Dave Eggers, Contrapposto, and the Softening of Zürich’s Paradeplatz

“If you are unable to attend, you can give the tickets away as a gift; they are not personal.”

I sat with one leg raised while reading the translated email from a Kaufleuten employee I'll call "H". She sent me the message after I apologetically requested to rebook a prix fixe dinner and two tickets to a Dave Eggers talk about his new book Contrapposto. I’d ruptured my MCL and ACL and couldn’t firmly stand on two legs or sit for more than ten minutes without nerve pain. If I didn’t raise my leg or sometimes stand, I would occasionally shout uncontrollably. Coincidentally, contrapposto is an art term that refers to a standing figure who puts most weight on one foot in order to appear less symmetrical, more natural. H probably didn't know this.

Could we see a different speaker some other time in the future? I had already asked.

No, she wrote stiffly.

For background, Kaufleuten is situated on a corner near Zürich's historic Paradeplatz, the most expensive plot of land in Switzerland, where folks waltz about in intricately tailored suits with starched collars or silk dresses, as if they were actors in a perpetual movie. This movie doesn't seem to have a scene made for me. The actors are too symmetrical. They have control of everything and certainly don't cancel and rebook. I know this, but I asked anyway.

Dave Eggers, who was visiting from San Francisco, is the jeans and cotton shirt, messy hair type. No offense to Dave, but he doesn't fit the Paradeplatz set either. Like me, he comes from the flat, wind-torn depths of the US’s Midwest but migrated to NorCal. (I later migrated to Switzerland.) As I teach in my Amherst Writers' & Artists' style workshops, Eggers claims that "...anyone can learn to draw competently just as everyone can learn to write competently."Through his worldwide successful non-profit, 826 Valencia, that teaches disadvantaged kids to write, and by founding San Francisco's Art + Water, he proves he means what he writes. I later learned that Dave despises snobbery. He finds attitudes encountered in fancy schools, art galleries, and among professional art and literary critics— unworthy of the creative lives they represent.

When I told my husband about H’s response to my rebooking request, he basically said no big deal. I should forget about it. My husband is in finance. He knows how to lose money gracefully and move on. Honestly, he fits better in the Paradeplatz set. But always a starving artist at heart, I can't waste something I can barely earn. Also, I can't resist a challenge.

“Let’s just go,” I insisted.

So several afternoons later, I traveled up a hill, then by bus, train, and tram to meet my husband at Kaufleuten's entrance not far from his office. I tottered up to the neoclassical grey building on my bright blue crutches to find a bustling front patio. My pain wasn’t that bad so far. I surveyed the glamorous scene, looking for H. I needed to show her I'd made it.

Just around the corner, I found my husband smiling beside a hostess, dressed in all black, not smiling. (Later, he politely explained that she had to frown to help customers feel they’d arrived somewhere important.) I wondered if the hostess was H. Without a word, she led us to a table with an extra chair she half pointed to– a prop for my bad leg. With a nod, she departed.

Once the leg was up on the chair, other things improved rapidly. The waitress who appeared at our table grinned. Maybe it was the leg. Anyway, she was friendly, and in no time she returned with our drinks and two handsome-looking rolls. The rolls were hard, however, and came without oil or butter. But soon a fanciful chopped salad arrived and, for my husband, burrata and tomatoes with basil. These tasted as fresh as they looked. Next came my main course, a delicately roasted white fish atop steamed spinach with baby potatoes adorned in– remoulade? Whatever it was, the flavors were subtle and comforting.

Over dinner, I noticed the heat settling in as a man walking sideways, looking possibly homeless, was escorted off the patio. “That’s unusual,” we both agreed somberly, my food suddenly bland, and the sun hotter. Poverty is almost non-existent around Paradeplatz, though during medieval times the zone contained a pig market and a nearbye spot where "poor sinners" were paraded in an upsetting contraption called a Trülle. We decided to read more about Kaufleuten, which we learned opened in 1915. We also read that Vladimir Lenin famously spoke there in 1916, defying imperialism and the war, attacking the bourgeoisie. He built a platform upon a promise to empower the poor. In April of 1919, Kaufleuten hosted the final Dada Soiree, attracting 1,500 avant-garde sorts like those I’ve been covering in my Rebellious Frauen series.

Kaufleuten was a stage for paradoxes.

After a perfectly molten chocolate dessert, I felt ready to stand on my one leg, so we took a small break for a drink at one of the establishment's several bars. A bookseller from Kapitel10 greeted us warmly and sold me my official copy of Contrapposto. When we entered the red velvety auditorium, we found two seats in the back marked Challenger. In front of my seat waited a gold-toned fuzzy ottoman. Had H arranged this for me? I found comfort in the stool and in the sense that no one is all good or bad. We really are all asymmetrical.

However, the true reward came when Dave Eggers stepped on stage and opened the show by turning to the serious and stylishly dressed woman beside him. He said he was sorry she had to sit there awkwardly for a long time waiting to read his book in German. He repeated this, and of course everyone began to giggle— except her. The point is— Eggers disarmed most of the audience. In doing so, he turned the event from a performance to a relatable experience. Dave corrected his interviewer several times, then rambled as if unaware that he was a famous author who was expected to use words like verisimilitude. He spoke about children, about art and writing, and whatever else Dave thought of. I adored his retelling of an attempt to fly with a jet pack rigged to his back from an avocado farm. I admired how he wanted his audience to understand why helping disadvantaged kids write was more important than his own writing.

“Oh yes, my book,” he repeated several times. Yet rather than focus on sales, he shared thoughts on art school, critiques, writing, politics, love, friendship, growing old, and finally his book. I listened with my foot up, and for a few minutes, my pain vanished. I connected with almost all of his rambling except the jet pack excursion. His honesty relieved my knee and maybe even part of my soul. It softened email and text exchanges. Judging by the laughter, it softened most folks around me.

After Eggers signed my book, a wind rose through the open door. Lightning flashed over the gargoyles of old buildings. Tables and chairs whizzed across the pristine patio. Leaves, branches, and trash whirled. The few people remaining on the patio ran inside as if to mark the ending of the performance around Paradeplatz. Like a backstage understudy, I took my cue, hobbling to my husband, who pulled up in his car. Behind me, the hostess ran about, shouting for help, flailing among chaos that had moments ago been a pristine set, a perfect scene. I wish I could have offered to help, but I was walking sideways on crutches.