More than linked biographies of six women who embodied the 1920s flapper lifestyle - Diana Cooper, Nancy Cunard, Tallulah Bankhead, Tamara de Lempicka, Zelda Fitzgerald and Josephine Baker - this book is also a women's history and a portrait of a decade, especially in the arts. It was compulsively readable, despite (or perhaps because of) some of the gaudier details on show.
According to Mackrell, the basic goal of the flapper was simply to enjoy herself; while some of the women featured would become activists later in life, few of them took any interest in issues of politics during the decade itself. They were, however, the most liberated generation of women for decades, if not centuries, enjoying unprecedented financial, cultural, and sexual freedom, but doing so entirely without any template for how to enjoy this freedom responsibly. Their self-destructive impulses, however, seem poorly explained by the author's surmise that they didn't know how to balance self-interest with family. The Fitzgerald marriage did not run aground purely on the shoals of Zelda's intemperance. The vices - alcoholism, smoking, compulsive and sometimes either masochistic or predatory sexual behaviour - which impoverished so many of them physically and emotionally are perhaps better explained by early trauma (war, revolution, growing up as minorities) than by the fact of their freedom of choice.
It is perhaps art about which this book has the most to say. All the women featured in the book were involved in the arts: they are a mime actress, a poet and publisher, a stage actress, an artist, a singer/dancer, and Zelda Fitzgerald, who tried a lot of things. I came away from this book convinced that the 1920s had some INCREDIBLY damaging and awful attitudes about art, which must have strongly contributed to how so many of these women ended up with their mental health in tatters. As a writer, I can tell you that these attitudes certainly do linger, but not so much among artists themselves - which I think means that we're a much healthier bunch these days.
First, there was a complete lack of self-discipline when it came to artistic production. F Scott Fitzgerald produced only what, four or five novels during his brief lifetime; and he agonised over every single one of them. This was, I cannot stress enough, not for the sake of pursuing artistic greatness. It was because he insisted upon going out to parties every night, fighting with his wife and drinking himself senseless with Ernest Hemingway. If he'd simply worked at his job like a craftsman, he might have lived twice as long, produced four times as many novels, and not made life miserable for himself and Zelda. And Zelda was so clearly craving some structure and meaningful employment, you know? When she decided at the age of 27 that she was going to become a world-class ballerina, she began an obsessive practice regimen that consumed her life. I think she had discovered the pleasure of steady work for the first time in her life, and carried it straight to excess. And she wasn't the only one. From Tallulah Bankhead, incapable of rising above a small set of stock characters, to Nancy Cunard, unwilling to hone her poetic technique, many of the artists in this book (with the exception of Josephine Baker) failed to work hard and improve themselves.
Second, this lack of self-discipline seems to stem from a Dionysian concept of true art as being self-expression of an authentic, yet utterly unique self. To become a great artist, you had to curate a unique and authentic personality, usually passionate and tortured. That was another of Scott and Zelda's problems. Mackrell, writing through the lens of the 21st century, says that they were trapped in the myth of their own celebrity; yet the need to create that myth - a kind of never-ending performance art, showcasing the grand passion of two temperamental artists tormenting each other even as they draw upon each other for inspiration - stems from this concept of art as authentic self-expression. "Horrible things have happened to me through my inability to express myself" Zelda wrote later in life, bemoaning her inability to find an artistic metier of her own. Tamara de Lempicka, like the Fitzgeralds, seems to have believed that she could not create art until she had first created herself as the outrageous artist: in pursuit of this persona, she embarked upon serial affairs and hosted laboriously scandalous dinner parties at which the waitstaff found themselves expected to do sex work. Again, I can't help feeling that far more art would have been produced, under far less painful circumstances for the artists and everyone who came into contact with them, if they'd simply been able to see themselves as craftspeople rather than demigods.
Third and finally, once the artist had crafted a suitably Dionysian persona, and had jettisoned any faculties of self-discipline, there came the necessity of producing art that was utterly unique, original, and artistically brilliant. I probably need to issue a disclaimer here: I think that artistic quality is very important, and that it's also very important that an artist have something new to say. I have sometimes read a book and wanted to cup the author's face gently between my hands and ask them to spend a little more time coming up with their own ideas. More often I've wanted to bash them over the head with a throw cushion and ask them to do better at actually writing those ideas. But I think that the artists of the 1920s were subjecting themselves to utterly unrealistic and destructive expectations. Nancy Cunard, for instance, never won critical acclaim for her poetry because her work was derivative of everything else she was reading; she was expected to be another TS Eliot when she was simply writing in the style of TS Eliot. And yet: did her poetry really need to be anything other than what it was? Is it not enough for art, that you want to make the art, and that other people like to experience it? The same misconception wreaked absolute havoc on Zelda Fitzgerald: she passed up her one chance of a real balletic career because it would only have offered her bit parts with an opera company. Meanwhile, she was absolutely determined to be a star with the Ballets Russes, the universally acknowledged avant garde of ballet. She couldn't imagine being content with a life of mediocre craftsmanship, even though it was by this point, after 27 years of idleness and partying, the best she could do as a dancer. This is one misconception that Mackrell seems to buy into, agreeing that none of these women really achieved true artistic greatness. Yet this didn't need to be the life-threatening catastrophe that it was for so many of them, if only it had been possible to acknowledge that sometimes it's OK to make art that is just middle-of-the-road. Sometimes you just need to work at something that isn't life-changing or world-altering! There's no earthly reason why that thing can't be art, especially if it makes you happy, enriches the lives of others, and puts food on the table!
When it comes down to it, I think that a lot of the problems these women faced, ultimately stemmed from these three horribly destructive beliefs about art. I'm so glad that we've begun to move away from them, and I hope that we continue to do so in the future.