of thing, and it was perfect for single occupancy…but
even better for double. As for its style, well it quietly harmonized
with Jutta’s seigniorial villa only a few meters away. What more could
an American with a taste for European living ask for? In no time at all
we had agreed the details and everybody lent a hand unloading the
Renault. Two things now became urgent. The first was to immediately
check up on Flipper and to bring him home to Casa Paput, if he was up to
being moved. And the second was to get in touch with the educational
people on the island and ask for their advice and help in choosing the
young boy who would become the protagonist of the children’s book I
would begin to work on in the next day or two. |