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Studio in Piedmont
Baum
When did you move into this house?
Martinez
We lived in the first studio in Piedmont one year (1907-08) after we were married. Then Wickham Havens found some wealthy
people who bought the whole tract and they wanted the piece on which the studio was built, too. He said he'd give us this
lot with the view, which we preferred, and would move the studio for us. It was taken apart and brought over here and Frederick
Meyer, who ran the art school, the California School of Arts and Crafts, had really a very charming design for the remodeling.
Baum
You took part of the old studio?
Martinez
Yes, it was taken apart and the material used over again. But we brought with us the original design of Meyer's, which was
rather attractive. We were going to put just an underpinning under it and a kitchen and so on. Our carpenter, "Booster" Smith
had a yen for art, so he agreed to build the studio for a painting. Naturally, he wanted to finish it as fast as he could,
so every time he could make a shortcut to save time he would ignore the design, with Marty's approval, and leave something
out or switch a door around. So, Meyer's design suffered considerably.
The lot was on a ridge and the studio was built on the side of the hill. My brothers and I dug, out of the solid rock, fourteen
piers, to carry the foundation. This house is on solid rock, that's why it's never shifted in the slightest.
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"Booster" got the lumber down at an Oakland pier, already creosoted. Thirty years later, when a banker came to inspect the
studio before granting a loan for repairs, he exclaimed, "Good Heavens, you could almost put the Bank of England on this foundation!"
This material was bought by a $300 check sent to Marty by Arthur B. Davies just after the earthquake, to help a fellow artist.
And then the daily routine began. His friends arrived, prepared to work with gloves and a hammer. First, each day, Marty got
out his gallon of wine, declared they would have to start correctly, and they would start with a libation — they would all
have a glass of wine. Then they'd work briskly for an hour and then stop for another glass of wine. By the end of the day,
the gallon jug was empty. Later, an expert who had to work on one of the windows said it was one of the funniest things he'd
ever seen — the difference in the dimensions — each one was just out a little — and wondered how they had gotten it in place.
Anyhow, it was built that way, and —
Baum
It seems to have stood up for quite a while.
Martinez
Yes, fifty years — more than that — 1908 to 1967 — now almost sixty years old.
Baum
You had this big studio room with a porch —
Martinez
This room is just as it was, except for the addition of a little powder room later when Kai was married. We had a porch across
the front of the studio, around one side. Kai had the large windows put in when remodeling it after her marriage to Ralph
DuCasse. The remodeling job was a wedding present from her father-in-law, Ralph
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DuCasse Senior.
Baum
Then downstairs, originally, you had a kitchenette and a little dining room and the bedroom....
Martinez
And the bathroom under it and below was Marty's studio, designed and built by Billy Knowles. We really have three stories
on this place because it is built on the side of a hill.
Billy Knowles was our prominent Oakland architect. When Kai was one year old, Marty told Knowles he couldn't paint because
he was afraid the baby would get into his paint. So, Billy Knowles announced, "I'll fix a studio for you." Billy Knowles sent
up the materials and carpenters and built the studio so Marty could paint. This room — the old studio — is the same — the
old redwood walls which are so characteristic of California.
Baum
You had this high vault in the middle of the ceiling in the studio, too?
Martinez
No, originally the ceiling was open to the rafters. The studio was so hard to heat that Billy Knowles remarked, "It would
be better to fill this space in and it'll be easier for you to heat the studio."
Baum
Well, it certainly is charming now.
Martinez
Well, it was very simple then when we built it. Marty's corner held his desk and his table and his little old Victrola, his
big easel and his little Bible with his painting materials.
In another corner stood my grand piano on which I diligently practiced and a small set of drawers which held my music and
all the materials for my various studies, including art.
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We had one couch and a couple of chairs, a built-in window seat under the wide window overlooking the Bay. That comprised
the furnishing of the studio — no carpets on the floor save an Indian rug before the couch. Marty's art materials and large
easel were moved down to the lower studio after Kai was born.
Baum
Did friends come to spend the night with you?
Martinez
Oh yes. We'd go over to San Francisco on the weekends and we always brought back several guests with us. We used to put the
men down in the lower studio with Marty, and the girls I put on army cots on the sleeping porch with me. Even after Kai was
born we still had friends coming and going.
I didn't get to the city as much for a while. I hardly left the hill until Kai was two years old. She was a very timid child,
so I was never going to let her be frightened. I had an enormous number of studies at that time — anthropology, archaeology,
and psychology — so that suited me — combining baby sitting and studies. The weekends were as gay as usual.
The first six years of our marriage we had a very active life — so much of it spent in San Francisco. I remember the celebrated
bar in the Montgomery Block where Nicols dispenses his famour Pisco Punches. In those days ladies were not allowed at the
bar. That was not done, so I'd have to sit in the little ladies' room, sipping my Pisco Punch, and wait for Marty and his
friends.
To Marty the Italian quarter had become the "Latin Quarter" of his student days in Paris and much of our time in San Francisco
was spent there. The Barbary Coast branched off the Italian quarter and
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when Perry Newberry made his one and only try at a political office, the Italian quarter and Barbary Coast were his beat to
drum up votes. So Perry took us to meet his friends in the Barbary Coast.
We went down the life of the dance halls with him and finally settled on Spider Kelly's Thalia as the most interesting dance
hall in the Coast, and we spent most of our time at his place. It was a very large, almost barn-like structure (built at the
time of the Gold Rush), and still had an atmosphere reminiscent of that period. On both sides of the hall ran a built-up runway
with tables and chairs for those who wanted to drink or watch the dancing on the floor below. It was very picturesque and
an ideal spot for sketching. The artists became regular customers of Spider Kelly, which pleased him since he considered it
added prestige to have his place popular with artists. At the entrance was a tremendous bar — half a block long. Spider Kelly,
the boss of the joint, taught me how to wash glasses correctly. He had immense tiers of beautiful shining glasses. When I
admired them he demonstrated his technique for me. "You must wash them in very soapy water and then you rinse the inside,
but you never rinse the outside because soap polishes them." He was an ex-prize fighter He had a thick squat body and huge
long arms, so he had justly earned his title.
Around 1908 some of the best restaurants and even some of the taverns had singers and performers. One night at the Techau
Tavern I saw a huge, blonde, gorgeous female in electric blue satin singing Wagnerian arias. During her performance the waiters
were busily
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muting the clatter of latecomers and the empty chatter of inattentive females. Then at 12 o'clock she appeared at the Thalia.
In tribute to that grand old girl and her magnificent voice, down in the Barbary Coast there was not a sound. It was the greatest
respect I've ever witnessed in any place. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone — sailors, soldiers, roustabouts, drifters
— the debris of a port city — was entranced. I remembered the Techau Tavern — the sound of clinking glasses, the shrill voices,
that shattered the spell of Wagner's deeply tragic moments.
At that time Paul Whiteman had a small orchestra which was playing at the Bella Union. His violinist, a friend of Marty's
who had been first violinist with the Boston Symphony and through alcoholism had dropped down to playing in small orchestras
on the Barbary Coast, told us that Whiteman was making some experiments. He said it was no use doing good music down here
and he started what he thought would be the type of music that would suit the place, which turned out to the be first jazz
in California. He said to Whiteman one time, "What do you think you'll call this?" And he replied, with a grimace, "Well,
it's not music, it's `jazz"'. The public liked it. The great emphasis was on trombones and horns — a stumbling effort to reach
a style. It was nowhere near the cool jazz that we have now.
Baum
This was before your baby was born?
Martinez
Long before. I had six years of having a very interesting time in San Francisco before I got marooned with a baby on the top
of our Piedmont hill.