Tosh. Tosh Berman

      WALLACE BERMAN / Roudoulph Morand (“Dodo”), Tosh’s maternal grandfather

      I can’t speak for Fergie because I never met him, but Wallace—although very gentle, and even an artistic genius (as he was in life, as well)—was very much an American male of that era. He required a woman who would support his one-way route to art-life and not put restrictions on his time and his need for attention. If I’d been her, I wouldn’t have married him, which might seem to be an odd thing for the offspring of that relationship to say. But the women of that era had a bad deal in terms of gender equality. It was almost an act of cruelty in that one could see a window of opportunity opening up for them. But the counterculture itself was no better than the previous generation. At best, women were expected to be the backup in case the male fell apart. In the world of the beats, if you were a woman, and not an artist or writer, you tended to be treated as an individual who supported the male author/artist. You were supposed to keep the home intact, as well as clean up after the artist, and cook the meals. And, God forbid, if you had a child, you pretty much had to take care of that as well, due to the artist or writer spending long hours in the studio focusing on his art, and preoccupied with the thought of the female as Muse. Every artist needed one to encourage the work. Of course, it was the worst kind of horseshit, because it was a power play; it gave the female credit for something she didn’t do and therefore served as a safe ground culturally to both praise and condemn the woman. But if the work didn’t happen, whose fault was it? The Muse’s?

      As a child, I never picked up on any of this, but as an adult, I can now clearly see the horror that was the hippie and beat dream, which was geared towards the male. There were more opportunities for those who knew how to carry out the hustle. In the scene in those days, there were basically two types of women. There were wild ones like Loree, who embraced the criminal life, and who were chemically/naturally insane. Then there was my mom: sweet, obviously smart, terrific instincts in supporting a family, and, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women at that time. Lucky for me, she was the greatest mother. I lived like a good book on a bookshelf. On one end was my mom and the other was my father, both holding me in place between their loving arms.

      But being married to Wallace wasn’t easy. For instance, my mother had been keeping a diary, and Wallace made her stop. My dad was either afraid how he would turn out or that his private life would be exposed, but I can’t imagine how cruel that is, to stop my mom from keeping a journal. The proper husband should always support the wife doing whatever she wants to do. Surely one would think that “love” could only go so far. But I believe that it was very clear that Wallace wanted to be the househusband, working on the artwork and taking care of my basic needs, while his wife got a salary of some sort—in other words, very much the street mentality of a hustler and pimp.

      It pains me that my mom wasn’t allowed to keep a journal of the years she spent with my dad. Not simply because he’s a known artist, but because there’s very little literature from the beat era from a female point of view. Carolyn Cassady wrote a book about her relationship with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, and there’s Diana di Prima’s memoir of being a writer during that era, but there aren’t a lot of books from those crucial countercultural years written by women. To this day, I can never forgive Wallace for not allowing my mom to keep up her journal.

      But though it was a selfish act on his part, I think he believed he was doing what was right for his wife and son. The gray areas where one lives were important for Wallace. I don’t think it was intellectual, but more of an emotional response to how he saw the world between his life and the life outside his environment. Looking back, I often wonder why Wallace had such a desire to maintain his privacy. I suspect he had a profound distrust of the outside world. Somewhere down the path to becoming an artist, he’d had to reject parts of the straight world that he couldn’t see eye-to-eye with, and the post-war years in America were harsh for that particular type of individual. Someone like my dad, who felt very much part of the black American underworld of jazz and street culture, just couldn’t accept the mainstream. I suspect he felt that the straight world was out to destroy him and his chosen lifestyle. But this was the code that my father belonged to, and it wasn’t like he had other choices in his life. He couldn’t do anything else except be Wallace Berman: brilliant, iconic, magnetic, and a pain in the butt. In theory, genius is great, but God forbid anyone has to share the artist’s world, because it is often frustrating for one who isn’t allowed to get off the ride.

      My mom is likely the most captivating person I know. She is perceived as deadly quiet, but she witnessed the most enchanting aspects of midcentury bohemian culture. Like Wallace, she attracted attention, obviously because of her looks, but also due to her aura; she has that “it” quality that you can’t learn or acquire. You have to be born with “it,” and that’s very much part of Shirley’s character as well. My parents didn’t learn to be who they are; they simply were born with unique characteristics, almost like royalty. If Wallace had the knack to choose the right place and time, so did my mom, in her own fashion. Both were quiet. My mom was even more reserved, but like my dad, she has great instincts, and I would never doubt her opinion or position on something. She tends to react emotionally, which I think is good. Ten minutes later, she allows the emotion to pass, and then usually gives great advice. Wallace was also a man of emotional torrents. There was a quietness about him, but he never was shy in conveying an opinion, and he had a way of looking at something, whether it was mere entertainment or a serious work of art, that separated the bullshit from the package designed to make the shit not smell. Both of my parents were very honest.

      By the end of the ’50s, my mom had become an iconic figure and a muse of sorts, not only for my father, but also for photographers such as the very heterosexual Charles Brittin, and the very homosexual Edmund Teske. The ironic thing is, she doesn’t like to have her picture taken. Wallace for sure hated to be photographed by someone else, but Shirley’s attitude to the camera is that it’s a machine that is bumping into her intimate space, and therefore her stance is one of not caring how or by whom or why the photo is made. Probably the most iconic image of my mom is the cover for Semina 4. She stares right into the camera with a mixture of anger, defiance, and not giving a fuck. All three attitudes at the same time in front of a camera are very attractive, hence the portrait’s iconic status. She told me many years later she was suffering from a migraine when that photo was taken. My dad took it, of course, and he should get some of the credit, but I feel it is my mom’s personality that makes her such a great subject as a model for her three photographers. She’s beautiful, but it’s not her beauty alone that carries the image. Her attitude is part of the package, and it is quite remarkable even in this day and age to see someone so cool and willing to take the circumstances with that stance.