FISH! FISH! FISHI FISH! FISH! FISH FISH
Professor Zazzo Thim’s experimentations with surrealism have been well-documented, though there are still one or two questions which have remained outstanding from this most provocative and exciting time of his life. Indeed, many historians have assessed the time to be one of great bonhomie among the surrealists, with Thim himself occupying the role of grand master. Yet my investigations have uncovered the truth, and it appears that the determination and the willingness to subvert which we now associate with the surrealist fad was, if anything, subdued.
Jacques Collard was one of the surrealists. An old man now, he remembers the time fondly, though his brow creases into an ugly frown the moment I remind him of Zazzo Thim.
“No, no, no!”, , he says. “The view we have no of Thim’s part in this is all wrong! It is based on Thim’s own testimony! We hardly ever saw him as one of us! If anything, we saw him as an annoyance …”.
Collard paints a picture of the cafe culture prevalent at the time, of the surrealists, united by their subversive acts, holding court at one of the many Parisian bars associated with deep thought, philosophical ideals and literary merit. “We would make such grand pronouncements” Collard says, “Such as proclaiming the death of language, or at least, the terminal illness of the full stop. None of us had a clue what it meant, it just felt good to say it. Bilo was the master at the time – an artist, he had embraced surrealism for all its worth and he created bizarre works which he exhibited here and there throughout the city. We became known for our fine talk, our love of food, and our rebellious spirit. There were always disciples, or tourists eager to catch our glimpse. To start with we thought Zazzo Thiim was one of these”.
Collard leans back and presses his palms together as if in prayer. His apartment looks out over a flower market, a merry-go-round, and the white wedding cake of Sacre Coeur towering above. His voice deepens as he remembers his subject.
“We knew very early on”, he whispers, “That Zazzo Thim was an idiot”.
“Go on”.
“The first thing he said was, I want to be like you. I want to be with you. I want to be a surrealist”. We asked him if he was a surrealist at heart, and if he ever dreamt of lobsters, or bearded nuns. No, he replies, but he did once spend a night in Basingstoke. At this we turned to each other, as if confirming our suspicions. ‘What form of surrealism are you developing at the moment?’, Bilo asked. ‘Literature’, Thim replies, without hesitation. I remember the groan which passed around the cafe terrace. ‘In a medium such as ours, the fullest impact is gained through visual means’, Bilo told the hapless youth. ‘Surrealism is about the ephemeral, the short-lived, the dream-like, the throw-away. You would have to prove to us your devotion to the cause before we even considered you as an equal’.
“I can do it”, Thim said, filled with an unusual confidence.
“Then you have one week.”
“We all waited for Thiim to leave before we fell about, laughing. Oh, how I remember that week! A cold spell had fallen upon the city and we were frozen to the bone. The cafe terrace was warmed by a gas heater, yet the chill and the drizzle still fell from an overcast grey sky. We talked about many things, the surrealists and I. We talked of our art, and the methods we would employ, as we put it, to go beyond surrealism, to the next phase, whatever that might be. We would talk for hours of this exciting time, and speculate as to what the world might look like if surrealism was developed further.
“Thim came back the next night. He always wore along scarf, the ends of which would trail along the cobblestones. ‘See here!’, he said, coming over to our table and standing in our midst. ‘For I have created a surrealistic masterpiece!’
Ms. Muller-Reed, an art critic of note, took a drag on her cigarette and motioned that he enlighten us further.
‘A poem’, Thim said. ‘Called, ‘Ode to a Washer-woman’.
Thim straightened, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, and began to read. ‘Hippo hippo hippo! Yawn, oh hippo, oh yawn! And then we both swat at a swarm of bees..”
We looked at him for a while, and it was Bilo who spoke first. ‘Merely a pastiche”, he said
“We all laughed. Oh, how cruelly we laughed. Ms. Muller-Reed especially could find no sense in a poem about a hippo and a swarm of bees and she was most vociferous in her condemnation.
“What do you take us for!”, she hooted, slamming her palm down on the table surface. “I’ve never heard such rot!”
“Dejected, the hapless youth slouched off, and we continued our speculations as to the advancement of our cause.
“The next night he came back again. By now it was very cold and there was a light snow falling from the sky. We wore gloves and sat around the heater, shivering, though unwilling to venture inside. ‘A-ha!’, said Bilo, on seeing young Zazzo. ‘Here he comes again with another poem for us!’
‘More than a poem’, Thim replied, ‘But a surrealistic masterpiece!’
Knowingly, Ms. Muller-Reed winked, and we sat back in glorious expectation.
“The Cinema’, Thim said. He cleared his throat and began to recite: In the cinema I cook asparagus. The marching band sneeze in unison. A-tisshoo! A-tisshoo! Here comes my aunt with the Christmas tree.
‘Stop!, Bilo said. ‘Please, stop!’ Dramatically, he placed his hands over his ears. But it was too late, for Ms. Muller-Reed was already roaring with laughter.
‘Oh dear, oh dear! What a marvellous send-up! Never have I heard such a fateful attempt at surrealism! Go, go this instant! Oh dear, I think I shall be quite senseless if this were to continue any longer..!
“The next night he came again, more determined than ever, and he grandly announced that he had a poem which would re-write the rules, and leave them gasping at his abilities. He then proceeded to show them a blank piece of paper. “Here it is’, he said, ‘My poem. At the bottom of the page was the smallest full-stop.
‘Now you’re just being silly’, Bilo said. And they all roared with laughter once again.
“I must admit, I began to feel sorry for Zazzo Thim. A pattern emerged – he would come every night with his latest attempt at surrealism, and we would laugh, and then he would go home, dejected, crestfallen. It became our tradition, and we would speculate freely on what delights he would have for us. It was as if he was trying a little too hard, you know what I mean? Anyway, about a week afterwards I decided I would find where he lived and offer him some friendly advice.
“He was staying in a decrepit hotel in the Quatier Latin. The concierge allowed me in and I took a winding, rickerty staircase up to his room. The walls were damp and the landing was ill-lit, I almost fell to my death when one of the steps gave way underneath my shoe. I knocked on his door and he let me in, surprised to see one of his beloved surrealists come to visit him. I remember the smell of his room even now, a mixture of dust and over-worked electrics, the dampness of his bed-clothes, the mould growing on the window-sill. He motioned that I sit in the one armchair, then asked why I had graced him with my presence.
‘I am concerned’, I told him, ‘That your work may be in vain’.
He sat on the edge of the bed in front of me. That fact that you do not find my work notable in any way’, he said, ‘Does not detract from the fact that it is just as worthy, if not, worthier than you realise.’
‘An artist is always protective of his output’, I told him. He looked up at me, his forehead wrinkled, the scarf still wrapped around his neck. ‘Maybe you should write how you feel, rather than how you want to be perceived’.
‘In this modern world’, said he, ‘Are we not now defined by how we are perceived?”
‘ Exactly’, I told him. ‘And I see in you a serious man, a man of strong, sensible conviction, a man so far removed from the basics of surrealism as to irrefutable sober.”
“At this, Zazzo looked down at the floor and let out big sigh.
‘Don’t you see?’, he whispered. I don’t care about surrealism. I don’t care about the basics of the movement, nor do I care about visual or literary representations. I just want to belong to a group, I want to be surrounded by friends’.
“I got up from my seat. ‘Noble words, indeed’, I whispered. ‘But surrealism is more than just a social club. It is a way of living. And you, my dear friend, are in complete opposition to its aims and philosophies. I must leave you now, for the world here – if you don’t mind me saying – stifles me with its boredom’.
At that moment the door opened and a llama came in. ‘Oh, for goodness sake’, Zazzo said. He ushered it back out into the hall again, and fought briefly, ducking to avoid a globule of spit from the irate beast. He was just about to close the door when a circus clown appeared on the landing from the floor above, inquiring as to the whereabouts of his monkey. I told you before’, Thim said, ‘The last place I saw him was in Papua New Guinea. “But I need it’, the clown whined, ‘Because we are meant to be trampolining for the Duke of Norfolk this afternoon!’ Thim turned to come back into the room when there came the sound of scampering from the stairs and a herd of badgers swamped the landing, jumping over the furniture, flowing en masse as if directed by some primal determination. At last he managed to push the door to, before turning to me again. ‘Sorry about that’, he said. ‘You know, sometimes this place can really get on your nerves’
“The next night he was back at the cafe terrace with another one of his poems. It was about a nun, I remember that. And the nun was having trouble blowing up a balloon, it wasn’t very good. Ms. Muller-Reed made some biting comment about the translation of sense into the senseless, and Bilo snorted back his derision before waving Thim away with a flick of his hand, like a king, dismissing his servant.
‘The trouble with that lad is’, Bilo said, as we watched Thiim walk off to the end of the street, ‘He is far too serious’.
I thanked Collard for his observations, and I went for a walk around the local area. The streets were crowded with tourists, and commercial artists who, running up to me, asked that they paint my portrait for money. I wondered how Thim had acquired this reputation as a surrealist even though he was shunned by the surrealistic establishment, but then I recalled Thiim’s own account of this period, and the opening paragraph of his own autobiography, which begins with the words:
Every day it seemed that strangeness was attracted to me. I became immune to the normal pleasures of living. I would open my brain, and things would be poured in. I didn’t really know what was happening.
I realised that Thim himself had never proclaimed himself to be a master of surrealism, nor had he ever been noted for his surrealistic style, yet the image which has been brought to our consciousness now is of a man so steeped in strangeness as to be wholly consumed by it. And perhaps this was the very form that the cafe patrons were searching for, this one level beyond surrealism, unknowing, unbidden and unconscious. I sat for a while in the park on the steps of Sacre Coeur, and closed my eyes in the afternoon sun. I wondered if it were possible that strangeness can stick to people, that unusual events gravitated only to a certain type of person. How glad I was to be a sober, investigative fellow, inquiring, yet safe from the whims and unconventions of a truly strange world. How satisfying this last thought: that Zazzo Thim was so surrealistic, that the surrealists didn’t even know it. How I revelled in my ordinaryness!
At that moment I was attacked by a flamingo.
Robert Garnham 