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RECOLLECTIONS OF MARCEL DUCHAMP AND LOUISE AND WALTER ARENSBERG

A  A friend spoke to me about a young Frenchmen, newly arrived in America, Edgar Vérese, an avant grade composer, who had broken his leg and lonely was lying in a hospital downtown in New York. Because I spoke French it was suggested I relieve his loneliness. I found him in a bleak room, with high ceiling, empty of everything except a young man with a bored expression. It was a hot Summer's day and heavy air came through a high window that hid the street.

Young and virginal it embarrassed me to see one bare hairy limb hang out of the bed, while the other was encased in plaster. Varese took in my simple white dress, surprised to hear I was on the stage, acting in French, for with my shyness I had none of the assurance of a cocotte. Relieved to find someone who talked French, he told me his difficulties interesting people in his revolutionary scores, explaining he had invented new instruments, trying to capture the tonalities of street gongs, pipes, the music and soul of the city.

I did not know what he was talking about, besides a fly flew into my mouth, and I was so timid I could not spit it out while he was explaining music. This encompassed my attention, for to my horror I swallowed the fly alive. It would have mattered, except at that moment I met Marcel Duchamp.

Entering he sat down on a stiff chair, and the moment our eyes met it was a beginning and end, for we accepted everything