Life, 1924-07-24 · page 20 of 36
Life — July 24, 1924 — page 20: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical piece mocks the pretentiousness of early 20th-century artistic "salons"—gatherings where the cultural elite showcased avant-garde performances. The narrator is reluctantly dragged to Mrs. Gasper's salon by his niece Millicent, where he endures deliberately obscure performances: Ukrainian folk songs with made-up instruments, an incomprehensible medieval Italian morality play, and Elizabethan ballads performed with exaggerated theatricality (including one absurdly ending with "shimmy-shake"). The humor lies in exposing salon culture as pretentious nonsense masquerading as sophistication. The final panel's cartoon joke references Prohibition: when the niece suggests they should have vacationed abroad, the response is "Father's got a new bootlegger"—suggesting the only worthwhile "cultural" development is access to illegal alcohol during Prohibition. The author (Rollin Kirby) uses the saloon/salon pun as social criticism.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
18 The Anti-Salon League PEOPLE ask you to do strange things sometimes. My niece, Milli- cent, called me up one day and said, “I want you to be a good boy and come with me to Mrs. Gasper’s.” “Mrs. Gasper’s?” “Mrs. Gasper has a Salon and it's very edifying. All sorts of clever people do things.” “It sounds terrible,” I “Don't make me do it.” So we went and I was duly presented to Mrs. Gasper. The program was opened by a Mr, Serge Shereshefsky, who sang a cycle of Ukranian folk-songs accompanied by Mme. Kashva on the zamtova, an instrument corresponding to the Peru- vian cochilla except that it carries three extra bass strings on an outrigger in the manner of the Lithuanian horpslév or vir, Those of the guests who understood Ukranian applauded. Then Mrs. Gasper arose and intro- duced Mrs. Ivy Singleton-Morse, a most formidable person with a plush look. Mrs. Singleton-Morse, it appeared, would read her own, in a. manner of speaking, poetical, one-act quattrocento morality drama entitled, “The Bean Gatherer of Padua.” I leaned over to Millicent. “These people,” I said, “may not be clever but they are certainly doing things.” The next number I may not be able te report with absolute accuracy. It was given by a thin English girl who had come all the way from Brompton Road to supplant jazz by the songs and ballads of the Elizabethan era. She was intensely alive, using her eyes and tecth and angular arms with telling effect. Her first number ran, as I recall it, as follows: pleaded. “It happened on St. Martin's Day; With a hey down willy wallow, There came a maid to Prior's Bay, With a hey down willy wallow. “For she was just from the county gaol ; With a hey down willy wallow, Which made her look uncommon pale, With a hey down derry down.” Quaint was the only word for it. Her next was just a madrigal, the sort we all have known since childhood : “I WISH WE COULD HAVE GONE ABROAD THIS SUMMER,” “WE DON'T NEED TO.” “wHy Not?” “PATHER'S GOT A NEW BOOTLEGGER.” “Strephon pipes—Fal lal la! Spring is here—Fal lal la! Days and nights in turn appear. Fal la! The tabor’s sound—Fal lal la! By budding brake—Fal lal la! Maketh Chloé shimmy-shake. Fal la!” By this time 1 was a babbling idiot. I seized Millicent by the arm. Mrs. Gasper was at the door. “Thank you,” smiled Millicent, “for a most charming evening.” “Mrs. Gasper,” said I, looking her in the cye, “I'll get even with you if it takes the rest of my life.” I hailed a taxi. “Where to?” asked the driver. “To the Poultry Show,” I said as I pushed my niece in. Rollin Kirby. Unlisted N connection with the recent explo- sion on the battleship Mississippi all the newspapers published lists of other disasters occurring in our Navy. Oddly enough, none of these lists contained a reference to Denby. comicbooks.com