Edward Gordon CRAIG (1872–1966) - Lot 103

Lot n° 103
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Edward Gordon CRAIG (1872–1966) - Lot 103
Edward Gordon CRAIG (1872–1966) A significant collection of 22 letters and 8 postcards in English, dated 1911 and addressed to Jurgis Kasimirovitch Baltruchaïtis (1873–1944), some featuring drawings and set designs, notably for costumes by Léon Bakst: -Letter dated March 1 "A great desire to work out and test the conclusions I have reached. You see, the Moscow actors are splendid at interpreting the prose of life. Not the poetry. They know how to reason, not how to blossom. They know how to knit their brows, not how to loosen their legs. And this power to blossom, bubble, and pour out their passion—red or white—only I can teach them. That is the worst of it. I should not teach by blossoming, bubbling, or pouring out my own passion, because that leads only to imitation. But I would teach them which parts of the pie to cover with their fingers, which to uncover, and what music NOT to play. The art of theater is as easy to master as any other art, but certain conditions of the soul, body, and surroundings are necessary. I wish I could write this to Stanislavsky, but I cannot, for I do not speak German well enough, and he does not read English. But it is of the utmost importance to him, to me, and most of all to the theater of Europe and the *people of Europe that he and I work together AGAINST all the others in Europe. Ten people cannot achieve this. Five cannot. Two might. I will.” -Letter dated 10.X "Dear B. We’re going to have tea in ten minutes. What a pity you aren’t here to have a cup of it and a slice of bread and jam. And then a chat about nothing—how delightful. Did you say you go to the doctors in Bern? Doctors—well, that’s good, but go mostly to Dr. Rest. And don’t drink coffee: give me two of your cups of coffee every day. That still leaves you 10 cups, since every (?) is doppo. (...) I still have a room in Paris for you whenever you need it. When will you come to London? I don’t think it would make you happy, but it would amaze you, and you’d laugh at the terrible specter—while you tightened your grip on your cane. It’s only after 40 years that I’m beginning to get used to that terrifying monster. How is Georgio? Are you more reassured about his health? And how is Madame Baltruchaïtis? (...) My England is pretty and tidy; even the country roads are mowed on both sides every year so that the edges are neat and sharp. And everything is small. Hence, people are small on the inside and tidy on the outside (unlike G-C, who is untidy inside and out). I have been asked to present a paper before the Royal Society of Arts, an ancient institution. I feel very “stuck-up.” -Alassio “Shall we speak for a moment about this Moscow affair? I note that little ** signs himself ‘Director of the Moscow Art Theater.’ Is that another of Thor’s “correctisms”? It seems plain that they do not want me to finish the work I began. Why? That seems unclear to me. A few rubles is not the reason. I think it is the ancient reason: fear. A thunderstorm is raging here as I write—lightning fierce and terrible, noise, and gray rain. Such things always fill me with terror. But how I could fill the heart of the dear little Moscow Art Theater with terror is incomprehensible to me. By the way, I see that poor Prezolini has been convicted. I have received no reply from Stanislavsky. I find it strange that when he writes to me and I reply, I hear nothing more until a clerk sends me a letter informing me of his dismissal. It’s excruciatingly funny. Should I suppose I ought to be glad that the G didn’t stab me or put poison in my tea? Fear will give birth to any monstrosity. But Stanislavsky. Stanislavsky. I cannot understand you and the part you play in all this." —approx. June 1911 "It is very strange (and exciting) that when you left Alassio, things became quite different for all of us. Not so much the café, not the hotel, nor the street—but the long stretch of curved sand that led to the rocks. And we never went there quite as willingly, and never failed to look along it, expecting to see you. You had become like a part of nature, where the silences are the most eloquent. This memory makes me almost able to read your poems, even though I don’t understand a word. I wish, I wish I could actually read them (...) I am sending you today, by another mail, a little piece of my work—a drawing that I hope won’t be as talkative as I am in my letters.” -Letter from Paris (June) 1911: a drawing depicting him and J.K. Baltruchaïtis as bandits preparing to ambush Astrue, a person who is giving Craig a hard time about his school. -Paris, June “My school, like an egg, sits beneath me. Soon we shall hear the cackle—& eccolo!! a goose! If your poems are “einzige Blumen auf der dunkel(en) und weise(n) Erde,” I am surprised, for you make the Earth multicolored and full of light. How bright must the poems be to look brighter than the brightest.” -June 24, on the envelope: “I hear Stanislavsky has gone off his head. Is it true?” “He seemed (like so many Russians) delighted. That’s what I like so much about them—as with Italians—unlike with
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