For a chilling depiction of an artistic collaboration gone wrong, it’s hard to beat the scene in Willa Cather’s 1935 novel “Lucy Gayheart,” when singer Clement Sebastian and his accompanist, James Mockford, go sailing.
The boat capsizes and “Mockford . . . fastened himself to his companion with a strangle-hold and dragged him down,” the narrator recounts. Just before the accident, Sebastian had decided to drop Mockford–a greedy schemer who demanded equal billing–in favor of another pianist, but he never got the chance: The grim linkage could not be broken.
Such is the fierce symbiotic struggle implicit in creative duos, the seemingly inextricable coupling of one destiny with another.
The artistic ampersand, binding two names in an audience’s imagination, long has been a familiar sight on book jackets, Broadway marquees, movie posters, handbills, CD boxes and billboards.
How long? In 1607, London playgoers thrilled to “The Knight of the Burning Pestle” by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, who went on to pen together “Love Lies A-Bleeding” (1608) and “The Maid’s Tragedy” (1609). From writing to painting to performing to composing, some artists have discovered a certain synergy–a force greater than an individual artist could muster–when their talents are combined with another’s.
Each creative collaboration, however, must somehow resolve an inherent tension: Art commonly is regarded as a solitary pursuit, as an endeavor reflecting a single will, yet a duo requires cooperation and compromise. What might work fine in business or politics–surrendering one’s private vision to achieve an end satisfactory to two — is anathema in the arts.
“The management of the ego is very important” in collaborations, said Patricia Barey. “Yet the ego is so essential to creativity. It’s a very tricky, very dicey situation. Very delicate.”
Barey, a writer and documentary film producer with offices in Chicago and Tucson, Ariz., wrote “Simon & Garfunkel: Old Friends,” a 1991 biography of the duo whose recordings between 1965 and 1970 made them pop icons. “They were touchstones of that generation,” Barey said. “You get goose pimples thinking of what they meant.”
After only six albums, though, Simon and Garfunkel, who turned out songs such as “The Sounds of Silence” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and who had been buddies since childhood, called it quits. For a time they didn’t even speak, Barey said, although now they are friends again.
Many artistic collaborations seem to end in bitterness, accusations and prolonged silence, further evidence that maintaining a creative partnership is inordinately challenging. In her recent book “Great Dames” (Crown), Marie Brenner chronicles the relationship between Kay Thompson, late author of the “Eloise” children’s books, and her illustrator, Hilary Knight. The union began well but steadily deteriorated.
“At times, the writer and artist were so exasperated with each other that their editor had to write to Knight urging him to stay calm,” Brenner reported. “They would become strained, imagining slights and betrayals where once there had been a productive, even joyous exchange of ideas.”
The crumbling of an artistic partnership is not inevitable, Brenner said. “It’s a question of clashing egos.” Where egos are held properly in check, the teamwork can continue to flourish, she added. “Look at [musical comedy writers] Betty Comden and Adolph Green. They’ve been collaborating happily for 50 years, and they’re still in a room together.”
That is in sharp contrast, however, to the fate of teams such as William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan, who worked separately on their operettas because of a reported mutual loathing; Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, who produced “Brigadoon” and “Camelot” but went through periods of not speaking to each other; and comedians Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin, who were barely civil in the last days of their relationship in the mid-1950s. In a recent New Yorker profile, Lewis recalled one of Martin’s final sentences to him: “You’re nothing to me but a [expletive] dollar sign.”
Artistic collaborations are densely complicated affairs, as much emotional entanglements as professional pairings. Thus when a duo splits up, one of the partners may be devastated.
The late Thomas Heggen, author of the 1946 novel “Mister Roberts,” collaborated with Joshua Logan on the hit stage version of his book. “At such moments they could pass into a state of serene unity, one in which some third force took over and bowled them along, over and around yesterday’s obstacles. It was uncanny, as though they had eluded gravity . . . ” wrote John Leggett in his 1975 biography, “Ross and Tom: Two American Tragedies.”
When Logan moved on to other projects, though, a bereft Heggen committed suicide.
In other cases, an artistic duo may see a sabbatical from each other as the next step in their creative evolution. That’s what happened to the Chicago-based screenwriting team of Tim Kazurinsky and Denise DeClue, who collaborated on films such as “My Bodyguard” and “About Last Night” during a 19-year partnership. A year and a half ago, however, they decided to take a break and work solo, Kazurinsky said. “We’re doing stuff on our own now.”
He added, “The best benefit of working with a partner is that you have a reason to show up somewhere at 9 a.m. and the coffee’s going. The benefit of working alone is that all the decisions are your own. But you don’t have a sounding board.
“I won’t say Denise and I won’t work together again. We’re not right now, but in three years, who knows?”
The reasons why some artistic collaborations end, while others endure, may be murky. “There are different rules,” said Michael Arnopol, a Chicago jazz musician who has played bass with singer and pianist Patricia Barber for two decades. “You have to find what works for you.”
He and Barber try not to spend too much time together off stage, Arnopol said. “A lot of people feel you have to be hanging out together all the time, talking. That’s immature. The art is what runs things.”
Barber agreed. When traveling, she and Arnopol don’t sit next to one another on the plane, she said, so that when they perform, their encounters are fresh.
Even so, the partnership remains intense. “It’s stripping your soul bare. You almost know each other too well,” Barber said. “It’s been very interesting. We essentially grew up together. It doesn’t feel like a marriage–it’s been better. You don’t have to deal with the sexual and emotional elements.
“The good part about a collaboration is that people think of you as a team. You’re tight. The bad part is that it could hinder growth. That’s why Michael makes an effort to play with other people.”
Arnopol conceded that there are other models for artistic partnerships. “A lot of people who collaborate hate each other,” he said. “You can’t be confused by some romantic notion.”
Some collaborations, that is, work in art but not in life: The artists do wonderful things during their professional association, but detest each other outside that realm. The case of Gilbert & Sullivan comes to mind, as does the relationship between Charles Dodgson–better known as Lewis Carroll–and John Tenniel, illustrator of the first edition of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” (1865). Feelings between the two men were less than cordial, as Dodgson provided constant and detailed criticism of Tenniel’s work and Tenniel, for his part, forced Dodgson to eliminate a chapter in the book because he couldn’t think of an illustration for it. According to Morton N. Cohen’s 1995 biography “Lewis Carroll,” Tenniel also demanded that the book’s first printing be recalled; he didn’t like the way the pictures looked when reproduced.
Often, successful artistic partners have decidedly different personalities. Virtually all accounts of the collaboration of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, who met in 1927, contend that while Laurel took a serious interest in writing, directing and editing films, Hardy just learned his lines and showed up. Laurel’s intensity was balanced by Hardy’s easygoing nature, and the partnership thrived.
Songwriters George and Ira Gershwin also had utterly different working methods, according to Edward Jablonski, author of the 1987 book “Gershwin.”
“George could write 10 songs in an afternoon. It would take Ira two weeks to write the lyrics for one of those songs.”
Yet the brothers were always in sync, living and working together as they created songs for shows such as “Funny Face” and “Porgy and Bess,” until George Gershwin’s death at age 38.
“Collaborations have to be give and take,” Jablonski said. “There’s no strict way of saying how any of these guys worked together. You’ve got two big egos, usually. If they’re not too full of themselves, they can work together beautifully.
“Someone once asked Ira which came first: the words or the music. Ira said, `The contract.'”
Why, though, with all the annoyances and compromises, with all the cautionary tales of artistic partnerships gone awry, would anybody want to collaborate?
William Levinson, a TV and movie writer who has worked alone and with a partner, thinks he may have the answer: reinforcements.
“In Hollywood, you’re always taking meetings. There are always at least two executives. If you’re alone, it’s two against one. But if there are two of you, you can at least look at each other and make gestures and facial expressions.”
