tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65011953931670072842024-02-21T06:17:27.468-08:00queersageKenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-69344432370213537142017-03-10T10:08:00.000-08:002017-03-10T10:23:26.400-08:00Wedding Story<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has been a long time since I have posted here. This is a modified version of what I read at our recent wedding.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My story is relatively simple. It’s about faith. Not faith in a God that is an overseeing patriarchal figure or someone that determines our fate, but faith that there is something good and universal. I think that something is love. After 58 years, that is as far as I’ve gotten.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I first met Paul and went for a walking date (instead of a coffee date) after our friend Avery introduced us, I told him what I was after in a most unromantic and direct way. He was a little taken aback. I won’t go through the entire contract, but looking back, I think the most important request was to “share ourselves honestly.” That is the main purpose of a relationship. As it turned out, I didn’t quite know what that actually meant. Many years earlier, I had asked my friend Pamela what the secret of her relationship was with her husband Steve. Without hesitation, she answered, “He’s my best friend.” I never forgot that. Whatever “sharing ourselves” meant, that is what it led to.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After presenting Pauly with a form of a proposal on the first official date, I surprised him three months later. For his birthday, I offered him a ring. He said, “What’s this for?” In turn, I was taken aback. That simple gesture and response was a key lesson for me. Whatever impulse I may be feeling, my boyfriend may not be feeling it simultaneously. After a few awkward moments, I said, “Uh, you are my boyfriend and it’s your birthday?” He nodded his head and put the ring back in its little sack and blue box. But then when he rented out his flat for the summer a few months later, he stayed with me for a month. He brought his ties. He doesn’t wear ties much. And I thought, “He isn’t leaving.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had never had a roommate, and neither of us had lived with a partner. But Paul is like President Obama. He plays the long game. You have to be that way to be a composer, to be a good music teacher, or to be my partner. I am impulsive like a child. I have learned the beauty of patience by being with Paul. Once, early on, when I yelled at him, he disappeared, vanished. I couldn’t find him, and that apartment was only 850 square feet. He was hiding in the bathroom in the dark. We had to learn to disagree and be angry without crushing the other. Mostly we leavened the pressures of daily living with humor. It also helps to have separate bathrooms.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When you buy a home together, there is a new level of commitment. But in many ways, that’s financial. And then when you make wills together, that is another sign. And you travel together. But being queer means you are outside the constraints of the dominant culture. I voiced my radical opinion about marriage, and Paul listened. He let it be known in the way only a Brit can—that he wouldn’t mind getting married. And I would go on about the hegemonic order and heteronormative behavior, and he would nod, much as he did when I first gave him that silver ring. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then by some amazing turn of events, gay folks could marry across the land. I wondered—as I had when gays were allowed to join the military—was this the fight we wanted to win? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Immediately after the recent election, Paul turned to me during a discussion of how we could resist and said, “Why don’t we get married at Sea Ranch?” And instead of offering some convoluted argument about gender roles in society, I just said, “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.” That’s the long game. We were married on January 1, 2017. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSW4egBXwg6zwjg5F9KmDUNtToUnrjbLW359GGLve4gKMtiZpKWj2vdL__JANfKlRUk0rXalE76j593HVkqQqbl29-1aV3b25bHgF2EmpRIG2UnkiSyVN4nTFz4GACivjjY1SOPbcxMIvB/s1600/DSC02007v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSW4egBXwg6zwjg5F9KmDUNtToUnrjbLW359GGLve4gKMtiZpKWj2vdL__JANfKlRUk0rXalE76j593HVkqQqbl29-1aV3b25bHgF2EmpRIG2UnkiSyVN4nTFz4GACivjjY1SOPbcxMIvB/s640/DSC02007v2.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: David Goldschmidt</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Harvey Milk believed that when each person came out of the closet, he or she created a ripple effect. The individual matters. Paul and I say it’s the Jesus model. It’s all about whomever you meet on the road. Each declaration of love matters. I love Paul for staying the course and for everything else. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span> <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we were in France for Paul’s cousin’s wedding during 9/11, I made a toast to the entire wedding party. I thanked them for being so considerate and supportive during this trying time. I said that what was happening in that very room, the love, was what would get us through this moment. </span><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, as we face an uncertain future once again, I think the same thing. Love is at the center of what we need. Love will get us through. That’s what we are celebrating.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWis9CF-GzABck9JeyZwIacHjoiuNtzUjFEMIuTIEJMU1P84Saeep-x5k4UxBoVjRu_p7neb5pE1WknV39vQQh48onZk2h21RlpsrNJ6pf4F8y_R65d3bN9SwbVcNPPqUPfJy6CdHWY7lI/s1600/DSC02032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWis9CF-GzABck9JeyZwIacHjoiuNtzUjFEMIuTIEJMU1P84Saeep-x5k4UxBoVjRu_p7neb5pE1WknV39vQQh48onZk2h21RlpsrNJ6pf4F8y_R65d3bN9SwbVcNPPqUPfJy6CdHWY7lI/s400/DSC02032.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit: David Goldschmidt</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Kenneth Caldwell http://www.blogger.com/profile/04605687731295733093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-65241010150724789932015-06-30T12:50:00.002-07:002015-06-30T12:53:41.018-07:00Loving Everybody Radically<div class="MsoNormal">
When I came up from swimming, Paul was crying. At first I
thought perhaps someone had died. But after many years of being with Paul, I
can quickly tell tears of relief from tears of sorrow. The Supreme Court’s
opinion on gay marriage isn’t permission to marry. We don’t need that. It is
removing an object in the road towards equality. We have not reached the beach
yet (my promised land), but we are further down the highway. I am concerned
that it wasn’t unanimous, but it is going to take some years to rid ourselves
of the dinosaurs and their bones. The whole thing rested on one conservative
straight white male Republican evolving. Maybe that is more important than we
realize. If he can change, maybe the country can change? Demographics are on
the side of justice and progress, but maybe, just maybe, the culture is too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Like many gay people, I have reservations about the
institution of marriage and its history of oppressing women. I have
reservations about how the state and the church get tangled up in a declaration
of love. But what I don’t have reservations about is choice. The choice to get
married as a symbol of love or to not get married and share a different symbol.
The choice to belong to a faith community or not, or to create your own. One of
the many hypocrisies of the Republican right wing (is the phrase “Republican
right wing” now entirely redundant?) is their claim to want government not to
be involved in our lives, and then they find all kinds of ways to be sure
government not only dominates our private lives but also gives handouts to
corporations (where their donor friends have interests). I say, let’s put on
our Robin Hood costumes and take from the rich and give to the poor (and the
ever poorer middle class). It’s based on the same core idea (which, surprise!
Jesus shared): love is more important than money. So, the next step from love
being legal should be, well, love being shared.</div>
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On the one hand, I hope gay marriage helps to radicalize the
flabby lazy middle and get them to see things differently. On another hand (so
many hands!), I hope it moves gay people towards self-love. It sure helps to
have some self-love on the way to sharing love. That’s really love winning. And
eventually, that will lead to changing our values away from acquiring wealth
and more towards love. Harry Hay used to say that to be queer was to be
radical. This Supreme Court decision doesn’t make me much more comfortable, it
makes me more radical. Remember, Anthony Kennedy voted for Citizens United,
which is eroding our democracy. Use love for radical change, I think that’s what
Dr. King would do.</div>
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Kenneth Caldwell http://www.blogger.com/profile/04605687731295733093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-13058592572102011302014-07-10T09:09:00.000-07:002014-07-14T11:22:00.023-07:00Postcard from 1970s San Francisco<b>Saloon Time with Sylvia Syms & Friends</b>
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In the spring of 1977, I found a job as a busboy at La Piñata restaurant on Union Street. The food was good, but they didn’t serve hard liquor, so it was rarely packed. The place was owned by a gay couple, Harry Linder and Armando Rodriguez. Armando’s mother, Antonia, did the cooking. He used to say it was the kind of food his family ate on special occasions, not everyday food. Having worked there, I always want shredded beef in my tacos and thick chips made from real tortillas. That’s the real stuff.
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Armando went by the stage name Armando Jones ever since he had been a teenage ice skater of some renown. Harry had picked Armando up when he lived in a Berkeley boardinghouse, and they were lovers until Harry passed away in 2002. Sometime in the 1950s, they opened their first restaurant in San Francisco at 1701 Polk Street. Later on, they opened the place at 1851 Union Street, perfectly timed to ride that street’s popularity in the 1960s and 1970s.
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With their wealth, they moved from a suburban house in Terra Linda to a large house on three hillside acres in Kent Woodlands in Marin County. Their housekeeper came over and said, “Well, you boys didn’t tell me you all were moving into a motel.” That home was a shrine to 1960s high gay camp, replete with oil paintings of long-dead nonrelatives, low tufted couches, golden sheaf cocktail tables, a swimming pool, and at least one bedroom devoted to storing the stuff they bought and didn’t know what to do with. And there were cocktails, lots of cocktails.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCbGK7kH1rXn4cCRJLaFmBGCHv25CW1pPNk0c7BzleoZ4ciVcQhbvdv99cZ-6rU2wZJTkxXEYq0XPOLyNIpoO0tkTiGUG5Z4gXluaoAQ9-7lICM3ME3EOYnDD1CLros3piR0DwgG2veM/s1600/golden-sheaf-cocktail-table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDCbGK7kH1rXn4cCRJLaFmBGCHv25CW1pPNk0c7BzleoZ4ciVcQhbvdv99cZ-6rU2wZJTkxXEYq0XPOLyNIpoO0tkTiGUG5Z4gXluaoAQ9-7lICM3ME3EOYnDD1CLros3piR0DwgG2veM/s1600/golden-sheaf-cocktail-table.jpg" height="267" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A golden sheaf cocktail table</td></tr>
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Also a vintage brown Mercedes 280SE convertible that they drove on special occasions. They had a smaller Mercedes for daily commuting. Harry would drive Armando to the front gate of the restaurant and then wait on the busy street until a spot opened up. He had the best parking karma in the world.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjD80aLn61SGjEZS15kYf_wFWqiqXxv4No3MWFtOU3hw2T3L7UHoDu3jVHGmCBm-TvQSdJfZEn-tVYdRyCMUNWTQW5iiTQKI4gnZ9qRJe5pdn1ZAO_GxRrHS40V8aoqbURdSxFXziJqg/s1600/mercedesbenz-280-se-cabriolet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjD80aLn61SGjEZS15kYf_wFWqiqXxv4No3MWFtOU3hw2T3L7UHoDu3jVHGmCBm-TvQSdJfZEn-tVYdRyCMUNWTQW5iiTQKI4gnZ9qRJe5pdn1ZAO_GxRrHS40V8aoqbURdSxFXziJqg/s1600/mercedesbenz-280-se-cabriolet.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Mercedes 280SE like Harry and Armando's
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Courtesy gomotors.net</td></tr>
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Armando had perfect white teeth and perpetually tanned skin, and he loved wearing bling, real bling, diamond and gold bling. With a big silk scarf over his balding head and an unbuttoned shirt, he was a gay character from central casting, but still loveable. Harry, who always stayed blonde, managed the money (and everything else that needed managing). Armando’s dream was always to be a star, first an ice-skating star and then a saloon-singing star. Many nights we would sit around, get drunk, listen to records, and then listen to him sing. I think he drank to sing.
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I was 18, in my second semester of San Francisco State, when I got the job because I wanted to earn money more than be serious about going to college. School wasn’t out at 19th and Holloway; it was the city itself. The city cost money. (SF State certainly didn’t.)
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My first night working at La Piñata, I met a stunningly handsome wiser older waiter named Michael Ray Nelson who became one of my best pals, and for a time a kind of older brother. He was 28 or so, and back then, a decade felt like a generation. He knew how to nudge me to behave when I was immature. In his deep voice, he would just say the drag name Armando had given me, “Kenneth Anne,” and I knew I had gone too far. (My first drag name given to me as a teenager in a gay restaurant in Berkeley was “Kenneth Louise.” But when Armando met me, he said. “No, no, no. You are not a Kenneth Louise. You are a Kenneth Anne.” And it stuck.)
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKSgeirjupkaQu6Pl3uShm88TvHCkInq8xKDSVAS3ANz3PnyIv8weigQzt-HwrkRefh7ciQ9KsVj1IpElAUw_Pq_q1f8Vl5hRr1kKDDCzM4CkB6N3IF8Xu_J_Tuoy2vDKwJu0Z0G2220/s1600/michael-ray-apt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKSgeirjupkaQu6Pl3uShm88TvHCkInq8xKDSVAS3ANz3PnyIv8weigQzt-HwrkRefh7ciQ9KsVj1IpElAUw_Pq_q1f8Vl5hRr1kKDDCzM4CkB6N3IF8Xu_J_Tuoy2vDKwJu0Z0G2220/s1600/michael-ray-apt.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Ray in his San Francisco apartment</td></tr>
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All these years later, I think what Michael Ray loved about me was my relative innocence and intense curiosity. He didn’t want me to lose it. We drank and smoked, and he introduced me to Billie Holiday records and jazz. He helped me hear the sadness and the optimism. I was building my own gay circle. Probably not the soberest or sanest one, but my own.
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After the restaurant closed for the night, Harry and Armando went to see saloon singers and even caught a few in their net. Most notably the young local Wesla Whitfield and the legendary New Yorker Sylvia Syms. I no longer remember who introduced Sylvia to the “boys,” but she always spent time with Harry and Armando whenever she came to town. She didn’t drink, but she did like to smoke pot. And argue. She loved her Bob Mackie gowns, Louis Vuitton dog carrier, and first-class plane tickets, but most of all she loved to argue for the underdog and her view of the world.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2hVvvweXb-48-fNyypJjNxK0AL1MprxOWRQZnEMbWzcMO1AIm4RKSIzR9S-gvGP-ovB4SDM-f3kzthm2PYuvxh5Vbu5ELbhyA2xK9gQbwDWmEj0HQ8VfOZlnLQJtIHypkrYegouqE8w/s1600/sylvia-syms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2hVvvweXb-48-fNyypJjNxK0AL1MprxOWRQZnEMbWzcMO1AIm4RKSIzR9S-gvGP-ovB4SDM-f3kzthm2PYuvxh5Vbu5ELbhyA2xK9gQbwDWmEj0HQ8VfOZlnLQJtIHypkrYegouqE8w/s1600/sylvia-syms.jpg" height="320" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flyer for Sylvia Syms show <br />
at the Mocambo in 77 or 78</td></tr>
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Michael Ray, Harry, Armando, and I would climb into the Mercedes and drive off to the Mocambo, the club at the edge of the Tenderloin on Polk Street that glowed for a few years in the late 1970s. On that little stage, we heard Eartha Kitt, Carmen McRae, Julie Wilson, Sally Kellerman (yes, Sally Kellerman!), and even Mabel Mercer in some of her last performances.<br />
<br />
But it was Sylvia Syms’s sparsely attended concerts that we attended the most. Nearly every night during her runs, we would catch her last set. Even then, her emphysema meant you could hear her struggling for breath. But as she said, she wasn’t so much a singer as an interpreter of songs. I learned what that meant from listening to her and the other ladies.
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<br />
Her last performance in San Francisco was at the Fairmont’s Venetian Room in 1983. The Fairmont’s publicity machine placed articles in the local press, but couldn’t fill the venue. In her suite, she tried to put on a brave face despite the empty room, but she never performed here again. Sylvia Syms was a New York phenomenon.
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<br />
Once when she came out west, we went to see Annie, since her friend Harve Presnell was playing Daddy Warbucks and had given her some front-row balcony tickets. When we sat down, the man dressed in full leather next to me asked, “Is that Sylvia Syms?” He said that in New York, they called her “Moonbeam Moscowitz,” which was the name of Whitney Balliett’s 1974 profile of her in the New Yorker. (He wrote about her again in October 1978 and when she died.) The profile is a great piece in large part because most of it is just Sylvia talking. And she loved to talk and talk. “Sylvia Blabbermouth,” she told one writer. She spun great tales.
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<br />
She often spoke about Mr. Sinatra. He was very kind to her, helping her when she ran out of money or got in a jam. She would tell the story about how one night, seeing Rex Reed in the audience, he told Sylvia, “I don’t like some of your friends.” Not one to back down, she nodded towards his thuggish companions and retorted, “And I don’t like some of yours!” She could get away with it.
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<br />
She was friends with all kinds of stars. I remember stories about Tony Bennett, William Shatner, Totie Fields, and Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, and about how she lived in Harry Belafonte’s old apartment on East 63rd Street. She was everybody’s favorite nearly famous saloon singer. In 1981, my friend Michael Ray and I ventured to New York to hear Wesla Whitfield make her NY premiere at Michael’s Pub. Sylvia had helped pave the way for Wesla with some of her contacts. It was a disaster because Wesla lost her voice. I don’t think Sylvia ever forgave her.
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<br />
Over the years, Sylvia and I exchanged letters, and she was always encouraging me to follow my passion—that was the path. Given how hard her path was, I listened. Sometime in the 1980s, Harry and Armando sold their Union Street property for a lot of money and reopened on Larkin Street in the Civic Center, this time with a stage for Armando. He still wanted to be a star more than a restaurateur. Like Sylvia, he sang to empty houses.<br />
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But the Civic Center location didn’t catch on like Union Street. Maybe it was their timing, but the restaurant and the dream of being a nightclub act faded. Michael had fallen out with Harry and Armando and had several screaming fights with Sylvia. She had fallen in love with him (he wasn’t the first gay man to receive her affections). And there was Michael’s addiction to speed, which I didn’t recognize.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Ray Nelson and artist <br />
Adrianne Worzel in 1981 in New York</td></tr>
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I moved to Los Angeles for a few years in the late 1980s. Michael Ray and I had our own falling out after I accused him of robbing me for drugs. He came to LA to reconcile and tell me he was getting better. He had a few good years with another La Piñata alum, Jon Bohm. On Olvera Street, he bought me a touristy ceramic chapel as a symbol of his enduring love. I still have it.<br />
<br />
I saw him a few times after I moved back to the Bay Area in 1990, but his health failed. He had worked at Zuni for several years, and the restaurant delivered dinner to his home every night. He died on March 11, 1992, at the age of 44. I don’t know if he and Sylvia ever repaired their rift.
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<br />
A few weeks later, on May 3, I clipped a picture of Sylvia from the New York Times, wishing I could show Michael that the old broad was still going. The caption under Sylvia’s picture read, in part, “Ms. Syms can also be heard at the Algonquin Hotel through May 30.” She lived only seven more days. She didn’t finish the gig, her first in the Oak Room. She told me once that she wanted to go out singing. And she did. She collapsed after her set and died. Who doesn’t want to go out singing?
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<br />
More information:
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<br />
Sylvia Syms singing "My Ship": <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlezuD00gy4&index=7&list=PLs1gPKVunwY3qZEtosYwg1xgoHX2mZS0A">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlezuD00gy4&index=7&list=PLs1gPKVunwY3qZEtosYwg1xgoHX2mZS0A</a>
<br /><br />
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1992/05/11/arts/sylvia-syms-singer-dead-at-74-cabaret-artist-with-saloon-style.html">http://www.nytimes.com/1992/05/11/arts/sylvia-syms-singer-dead-at-74-cabaret-artist-with-saloon-style.html</a>
<br />
<br />
For two songs sung by Armando:
<a href="http://themotellounge.blogspot.com/2011/03/armando-jones.html">http://themotellounge.blogspot.com/2011/03/armando-jones.html</a>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.weslawhitfield.com/">http://www.weslawhitfield.com/</a>
Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-39152443478100078582014-06-19T13:28:00.000-07:002014-06-23T09:10:45.586-07:00Missing Spalding Gray<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Spalding Gray died more than a decade ago. But he seemed such a modern man. Intimacy and distance at play simultaneously.<br />
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A few weeks ago, I was in one of my favorite bookstores, City Lights in North Beach, and came across the <i>Journals of Spalding Gray</i>. The book was published in 2011, but somehow I had missed it. If someone had asked me when Spalding Gray died, I would have said, “Three or four years ago?” If that person had asked when I had last seen him on stage, I would have said, “Ten years ago?” I saw him perform one of his last monologues, <i>It’s a Slippery Slope</i>, in 1999 at the Zellerbach Playhouse on the UC Berkeley campus. He committed suicide in early 2004. My sense of the timing of personal history is often way off. I think that’s why Gray kept journals, so he could have them as a resource for his monologues. A wellspring of recollections so he could get it right, or intentionally wrong.
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<br />
Like so many other lazy folks of this era, I don’t keep a regular journal, but rather a Facebook photo diary. This is my resource. But it doesn’t go back any further than 2008, and Facebook probably owns it and can make it disappear at a moment’s notice. Very Orwellian. I am not sure all those photographs have helped me write a single post, letter, or review.
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<br />
I loved how minimal the stage was for Gray’s monologues: a desk, a chair, a glass of water, and his notebook. If I am remembering correctly, which may not be the case, I found it all a bit narcissistic. Although he often changed his monologues as he performed them, I ordered the print version of <i>It’s a Slippery Slope</i> to see what it feels like 20 years later. And it is much as I remember it. He reveals his shortcomings, his need for mothering, his affairs, and the ecstasy of finally learning to ski. Like so many awkward kids, he didn’t feel like he was the master of much, except his ability to garner recognition. Skiing was his own very personal victory.
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<br />
Although Gray’s monologues were self-centered, they were fantastic stories wonderfully told. Now with YouTube, almost anybody with a webcam is monologist. But are they storytellers? He could take the quotidian and make it memorable, personal.
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I remember sitting in the audience thinking that he was revealing material that I would want to keep private if I were him. But as his journals suggest, he was expert at revealing just what he wanted—there were several layers left. I’m reminded of that famous Pauline Kael line about the movie <i>Hannah and Her Sisters</i>: deep on the surface. (Kael didn’t like Gray and panned the movie version of <i>Swimming to Cambodia</i>.) He must have made many missteps, where he revealed something he was later not so sure about.
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His bisexuality was one of those areas of confusion. On stage, he answered a question about having an affair with a man by saying he had not. But elsewhere he had written and spoken about it. He worried incessantly about AIDS and the chance that he might have caught it from one of his affairs with men. He liked to have sex with men from time to time, but he wanted to live with and be taken care of by women.<br />
<br />
In May 1973, he wrote the following in his journal:
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<br />
“Then during this period I went to a homosexual bath club in Amsterdam and was ‘picked up’ by this German photographer who was vacationing in Amsterdam. He was very aggressive and he made love to me like this beautiful woman. He took time with me with all this incredible foreplay so by the time he began to fuck me I was wide open and had this very intense climax. It was not a very private place and people were watching. This seemed to bother him but it did not bother me. In fact, it made it…intensified it for me.”
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<br />
In another passage and monologue he writes about giving a blow job “…and I found that I was choking on what felt like a disconnected piece of rubber hose.” I had to laugh at that.
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Spalding Gray was depressed and anxious much of his life. In June 2001, he suffered a serious head injury in a car accident in Ireland. Pieces of his skull were embedded in his brain. His personality changed, and you can read it in the journals, which he still kept. He obsesses about having sold a house in Sag Harbor and buying one he hates nearby. He talked about suicide throughout his journals, but the pain at the end is palpable.
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The last entry reads as follows:
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<br />
“When they took me into the hospital, they said, ‘So what prevented you from jumping?’ And I said, ‘It was fear.’ Not thoughts of what I would miss, but just plain out-and-out fear. And that’s…that’s what has people in institutions. The people that are in institutions are the ones that are afraid. Afraid of suicide. Or can’t figure out how to do it, just aren’t clever enough.”
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He drowned in January 2004, probably after jumping from the Staten Island Ferry.
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In 1981, he wrote, “Wanting to overcome death. Suicide is power over death in that you do it.”
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7ITR6b44QYAiNbrb7BD32JmRSC9rRO9s2Pgdko-4tFSRAEX084ViMd-E02HnJYI_Xo0-LZ1_1cSRsDT_dBhJcpbraK1T0GhJq1XsQPJdpqqqawfA4r7agXQqx3qouZw4nGlFnB8KXSI/s1600/staten-island-ferry.jpg" height="86" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy statenislandferryriders.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
More information:
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.spaldinggray.com/">http://www.spaldinggray.com/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/369/poultry-slam-2008">http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/369/poultry-slam-2008</a>
Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-35574174697661421992014-04-07T10:38:00.000-07:002014-04-07T10:38:25.963-07:00Notes on Edmund White and Paris<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edmund White<br />
Courtesy nytimes.com</td></tr>
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I want to write about queer issues more, but I am hesitant about becoming a confessional blogger. My own gay life might only be interesting if it were heavily fictionalized!
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Queers have been in the news in the last few months because of the Winter Olympics and President Putin; idiocy in Nigeria, Uganda, Indiana, Arizona, and Kansas; wedding rights; and—finally—something useful from Attorney General Holder. Putin’s homophobia practically turned the Winter Olympics into the Gay Olympics. Google did a good turn and transformed its logo into a sympathetic rainbow. The Canadians made a funny and suggestive bobsled video. Even the word “bobsled” sounds slightly erotic.… Nigeria will be condemned in the court of world opinion. As will these ignorant national and state governments.
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What is everybody so afraid of? The truth. Some forbidden pleasure found in a Boy Scout camp decades ago, a stirring during a wrestling match, or a burning buried deep. As so many friends joke, “Putin is so gay!” But it is a long road from a boarding school romp to suppressing one’s entire sexuality. I am drawn to the writers who write about their path on that continuum. I think that’s what Edmund White’s last novel, <i>Jack Holmes & His Friend</i>, was largely about.
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Edmund White has just released a new memoir covering his years in Paris, entitled <i>Inside a Pearl: My Years in Paris</i>. Let me say I love Edmund White. I have heard him read, and he seems like the perfect dinner guest. But I only really like about every other book. I love him for what he represents to us middle-aged gay guys. First, he gave us permission to be out, and second, he wrote freely about all kinds of ways of being gay. He’s an erudite man who can write about hustlers, shrinks, parents, and yes, celebrities. This new book feels a lot like dozens of dinner party anecdotes dictated to a secretary and polished up later. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to recount his years in Paris, his friendship with Marie-Claude Brunhoff, or the celebrities he met and supped with. In one of his best chapters, he describes staying in Marie-Claude’s summer house and shares the daily activities to explain what it’s like to summer in France. His friendship with Marie-Claude stands in contrast to the long list of more famous and more infamous interactions. Indeed, I even ordered a rare catalog of her exquisite collage boxes entitled <i>Les Théâtres Immobiles</i>. When he explores the challenges and modest victories of living in France among good friends, I found the book transporting. When the laundry list of celebrities starts falling off the page, I got a little bored.<br />
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Given how often White mentions Marcel Proust, I thought it was time to read the short biography that White published in 1999. That moved to the top of the pile on my desk at home.
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Some of his earlier books are among my favorites. It was so liberating to read American books that were so openly gay. The cover of <i>A Boy’s Own Story</i> (later the subject of litigation, of course) made muscle T-shirts exciting throughout my 20s despite the fact that I didn’t have big muscles. I reread the book after several decades. It is, as White has said, “polished.” While it’s still sexy, I could savor it more now rather than rush through it the way one did through early or clandestine sex. Some of the passages are so beautiful, so seemingly simple, while others foretell the ending. Being gay doesn’t mean we don’t betray others or ourselves.
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His earlier work <i>States of Desire: Travels in Gay America</i> profiles a friend of mine and moved all of us closer to coming out. Not long ago another friend of mine told me that giving him that early book was very helpful as he came out. (Yet another friend said he had an affair with White, but I daresay that wasn’t so unique an experience!)
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<br />
In 1991, I attended a gay writing conference at the old (and now demolished) Jack Tar Hotel and saw Edmund White cruising me. (It was well over 20 years ago now!) After reading most of his books, I can tell you that’s like watching him take a breath. But we take flattery where we can!
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<br />
The novels <i>Caracole</i> and <i>Forgetting Elena</i> were like long weird dreams. And the big biography of Genet was exhaustive and exhausting. His more traditional novels are sometimes hard to distinguish from his memoirs. His has mined his own life, and a rich one it has been.
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A few days ago, I saw a friend who visits Paris every year, and she talked about making a new friend at a concert in Napa because they were both wearing the same dress from a tiny obscure shop in Paris. She asked me if she should read the book. Yes, if you love Paris, it will remind you of the time you’ve spent there. Even though my reaction to the book was mixed, it did help me decide that we should revisit Paris this summer and feel what he wrote about all over again.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy commons.wikimedia.org</td></tr>
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Further reading:
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<a href="http://www.thenation.com/article/179032/qa-edmund-white">http://www.thenation.com/article/179032/qa-edmund-white</a>
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<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/inside-a-pearl-by-edmund-white-book-review-chronicles-continue-with-15-years-in-paris-9142312.html">http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/inside-a-pearl-by-edmund-white-book-review-chronicles-continue-with-15-years-in-paris-9142312.html</a>
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<a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2488/the-art-of-fiction-no-105-edmund-white">http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2488/the-art-of-fiction-no-105-edmund-white</a>
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<a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/tag/marie-claude-de-brunhoff">http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/tag/marie-claude-de-brunhoff</a>
Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-57423178520074349482013-09-17T10:17:00.000-07:002013-09-17T10:17:20.447-07:00In Church on Birmingham Sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sunday was the 50th anniversary of Birmingham Sunday. On September 15, 1963, white terrorists killed four African American girls in the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. It was a turning point in the civil rights movement and began the long slow demise of the Klu Klux Klan.
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This last Sunday, September 15, my friends David Kerr and Jay Stowsky celebrated their marriage and adoption of two children in Berkeley. Although the civil rights struggle for women, people of color, and queer people continues, we have made progress since that awful day half a century ago. People of different races can now marry in every state, and people of the same gender can marry in several states. Queer people can now adopt children (including children of all races).
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Standing in the sunny little park in Berkeley, I wondered about the link between the two Sundays across these many years, in two very different places. And I return to a familiar refrain. In the face of adversity, personal and political, the one deep source of change lies in the power of individual love. It is amazing that Birmingham did not erupt into violence (although whites did kill a number of other innocent African Americans shortly after the bombing). This was because the leaders of the civil rights movement advocated nonviolence, forgiveness, and yes, love. Who was one of the key philosophers who converted Dr. King to this idea of nonviolence? One brilliant eccentric African American queer organizer named Bayard Rustin. We have been preaching love for a long, long time.
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I first met my friend David Kerr 25 years ago when he was going out with my next-door neighbor. I knocked on the door and this tall young man with a big smile greeted me. He was wearing a light blue sweater. I thought two things:
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<li>Is he 18?</li>
<li>He exuded more kindness than anyone I could ever remember meeting.</li>
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On the first point, I was mistaken. He was in his mid-20s and was already finished with graduate school. Yet even now, he does not look his age. On the second point, my judgment was correct. His gentle generosity became a model for me.
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A few years ago, I met Jay Stowsky. I confess I thought he had some of the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen. They were nearly the color of David’s sweater that I first saw all those years ago. He exuded the same deep kindness as David—you could say a slightly saltier sweetness. But he seemed a perfect complement to David.
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After a few years together, they took their kindness and extended it into the world by adopting two children, Shayla and Jaden. It has been one of the most profound joys of my adult life to be included in this circle of love. I have learned once again that love is exponential.
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Perhaps the only evidence of God is love. The love I feel with Jay, David, Shayla, and Jaden, and the love I felt yesterday in that oak-filled park, was holy. It was my kind of church. Open to the sky with boundless love. This is what allows us to forgive the killers of those four little girls a half century ago, allows us to heal ourselves of hatred towards others and towards ourselves, and allows us to save the world, wherever we are.
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-61731822692948516842013-07-20T05:31:00.003-07:002013-07-20T05:31:46.151-07:00Postcard from Cherry Grove<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving in Cherry Grove</td></tr>
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This year we went out to Fire Island and stayed in Cherry Grove instead of the Pines because we were only coming for a few days and accommodations were somewhat less expensive there. Both communities have reputations as being gay, very gay. Historically, the Pines appealed to men and Cherry Grove to women. But while the Pines seems to still be largely a bastion of affluent gay men, Cherry Grove doesn’t fit a stereotype. It is much more democratic. As one of our friends from the Pines says, “honky-tonk.” Both communities were damaged by Hurricane Sandy, but somehow Cherry Grove, with its slapdash bohemian air, was already on the edge of disrepair. You feel like many of the wood structures are just one good wind away from blowing over. The Pines, on the other hand, with its manicured modernist homes, shows every scratch. The boardwalks in Cherry Grove are warped and uneven, and nobody seems to care. In the Pines, you know they are using a level.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Cherry Grove</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An abandoned cabin in Cherry Grove</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honky Tonk retail</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our ramshackle guesthouse</td></tr>
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Between the two communities lies a patch of national park commonly called the “Meat Rack.” The hostess at our guesthouse (hotel would be too generous) told us a story of two of her guests, a straight couple, wandering in there at night not knowing its reputation and the husband being chased by a man. “Who would chase after my husband?” the pregnant wife said. Which reminds you that there is somebody for everybody. The couple scared off their mistaken predator with the bright flashlight attached to the room key. We got lost in this stretch of nature during the daytime and got a nasty reprimand from a park policewoman for being in the wrong area. She was, like most police I’ve encountered, very mean. She certainly didn’t make us feel welcome, nor was she eager to help us find our way. I think she exists to intimidate gay folk, or like the NSA, all folk. It was like a return to the bad old days when the police would raid the Meat Rack. But as I told our friends over lunch, “Leave it to me to nearly get arrested for not having sex.” Paul didn’t find the humor in this, but he did use his British accent and innocent blue eyes to get us out of the jam. Like so many people in front of the police (especially marginalized folks), we just kept saying “I’m sorry.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sLsNjWycWtCCPRcu5_kT7Dk_WRqiC5yUGHQ1RJYqBPyOYzfh1Xl_7D9A28wJRe8cOWgjXZm4cBdRwnmezHk6XV7_HUqdBoGO7arSy9Cz7UhSv2ullMtF6siOKwbVbQaUTkIDTGCYUg4/s1600/the-(in)famous-belvedere-guest-house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sLsNjWycWtCCPRcu5_kT7Dk_WRqiC5yUGHQ1RJYqBPyOYzfh1Xl_7D9A28wJRe8cOWgjXZm4cBdRwnmezHk6XV7_HUqdBoGO7arSy9Cz7UhSv2ullMtF6siOKwbVbQaUTkIDTGCYUg4/s320/the-(in)famous-belvedere-guest-house.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The (in)famous Belvedere Guest House</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Houses inspired by the Belvedere's questionable architecture</td></tr>
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Besides a few famous cruising spots, the Pines has a concentrated entertainment district around the harbor. Noted New York architecture firm HWKN has built a new Pines Pavilion to replace one that burned to the ground. Although not quite finished, it opened for business earlier this summer. The form and material seem to take some inspiration from Horace Gifford’s work, but updated in terms of structure and size. While Gifford’s work was drawn from Kahn, this is a modernist interpretation of Venturi’s “duck.” There is really one elevation that matters.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the deck in Cherry Grove</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View towards The Pines from Cherry Grove</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasteful private pool in The Pines</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Pines Pavilion</td></tr>
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In the Pines, people go to the beach, go to “tea,” and entertain at home. In Cherry Grove, it feels more like Carnaval at the Seashore. The houses and accommodations are generally much smaller and denser. Since folks in the Pines eat in more, the best restaurant we found was in Cherry Grove. But of course, the market in the Pines is far superior. Politically, I am more drawn to Cherry Grove, with its eclectic mix of incomes, gender preferences, short-short gold lamé shorts, tall-tall blonde wigs, and excessive tattoos. Aesthetically, I am drawn to the clean modern lines and private pools of the Pines. Different locale. Same old conflicts.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmWInX1D37eJRQupF13-R-XRNiuB6WV0zd4dfUFYoEc6lPKwVYVLX-sr-uL0mXM7JHgAVpWl9PNJvFOOMu1tMhMGgwkaOVDIEG_9ATvSIN2ncTjOwRqezcR3GN-zAhpu2_mUYQ-YJQQYo/s1600/view-from-the-dock-at-cherry-grove.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmWInX1D37eJRQupF13-R-XRNiuB6WV0zd4dfUFYoEc6lPKwVYVLX-sr-uL0mXM7JHgAVpWl9PNJvFOOMu1tMhMGgwkaOVDIEG_9ATvSIN2ncTjOwRqezcR3GN-zAhpu2_mUYQ-YJQQYo/s320/view-from-the-dock-at-cherry-grove.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the dock at Cherry Grove</td></tr>
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-56535444158840855602013-06-28T16:59:00.000-07:002013-06-28T16:59:38.295-07:00Radical Love<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhph3aUGJx0ofdHjAmgilc3Nm8sUnIjTw76H4WJOyUsZavW6F48kC244s4PnJBzz24TulQS5TApfepJ08EHrCUCcMfOGhi-9Q2d46qUA9LP4GCkJdcrgyHFY4TKjchXgj4IY88Z7E029-A/s960/castro-after-decision.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhph3aUGJx0ofdHjAmgilc3Nm8sUnIjTw76H4WJOyUsZavW6F48kC244s4PnJBzz24TulQS5TApfepJ08EHrCUCcMfOGhi-9Q2d46qUA9LP4GCkJdcrgyHFY4TKjchXgj4IY88Z7E029-A/s320/castro-after-decision.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebration after the decisions in the Castro, San Francisco<br />
photo: Daniel Garcia</td></tr>
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I did not go out and take the bus to San Francisco and witness the celebration in the Castro after the Supreme Court rulings. Mind you, I love a good demonstration, but since a friend asked me to march in the Pride Parade on Sunday, I thought one mob scene was enough for the week. Facebook went all rainbow yesterday with many messages from straight friends. While I feel the love, I don’t really feel the euphoria. Perhaps this is because the day before, the Supreme Court voted 5-4 to eviscerate the voting rights act. Eventually we will win on that front, because, as I have written before, the numbers are on our side. The White Empire will go away.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jd1cDeIjrS-egrET7XTRTG9qPflDyIuKpfYs8eL6Klhwqn-rnJHNj-E2BeJ30Ggw2z4S2jqYkhsl4kT66fBJjwF1wjRGkzApghuPLuQvUKW6VJ2EElNIGcrmqpZkTKsKqRZ9aLnKDuE/s1600/Fran_Lebowitz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jd1cDeIjrS-egrET7XTRTG9qPflDyIuKpfYs8eL6Klhwqn-rnJHNj-E2BeJ30Ggw2z4S2jqYkhsl4kT66fBJjwF1wjRGkzApghuPLuQvUKW6VJ2EElNIGcrmqpZkTKsKqRZ9aLnKDuE/s320/Fran_Lebowitz.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fran Lebowitz<br />
photo: wikipedia</td></tr>
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Recently we went to see Fran Lebowitz speak at City Arts and Lectures, and then we watched her film Public Speaking. As she points out so succinctly, why do we as gay people want membership in two of the most subjugating and hateful institutions invented by man, the military and marriage? Indeed. Kate Kendall brought up that very point about marriage in her speech at the recent National Center for Lesbian Rights dinner in San Francisco. We want the choice, she said. The late Allan Bérubé, author of <i>Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II</i>, which contributed enormously to changing "Don’t ask, don’t tell," told me sometime in the 1980s that after that military exclusion was defeated, it would be far easier to obtain other civil rights. He was prescient. I wish that he had lived to see these victories. I remember his intensity—his mixture of seriousness and humor. I think he fought with love, radical love, to borrow a phrase from Dorothy Day.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Desire for History<br />
Allan Bérubé</td></tr>
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Most of my extracurricular thoughts these past few weeks have been about Edward Snowden and what he has revealed to all of us. His video interview with Glenn Greenwald is nothing short of spellbinding, in part because he is so straightforward, so rational. I think he is going to turn out to be a great hero (or an incredible double agent!). In future posts, I will talk about other aspects of this story, but here I want to pick up on how Snowden said that he knew he would give up a comfortable life by revealing this information. My fear is that now, as barriers for LGBT people come down, we as gay people may opt for an isolated comfortable life, not the radical life.<br />
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It is no mistake that some of America’s largest corporations led the way in terms of benefits, recognition, and nondiscrimination policies. It was not altruism, it was profit. After drag queens and radicals locked the cops inside the Stonewall Inn on the night of Judy Garland’s death, the Gay Liberation Front and early advocates for queer civil rights were often made up of a ragtag group of marginalized people. Over time, as lawyers broke down barriers, it was safe for corporations to openly hire queer people. Younger corporate leaders realized that most gay folks did not have families (at that time anyway!) and were creative, well educated, and motivated to excel (for a bevy of complex emotional reasons that are explored in every gay writer’s memoir). In other words, they made productive employees. If it hadn’t been for AIDS and the need to organize to get the homophobic Reagan Republicans to wake up, we might have lost any commitment to radical action. The hateful nature of the enemy kept us from being co-opted by our growing bourgeois lifestyle. Of course, that was because many of us lost those very comforts as we took ill. ACT UP saved lives as well as our radical spirit.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27zxFqr4V5O1cI61DXSve0R8QhRZx1DfTSxLQySWDAalv1W2brcMi79vXBQpO_mU7n_zuAPNW1yFEnB2zaIqnZbrxY17kLNNHsGNTKeLkhsIL1IKNHnrCb5g9Ndb10ln8Nqrz0xISHyY/s691/reagan_aidsgate_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh27zxFqr4V5O1cI61DXSve0R8QhRZx1DfTSxLQySWDAalv1W2brcMi79vXBQpO_mU7n_zuAPNW1yFEnB2zaIqnZbrxY17kLNNHsGNTKeLkhsIL1IKNHnrCb5g9Ndb10ln8Nqrz0xISHyY/s320/reagan_aidsgate_large.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AIDSGATE poster, 1987<br />
photo: www.spd.org</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harry Hay poster<br />
photo: www.americanswhotellthetruth.org</td></tr>
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This radical focus was what Harry Hay talked about when I saw him speak at the opening of the documentary <i>Hope Along the Wind: A Life of Harry Hay</i> shortly before he died. He told the audience that to be gay was to be radical and that we must not lose our outsider status. I think of him again today. This is why we shouldn’t dance too wildly while the Supreme Court takes away the rights of voters and the U.S. government tries to take away our rights through the promotion of the corporate warfare state. Let us use our history as subjugated people to keep advocating for freedom and democracy. Let our love keep us radical.<br />
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-92139623903482723342013-03-15T12:03:00.000-07:002013-03-19T08:48:07.589-07:00Never Trust A Man in a Bowtie!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don’t want to suggest that I am one of the only prescient queer men in the greater San Francisco Bay Area. But I did fall in love with modernism in Palm Springs in the 1980s, when you could get a sweet Alexander for well under a hundred grand.
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In 2000, when I moved to downtown Oakland, people thought I was mad. Now Oakland is the new Brooklyn. (Maybe the real estate prices will catch up with our vision by the time we retire!)
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And then there are the bowties. I started wearing these in high school. During my college years, my pal Michael Ray Nelson advised me to stay away from them, saying, “No one trusts a man in a bowtie.” I tried a few straight ties, but they were, well, too straight. “Don’t trust me” became my motto.
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In those days, it was hard to find bowties. I don’t mean pre-tied bowties. Those are just fake. I taught myself how to tie them around my leg just above the knee, where the thigh is about as thick as the neck. That way, you are facing the right direction. An hour invested will result in a lifetime of sartorial pleasure.<br />
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Bowties are somewhat easier to find these days, especially with entire websites devoted to them. But if you’re in downtown San Francisco looking for a last-minute birthday present with only a half hour to shop, they are not quite as common as you might imagine. Brooks Brothers still has some. They have supplied old architects for decades. But many of their ties are dull, the rep tie version of a butterfly.
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However, they have a few with two kinds of fabrics that are quite sporty. Bought a few of those. Over the years, I have found an occasional one at Hermès, but no luck last week. Headed over to that hippest of haberdashers, Paul Smith, thinking they must have some, but they said, “We haven’t got our shipment.” Almost bought myself a striped Mini Cooper toy but had to keep going. Since I was on my way to the AIA, I remembered the Hound downstairs in the Hallidie Building. It’s the kind of store people forget about. This one-off men’s store that caters to the independent and slightly anglophile man saved the day with a large collection of beautifully made ties, often paired with pocket squares. Pay dirt.
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If you have remembered your partner’s birthday and have time to shop online, check out the gorgeous ties at <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/thishumbleabode">http://www.etsy.com/shop/thishumbleabode</a>. Our pal Yosh found these. Not cheap, but exquisite fabrics.
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Our pal Jill Pilaroscia discovered an unusual shop in Manhattan called Seigo, where they make ties from Japanese fabrics. Although I have never visited the shop on Madison Avenue, I have a wonderful collection courtesy of Jill. Finally they got a web presence at <a href="http://seigoneckwear.blogspot.com/">http://seigoneckwear.blogspot.com</a>.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoui2vV2gRaj165M5MgAX8_B8EizXWemWwtZIUwMbUj0dF-rZ6a0mJKo_7Vb2qcVSkNHs7i3PCekXmeBPMohefkCJqJpGX1KgBqNqWzPRsFrFAyDUFbhf2AbAQwk9p7if5JDbXxtH62aU/s1600/jesse-tyler-ferguson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoui2vV2gRaj165M5MgAX8_B8EizXWemWwtZIUwMbUj0dF-rZ6a0mJKo_7Vb2qcVSkNHs7i3PCekXmeBPMohefkCJqJpGX1KgBqNqWzPRsFrFAyDUFbhf2AbAQwk9p7if5JDbXxtH62aU/s320/jesse-tyler-ferguson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesse Tyler Ferguson</td></tr>
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If you don’t want to spend $60 to $120 on a funny-shaped piece of fabric, there are other options! And you can support social justice at the same time! Bowties are not necessarily queer, but they are not for the fashion fearful. Now the very adorable Jesse Tyler Ferguson from the hit TV show “Modern Family” has started a bowtie enterprise where proceeds support repealing that idiotic DOMA. His ties cost $25.00. You can watch him not teaching how to tie a bowtie, along with other entertainments, at <a href="http://www.tietheknot.org/">www.tietheknot.org</a>. What could be better? Buying affordable bowties from an adorable actor while supporting a good cause!
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Now, go tie one on!
Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-43278051210503936112013-02-06T18:20:00.004-08:002013-02-07T07:20:50.431-08:00Valentine for Richard Blanco<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSV9UzzieVkInGJakAlrDooma_CGNzfx49w5wZhR8L9WqMHtA1cdjl4nmVj-uhfHoikRDxbaZhl4bsZl7mkjkIiYqw09TYOgUlS6_-4vb-4IZ4Ou4XL0UwdRf85Qjuhl71ot4nC6BKHs/s1600/dine_valentine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSV9UzzieVkInGJakAlrDooma_CGNzfx49w5wZhR8L9WqMHtA1cdjl4nmVj-uhfHoikRDxbaZhl4bsZl7mkjkIiYqw09TYOgUlS6_-4vb-4IZ4Ou4XL0UwdRf85Qjuhl71ot4nC6BKHs/s320/dine_valentine.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Four Hearts</i>, 1969<br />artist: Jim Dine<br />courtesy tate.org.uk<br /></td></tr>
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One of our tribe is named inaugural poet. Richard Blanco. This is the closest I have come to feeling patriotic since I was a child and the government lied to us about the Vietnam War and almost everything else.
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A gay Cuban born in Spain and living in Maine is on the steps of the Capitol reading his creation in front of war lords, greedy capitalists, power hungry politicians, and maybe, just maybe, a few compassionate souls. I hope they all hear him.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8SuEpRaLqKsq6ZCWhU8Wl4FejHwYsrzyJ-AoAX_LTKlDAcH6x6xFHEbVVpfgMH8srzl_5VD7YYthLZAF6S8_vSm6506C9kk4X6_WQFXVzfFBz6en-A09cVwIIWLgeJq_797MZMltvNY/s1600/blanco.nbc-bayarea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8SuEpRaLqKsq6ZCWhU8Wl4FejHwYsrzyJ-AoAX_LTKlDAcH6x6xFHEbVVpfgMH8srzl_5VD7YYthLZAF6S8_vSm6506C9kk4X6_WQFXVzfFBz6en-A09cVwIIWLgeJq_797MZMltvNY/s320/blanco.nbc-bayarea.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">courtesy nbcbayarea.com</td></tr>
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I order some of his books, find Youtube clips and watch him deliver his poem, which was not universally well received by the critics – whoever the poetry critics are these days. And I love him. I love him because he has heavy lidded eyes and eyebrows with a life of their own. I love him not just because he sounds so beautiful and looks so beautiful, but because even though he followed the practical career of being an engineer he didn’t give up on the crazy one of being a poet. How beautiful is that? A poet and an engineer! Precise and transcendent.<br />
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The photo on his second book of poetry makes him look barely an adult. Moody, and yes, so seductive. He is a man-boy. But when he reads that poem on Inauguration Day he is man-man who has not forgotten a boy’s love.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Z15J1rGAke1LP0qx8On79Z4AJwX_Z03SvgPgDLItKfX1ClrFwEfsN34p1bBfoqRz1dnPqFTF7Hi2TYwwGz8ZiOwpg1Z-D9TShKogfJANHhiemqhhzAVnU2hiOjVFDr2UuYxNk8yubQA/s1600/1-9-13_Blanco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Z15J1rGAke1LP0qx8On79Z4AJwX_Z03SvgPgDLItKfX1ClrFwEfsN34p1bBfoqRz1dnPqFTF7Hi2TYwwGz8ZiOwpg1Z-D9TShKogfJANHhiemqhhzAVnU2hiOjVFDr2UuYxNk8yubQA/s320/1-9-13_Blanco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">courtesy poetryfoundation.org</td></tr>
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-89897567644481049392013-01-28T11:19:00.007-08:002013-01-28T15:05:36.211-08:00Love is Liberation<b>Volume Three of Christopher Isherwood’s Diaries</b>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Random House</td></tr>
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The writer Christopher Isherwood was born in 1904 into an upper class British family. Like many boys of the period he lost his father in World War I. And like most men of this time and place he sought a long-term relationship, someone to mentor, father, and follow. And he identified with a religion that offered comfort and guidance. It’s just that the script that was laid out for him didn’t fit. So he ventured to Berlin before the Second World War to explore his sexuality and afterwards, moved to the US and became a Conscientious Objector. He settled in Los Angeles to write for the studios, fell under the sway of Vedanta and became lovers with a man 30 years his junior, a relationship that would last over three decades. And he wrote and wrote.<span id="goog_1600573369"></span><br />
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In an earlier post I said that Christopher Isherwood helped save my life. I think it was because he tried to be as honest as possible about his life and that he sought all those unusual avenues for fulfillment. Of course that would get him in trouble with whoever appeared to be in “authority.” The central fact of his life was his homosexuality and the rebellion that resulted. This led him to escape his homeland, and also led him to his guru, Swami Prabhavananda. Swami did not judge him for being queer or anything else for that matter. And for the most part, neither did Los Angeles. He would end up in a house overlooking the vast Pacific. This was a man who moved to the youngest big city in the youngest big country. He didn’t want to be hemmed in.
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Most of Isherwood’s literary work grew out of his life. Sometimes he took on a character, even a character named Chris. But as he got older he wrote more directly about his life and loves. By the time he was in his mid-sixties both he and the society had liberalized enough that he was out of the closet in every aspect of his life. This is one reason the third volume of his diaries is entitled “Liberation.” For much of the volume he copes with his own impending demise, writing and worrying about a variety of health issues, some significant. But when he enters his final illness he doesn’t appear so obsessive. Soon enough eventually he stops keeping the diary altogether. During years of worrying and resisting death he works at accepting death, the final liberation. Isherwood trusted the long arc of his life. He must have known that the narrative would eventually coalesce.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bachardy paints Isherwood in the 1980s<br />
Courtesy Syndey Morning Herald</td></tr>
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Katherine Bucknell did a fine job editing the book even though so much of that work is unseen. The introduction provides a good context whether one is new to Isherwood or a scholar. Her footnotes are instructive, but not pedantic. She relegates much information to the glossary of terms and people at the rear, which is like a who’s who of the literary, entertainment, and gay worlds of the 20th century.
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As Edmund White notes in the preface a lot of gay men have wanted to place Isherwood in the role of saint. It is easy to forget that this isn’t possible for any human. In his public appearances he was gentle, kind, witty. But in his diaries he could be dismissive and bitchy and, as has been noted in most reviews of the diaries, anti-Semitic. He even insults guests at dinner parties if he perceives them as lording their background over him. Some reviewers have dismissed him because of these lapses that are hard to reconcile with an otherwise sweet person – or at least someone who cultivated a sweet persona.
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Isherwood personally witnessed the rise of Nazism and he had no sympathy. His boyfriend, Heinz, was arrested and made to serve in the Germany army. When Isherwood arrives in Los Angeles he falls in with the Jewish film community, most of them émigrés from a devolving Europe, and they became close lifelong friends.
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White tries to tackle the unsaintly aspects of Isherwood’s personality directly in his essay. He doesn’t forgive Isherwood because anti-Semitism was typical of a man of his time and social standing. Nor does he suggest that Isherwood thought that these diaries would be private. And he brings up his sexist remarks, and excessive drinking, and other failings.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkKjYyejh1_QULtK0ImKYG9uDGkNzfpr5yIambjfFKLgXfO0SQlYJCHEofVBhyZtNROXQolj7wR3ICUJ_uM_jMQ2zfHRSbNfl4jUsRkO5-tACSUE_a1cp4cndpe3g3-77BwbIZIW5OmE/s1600/18129_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkKjYyejh1_QULtK0ImKYG9uDGkNzfpr5yIambjfFKLgXfO0SQlYJCHEofVBhyZtNROXQolj7wR3ICUJ_uM_jMQ2zfHRSbNfl4jUsRkO5-tACSUE_a1cp4cndpe3g3-77BwbIZIW5OmE/s320/18129_300.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Bachardy<br />
UNTITLED, OCTOBER 2, 1985<br />
Courtesy Cheim & Read, New York</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Bachardy<br />
UNTITLED III, OCTOBER 20, 1985<br />
Courtesy Cheim & Read, New Yorkn</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Bachardy<br />
UNTITLED VI, NOVEMBER 26 , 1985<br />
Courtesy Cheim & Read, New York</td></tr>
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It is possible that Isherwood knew these private musing would be made public because his literary writing was so deeply personal and he was so ambitious. Over his life he felt that he had been judged harshly for being gay, for his Hindu faith, for moving to the States during the war, and for taking up with someone so much younger. In these diaries he is rebelling and experimenting. I think that likelier explanation for his prejudices is that they are those of a child being told what to do by an authoritarian figure, be it England or his mother. For Isherwood the diary was the tool to be mined for fiction or memoir. What is so amazing is that Bachardy, his executor, did not censor the editor, but agreed to let the whole man, not a myth, be revealed in the pages. It takes a while to resolve the charming with the cranky, the champion of pacifism with the anti-Semitic and sexist asides. The diaries may help us admit to our own contradictions and prejudices although thankfully most of ours will not be shared in public.
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What comes through so clearly in 688 pages is Isherwood’s devotion to Don Bachardy and Swami Prabhavananda. Isherwood’s love for them is the true liberation. And ultimately, inseparable.
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In April 1982 towards the end of his diary he writes, “Religion is about nothing but love---I know this more and more.”
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Bachardy; Christopher Isherwood<br />
by David Hockney<br />
Courtesy npg.org.uk</td></tr>
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Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-63525918911090849762012-11-05T10:11:00.003-08:002012-11-05T10:11:49.379-08:00Joe Brainard Part 3 - Some questions for Ron Padgett<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe Brainard & Ron Padgett<br />
c.1989, photo Patricia Padgett</td></tr>
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Ron Padgett is the author of numerous books of poetry, memoirs, and translations. He was in Joe Brainard’s first-grade class in Tulsa, Oklahoma. They became friends in high school in the late 1950s when Ron started a little magazine called <i>The White Dove Review</i> and asked Joe to be the art editor. They remained close friends until Joe’s death in 1994. Ron collaborated several times with Joe on books and wrote a memoir entitled <i>Joe</i> (2004). This year the Library of America published <i>The Collected Writings</i> of Joe Brainard, which Ron edited. After reading it, I had a few questions for him, which he was kind enough to answer by email.
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<b>Q: Did you and Joe Brainard share poems as you were developing them?</b>
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A: Joe wrote mostly prose. Back in the late 1950s and early 1960s, we showed each other new pieces, partly because we were the main audience for them, along with Ted Berrigan and Dick Gallup.
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<b>Q: There has been some confusion about the last several years of Joe’s life. If I understand what you wrote, as well as an interview with Kenward Elmslie, Brainard still created art, but he didn’t paint or make art for sale. In addition to his extensive reading, he did designs for his friends’ books and made drawings that he gave away. Is that correct?</b>
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A: Yes, he did do some book art and some drawings. Also, recently I discovered a large manila envelope that contained hundreds and hundreds of pieces he had collected for collages, as well as some partly finished collages, which he mailed to himself from New York to Vermont, intending to work on them. Although he didn’t, and although he had withdrawn from the art market, he didn’t stop thinking about art.
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<b>Q: Edmund White suggested that Joe stopped making art because he stopped taking speed. I sensed that his inner compass changed. Can you comment?</b>
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A: Taking speed gave Joe the energy to make a lot of art in a short time. He made art before speed and after speed. His reasons for slowing down were complicated.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Ted Berrigan, Ron Padgett<br />
illustrations by Joe Brainard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Q: I wondered if Brainard was afraid that his canvases couldn’t capture that elusive “nowness” as well as his other work. Maybe he felt that his technical abilities couldn’t render that pure presence he sought?</b>
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<br />
A: I’m not sure what you mean by “nowness” and “pure presence.” He was just disappointed by his oil paintings. No one else was.
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<br />
<b>Q: By nowness I meant his ongoing desire/struggle to capture the present moment. I felt that he was writing about this all the time, but perhaps most directly in <i>I Remember</i> and in the piece entitled “Right Now.”</b>
<br />
<br />
A: Ah, <i>that</i> nowness. Yes, you’re right in the two instances you mention, but I don’t think he was always going for nowness. He was going for something concrete: visually beautiful, fresh, amazing art works.
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<br />
<b>Q: Brainard did emphasize being present and kind. Was Allen Ginsberg an influence in this way? As far as you know, did Joe ever study or read about Buddhism?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: He never studied Buddhism, and any reading about it would have been casual. A number of his friends were Buddhists. But I think Buddhism had a very small influence on him, an indirect one at most.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm Not Really Flying<br />
I'm Thinking<br />
1964</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Q: Brainard seemed to be an artist who was queer, but not a queer artist. In his work and his writing, his sexuality arrives in waves. It feels like a constant background, but not always a foreground. Do you agree?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: Yes, I do.
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<br />
<b>Q: His parents seem mostly absent from the memoir and this new book. Was he ever out to them? Was the relationship strained?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: He never told them he was gay, fearing that it might upset them. But when his father learned of Joe’s sexuality (after Joe died), he didn’t seem upset at all. The relationship wasn’t strained, but, as I understand it, communication in the Brainard family tended to remain on an everyday, superficial level.
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<br />
<b>Q: Did Joe sit down and say, “I have to work now, I have to write a poem,” or did he just write when it struck him?</b>
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<br />
A: His diaries show that he often set work schedules for himself.<br />
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Envelope and unfinished collage made by Joe Brainard. Image courtesy Ron Padgett
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<b>Q: When did he recognize that he was a writer <i>and</i> an artist?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: From early childhood he knew he was good at art, though I doubt that at the age of, say, seven, he said to himself, “I am an artist.” His writing came later, when he was around nineteen.
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<b>Q: You already explored his life extensively in your memoir. Did the process of editing his collected writings change your view of him?</b>
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<br />
A: It made me realize that he was even more brilliant than I had thought.
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<b>Q: Do you have a different sense of his lasting contribution?</b>
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<br />
A: This question would have made him smile. In one of his writings, admitting that he had trouble liking Courbet, he added something like, “Someday I hope to understand his ‘contribution.’” He was making fun of highfalutin language. As for lasting, Paul Auster has written that <i>I Remember</i> will endure. I tend to agree, but really I can’t predict future taste.
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<b>Q: Do you think there is enough correspondence to do a volume of the letters of Joe Brainard?</b>
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<br />
A: Easily.
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<br />
<b>Q: Do you feel that with the <i>Collected Writings</i>, you have finished your work with this material?</b>
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<br />
A: Gathering Joe’s huge correspondence would be exhausting. I’m leaving that to a younger person, someone with more stamina than I have.
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To learn more about Ron Padgett visit <a href="http://www.ronpadgett.com/">www.ronpadgett.com</a>.<br />
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<i>All art works by Joe Brainard used by permission of the Estate of Joe
Brainard and courtesy of the Tibor de Nagy Gallery, New York.</i> <br />
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-46431719651475956972012-11-05T10:11:00.002-08:002012-11-05T10:11:42.617-08:00Joe Brainard Part 2: Interview with Matt Wolf<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGFGlv4xxP6Ujk-Ct4r0UQtAedUqdsESJ_aXSWZmF78lFgEgDAFHSlkpywzG7HnLZKnJPPrndrZD2x1AA5VGNF2CHRapakh3oswv8aj84JAofqs_4LkLz4bGIandbrtdTFXFDSfhLQEg/s1600/03.+passport-1964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGFGlv4xxP6Ujk-Ct4r0UQtAedUqdsESJ_aXSWZmF78lFgEgDAFHSlkpywzG7HnLZKnJPPrndrZD2x1AA5VGNF2CHRapakh3oswv8aj84JAofqs_4LkLz4bGIandbrtdTFXFDSfhLQEg/s320/03.+passport-1964.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe Brainard, 1964</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Matt Wolf is a young New York filmmaker. He has made a documentary about disco producer Arthur Russell and a fictionalized account of the artist David Wojnarowicz. An editor that I know mentioned that Wolf had made a documentary about Joe Brainard. So I wrote to Matt, and we had the following email exchange.
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<br />
<b>Q: How did you come to know Joe Brainard’s work? Why did you decide to make a film about him?</b>
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<br />
A: Years ago I was in a bookstore with an artist named Colter Jacobsen, and he recommended the memoir-poem <i>I Remember</i> to me. Immediately as I started reading, I was amazed by the poem, which recounts hundreds of childhood and universal memories. I was struck by the self-deprecating and charming voice of its writer—the artist Joe Brainard. A few weeks later I was looking at my bookshelf, and I realized that somebody had actually bought me a biography of Brainard for my birthday—Ron Padgett’s <i>Joe: A Memoir</i>.
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<br />
Ron is an acclaimed poet in his own right, and he was also Joe’s longtime close friend. His book loosely mirrors the structure of Joe’s poem, replaying memories from their childhood in Tulsa, Oklahoma, up until Joe’s premature death from AIDS in the early 1990s. I was really moved by Ron’s book, and after browsing through the University of Pennsylvania’s audio archives, PennSound, I found some great recordings of Joe reading <i>I Remember</i>. I really wanted to do something with this audio, Joe’s incredible poem, and Ron’s affecting biography. So I made this film, but I didn’t want it to be a conventional biography.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJL5GM842mPtdKBANysrHRZuhTwleun9nNQru0ExV_r3BSTCTsz6DCj6jb0K3beiihLr6Ach-EEThPm7gWvYbMr2d-e8peXDMcT6XGKi42Wrmn1y1UOItySkbxzTJXULtyKsbWnvibnk/s1600/04.+iremember.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsJL5GM842mPtdKBANysrHRZuhTwleun9nNQru0ExV_r3BSTCTsz6DCj6jb0K3beiihLr6Ach-EEThPm7gWvYbMr2d-e8peXDMcT6XGKi42Wrmn1y1UOItySkbxzTJXULtyKsbWnvibnk/s320/04.+iremember.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I Remember </i><br />
by Joe Brainard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Q: What reading is his voice taken from?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: The recordings are taken from several readings. One in Calais, Vermont, in 1970; another at St. Mark’s Church in New York in 1971; and a later recording from a Giorno Poetry Systems record that was released in 1974. You can listen to the full recordings online at <a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Brainard.php">http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Brainard.php</a>.
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<br />
<b>Q: Do you have a favorite passage from <i>I Remember</i>?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: Not really. The accumulation of all the memories and the rhythm of the entire piece are what appeal to me most.
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<b>Q: Have you read <i>The Collected Works of Joe Brainard</i>, edited by Ron Padgett?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: Yes, it’s an amazing collection of writing that gave me an even deeper and warmer impression of Joe than I already had.
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<br />
<b>Q: Do you relate to his story about being an emerging gay artist in New York City?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: Definitely. This isn’t the first queer biography I’ve made. I made a film about the avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, and as a college student I made work about the artist David Wojnarowicz. I see Brainard within that shared history of New York queer artists who died prematurely of AIDS. Since I’m only 30, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be a queer artist in New York through different eras, particularly the 1970s and 1980s.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHVhXV5d7-qlFyPu5qGhaBxn3TmvEGOg6m8lnlnPE8nNm9TL1sM77WcFo7L4RmWOo2S1LQF5ImMdEUlnoOMfrb9nuhnoD_8ONqEQDJ3VJZWXaxfiRH8T_JZzlZSBNqp9PgMaWSodS-zo/s1600/01.+by-Wren-de-Antonio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHVhXV5d7-qlFyPu5qGhaBxn3TmvEGOg6m8lnlnPE8nNm9TL1sM77WcFo7L4RmWOo2S1LQF5ImMdEUlnoOMfrb9nuhnoD_8ONqEQDJ3VJZWXaxfiRH8T_JZzlZSBNqp9PgMaWSodS-zo/s320/01.+by-Wren-de-Antonio.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe Brainard<br />
photo by Wren de Antonio</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivndVEhrw708jBcOaB1ftZnwMS0JqaAAjcUfWq9gQusTjc6u14yT_jMWfV8o2lo5ZfYGDcl_7qn2dq75bL5s0W51LzCWFFOorXKgaUXNkaoOm0fYGRp9IllkocXlKSYDd7QMdMUZ_MRtY/s1600/locket-crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivndVEhrw708jBcOaB1ftZnwMS0JqaAAjcUfWq9gQusTjc6u14yT_jMWfV8o2lo5ZfYGDcl_7qn2dq75bL5s0W51LzCWFFOorXKgaUXNkaoOm0fYGRp9IllkocXlKSYDd7QMdMUZ_MRtY/s320/locket-crop.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">production still, <br />
I Remember: A Film about Joe Brainard<br />
courtesy The Estate of Joe Brainard</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Q: Where is the film being shown?</b>
<br />
<br />
A: The film is screening in film festivals and at museums. It was commissioned by the Center for Curatorial Studies at Bard College and has since screened around a lot. Coming up, it will be showing at the Liverpool Biennial in the UK and later in the winter at SFMOMA. We also had nice screenings at the Kitchen and the NY Art Book Fair at MoMA PS1 in New York, as well as the gay and lesbian film festivals in Los Angeles and New York.
<br />
<br />
<b>Q: Do you plan to make other films about Brainard, Padgett, or the New York School of poets? </b>
<br />
<br />
A: I’d never say never. At the moment, I’m very busy finishing a film that I’ve been making for four years. It’s a feature documentary based on <i>Teenage</i>, a book by the British author Jon Savage. The film, like the book, is a prehistory of the teenager and looks at youth culture before WWII. It should be out early next year.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">production still, I Remember: A Film about Joe Brainard<br />
courtesy The Estate of Joe Brainard</td></tr>
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-11077292514859997072012-11-05T10:11:00.001-08:002012-11-05T14:39:35.588-08:00I Love Joe Brainard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKKFI7GDxvN0ChHXp31rPuZoXMIt52nl55trabwEYs77pkD4k8gRTIFvA_lNgbrDONyl11ihRGNlXIaP65yIurRCxtEAoA5ZFyJaJdFR3l4xK7t3Z1I9_Lhu40WE8VqKEBulRjOOUNbw/s1600/Joe_by_Peter_Hujar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioKKFI7GDxvN0ChHXp31rPuZoXMIt52nl55trabwEYs77pkD4k8gRTIFvA_lNgbrDONyl11ihRGNlXIaP65yIurRCxtEAoA5ZFyJaJdFR3l4xK7t3Z1I9_Lhu40WE8VqKEBulRjOOUNbw/s320/Joe_by_Peter_Hujar.jpg" width="294" /></a></div>
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<i>In the case of Joe one wants to embrace the pansy, so to speak.</i>
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<div style="float: right;">
—John Ashbery</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp7y67YmNQ2nz2ZQatpiPqStWfeV3tkRC5S8ejGLG0PbUDt4xp53BfG4taVZyke5WJGZ1g2ZiEQXFlX0TilXbWjMGvj1yY7pLYbzcLI14adjrjtctXGSTAc20Hhfg07Uv5lF17LYtQTM/s1600/blossommedium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZp7y67YmNQ2nz2ZQatpiPqStWfeV3tkRC5S8ejGLG0PbUDt4xp53BfG4taVZyke5WJGZ1g2ZiEQXFlX0TilXbWjMGvj1yY7pLYbzcLI14adjrjtctXGSTAc20Hhfg07Uv5lF17LYtQTM/s320/blossommedium.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blossom<br />
1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I love Joe Brainard. He was an artist and writer who gave to everybody the permission they needed. That includes the permission to use the simple declarative sentence. You can read thousands of these sentences in the recently released book <i>The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard,</i> edited by his longtime friend Ron Padgett. (<a href="http://www.loa.org/volume.jsp?RequestID=359">http://www.loa.org/volume.jsp?RequestID=359</a>) Brainard’s most famous written work was the prose poem “I Remember,” which is included in its entirety in this volume. By the end of the book (or just the poem), you will probably love Joe Brainard too. I love this book and will refer to it for the rest of my life.<br />
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Joe Brainard took the everyday experience and made it exceptional. He reminded us in all kinds of ways that being alive and kind right now is what really matters. At first reading, some pieces seem simple, even naïve. On rereading, I am not so sure I know what he meant. Even in recalling moments from his past, he was bringing us back to living more fully in this moment. Joe Brainard was a skinny speedy tanned Buddha in an unbuttoned white shirt.
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He moved to New York as a young man in the early 1960s, at a time when art and poetry were not so separate. In the beginning, he had to sell his own blood to make ends meet. He was without guile, a skilled draftsman and a freewheeling poet. He was unafraid to mix everything up. Influenced by Gertrude Stein, his writing seemed almost unconscious, but never tedious. He reminds me of the artists Cy Twombly and Jackson Pollock. Not with his visual art, but in his being. The writing and collages just poured out of his unconscious. Had he a less perceptive eye and sensitive ear, he might have produced ramblings or easy realism. But with his hand and eye, all the expressions were art emanating from a deep true place.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3H60Y-mQp82rNvUpwphFQhbz89tmjS-_XMw1-EuuO3zw8cjyAhR6Po8AnjUSQyTzcLtFbyTaJvPhKYc_AF22ZhPAXMvU8rk3zKNso7FwaVrUnfTEPmNJFk8WSTQ-1yxyCcJKShyHiTuI/s1600/woodassemblagemedium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3H60Y-mQp82rNvUpwphFQhbz89tmjS-_XMw1-EuuO3zw8cjyAhR6Po8AnjUSQyTzcLtFbyTaJvPhKYc_AF22ZhPAXMvU8rk3zKNso7FwaVrUnfTEPmNJFk8WSTQ-1yxyCcJKShyHiTuI/s320/woodassemblagemedium.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled<br />
1970</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9iO66yIKFUlIn56cjLZzNQ5ebEa_1NNhSrHpLeBeOXU3GBTFQhyphenhyphenMX9_yXpRGul-CFZrny4yKVTH8rMhiDpJdyllNwBq4YAY8jIUKvhzhnp_ckKCY8IEuOA3WCm0-XLGFCkbz_LSn6R0M/s1600/xmas_assemblage_med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9iO66yIKFUlIn56cjLZzNQ5ebEa_1NNhSrHpLeBeOXU3GBTFQhyphenhyphenMX9_yXpRGul-CFZrny4yKVTH8rMhiDpJdyllNwBq4YAY8jIUKvhzhnp_ckKCY8IEuOA3WCm0-XLGFCkbz_LSn6R0M/s320/xmas_assemblage_med.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madonna and Child<br />
1964</td></tr>
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Brainard was an intuitive artist, not a conceptual artist. With the exception of a few antiwar, pro-McGovern posters, he was not a political artist either. Indeed, he shied away from politics. He didn’t try to place himself in a social or a political context. That would be somebody else’s job. Although his homosexuality can be seen everywhere, I am not sure he would have called himself a queer artist, but more likely an artist who was queer. The art came first. His sexuality was omnipresent, but only occasionally in the foreground.
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A few years ago, the Tibor de Nagy gallery held an exhibition focusing on Brainard’s sexual art, called <i>The Erotic Work</i>. (Unable to see the show, I ordered the catalog.) While his erotic work is meant to be sexual, it is never pornographic. Or maybe I should say, I wish pornography could catch the sweetness that Brainard did. But then it wouldn’t be pornography, would it? He favored white briefs. I only know one friend who can get away with white briefs in middle age. (And he does look good and boyish in them.) But I love white briefs all over again.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjr-p9BQuIMQ4a91t71vsTkRt9jdNQG1YTmoXKkSPsDiErdUT3257ZFyvFPsGz3W0zVQZt4qB60sKm5Jzn01qjIDGXmYKqehCCGPNyrwmXWrb1Qa0dgMDeI3I4xIwljap85NFSwvPhKa4/s1600/tattoomedium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjr-p9BQuIMQ4a91t71vsTkRt9jdNQG1YTmoXKkSPsDiErdUT3257ZFyvFPsGz3W0zVQZt4qB60sKm5Jzn01qjIDGXmYKqehCCGPNyrwmXWrb1Qa0dgMDeI3I4xIwljap85NFSwvPhKa4/s320/tattoomedium.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled (Tattoo)<br />
1972</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAY8ChlMgAlQ0qeMhoHm_OShoZ7lqOKGqnxTf0dpST1j6mMzK7PX06cg0ak-xLF5EJbpEcU7tzLsNMFgYWuyurEgzxIfsub6RuGWrNOEOH49mwIpitAnoqIU8lYNRZC7KIRcvdSyXVzw/s1600/Joe_Nude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyAY8ChlMgAlQ0qeMhoHm_OShoZ7lqOKGqnxTf0dpST1j6mMzK7PX06cg0ak-xLF5EJbpEcU7tzLsNMFgYWuyurEgzxIfsub6RuGWrNOEOH49mwIpitAnoqIU8lYNRZC7KIRcvdSyXVzw/s320/Joe_Nude.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe<br />
Early 1970s</td></tr>
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Brainard never learned to drive a car and wouldn’t light a gas stove. It took me until I was 30 to drive a car. (And the truth is, I only learned for love.) And I almost blew up a house lighting a gas stove when I was a teenager. I never lit another. So, I also love Joe Brainard for sharing those normal mechanical ineptitudes.<br />
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I never met Joe Brainard. I don’t think I knew who Joe Brainard was before 2001, seven years after he died. Like his writing, his retrospective at the Berkeley Art Museum woke me up and also confused me. The show that Constance Lewallen curated was a triumph of openness. She caught Brainard’s generosity and extended it.
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At first I didn’t relate so much to his representational work. Generally, I favor abstract or conceptual art. My favorite piece in the big show was <i>Prell</i>, a magnificent collage based on the unnatural green of Prell shampoo. It was like an exploded Cornell box with a touch of acid for good measure. (Turns out it was speed.) And many of his smaller collages created a mash-up that beautifully reflected the middle of the 20th century through the 1970s. I understood his appropriation of Ernie Bushmiller’s Nancy cartoon character. But the paintings? They bothered me, because they didn’t seem to turn over any new ground. Apparently they also bothered Brainard, because when he compared himself to painters as strong (and as different) as de Kooning and Sargent, he found himself lacking. He stopped painting and exhibiting in the late 1970s.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JganbXW2Wd2D78-fcOGcNTY5OscBYEiOE5QMz0zIYHfBiL_21kxpMtxeoip4WHUM2Z8mC-XwVsMA5W8w_wn2VyEZ5XH3rs4il-22JVWQ1iLZ2dFsWlwyFsAyJyVVmwmeLt9WfXGoZqQ/s1600/Goodnfruitymadonnamedium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9JganbXW2Wd2D78-fcOGcNTY5OscBYEiOE5QMz0zIYHfBiL_21kxpMtxeoip4WHUM2Z8mC-XwVsMA5W8w_wn2VyEZ5XH3rs4il-22JVWQ1iLZ2dFsWlwyFsAyJyVVmwmeLt9WfXGoZqQ/s320/Goodnfruitymadonnamedium.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled (Good n' Fruity Madonna)<br />
1968</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9T8jClcLYDg5JqzR2p5DrDJhVdALUWI9edka2kxMFrUxUrajHaOJk_iA7TGP4qjajkszz6Wlo697zjklqZ68xthUm93WpeoZ-MGEB1ADgLZXatE2PoXGrCZ36x90mDGWg-ZQZsltQ68/s1600/NancydeKooningmedium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9T8jClcLYDg5JqzR2p5DrDJhVdALUWI9edka2kxMFrUxUrajHaOJk_iA7TGP4qjajkszz6Wlo697zjklqZ68xthUm93WpeoZ-MGEB1ADgLZXatE2PoXGrCZ36x90mDGWg-ZQZsltQ68/s320/NancydeKooningmedium.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If Nancy Was a Painting by de Kooning<br />
1975</td></tr>
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There has been a lot of speculation as to why Joe Brainard stopped painting. Some have said that he stopped making art, but that isn’t accurate. Ron Padgett said he continued to make art, think about art, and design book jackets for his poet friends. He also said that Brainard was happy during this period. He mostly read books and saw friends. Although he didn’t promote his art from the late 1970s onward, he didn’t stop being an artist. Brainard’s former lover, the actor Keith McDermott, says that he was “the opposite of look at me.” I love that.<br />
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Joe Brainard maintained a close relationship with writer Kenward Elmslie from the time they met in the early 1960s until Brainard’s death in 1994. During that time, Brainard had numerous affairs and was also with McDermott . Yet he lived with Elmslie every summer in Calais, Vermont. In his poem about Joe entitled “Bare Bones” Elmslie wrote,<br />
<blockquote>
Our M.O. evolves<br />
Four months together in Vermont,<br />
June to October.<br />
Rest of the year, delicate but tenacious bonds.<br />
We cohere, summer to summer,<br />
Despite caesuras, rifts and dumplings,<br />
Once each, luckily staggered.</blockquote>
Maybe the old-fashioned word “companion” fits. Like having a mostly summer companion? And McDermott was his autumn lover? This elastic definition of relationship probably appeals to many gay men. It may have been possible because Elmslie was relieved of the monotony of earning a living (his grandfather was Joseph Pulitzer). It’s easier to play outside the rules if you don’t have to put on a tie and show up at the office every day. Brainard found his patron and then found his own success in selling his work. But by all accounts, he had no earthly understanding of money. I love him for that too.<br />
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In a recent videotape, poet Ann Lauterbach also talks about permission in Brainard’s work. Right now, for me, that permission is about innocent sexuality as well as the simple sentence. He never seems jaded, still loving male sexuality with the enthusiasm of the recently out young man. I really love feeling that again.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQqygeIQyeIdCAcFOcZwyjottiSbSsJvX1ahHmysHk0yl0LWJIJPimRdjdBRloRithouLOYRX_9VIZZTHBH5vt-5i7hm3lr1sKmyp8cvcjEQjcKe_vbta5VMdAKc-JpJOjemOiqFDteg/s1600/joe_at_newsstand_medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQqygeIQyeIdCAcFOcZwyjottiSbSsJvX1ahHmysHk0yl0LWJIJPimRdjdBRloRithouLOYRX_9VIZZTHBH5vt-5i7hm3lr1sKmyp8cvcjEQjcKe_vbta5VMdAKc-JpJOjemOiqFDteg/s320/joe_at_newsstand_medium.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joe at Gem Spa, NYC<br />
around 1970</td></tr>
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The thread I picked up through Brainard’s diverse mediums was the elusive nowness. Ron Padgett also described it as “seeing what is really there.”
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In his piece entitled “Right Now,” Brainard writes,
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<blockquote>
(It is not my purpose to bore you. It is my purpose to—well, I want to throw everything out of my head as much as possible so I can simply write from/about what “is,” at this very moment: <i>Right Now!</i>)</blockquote>
He concludes the piece,
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<i>Feet:</i> looking real hard at feet right now I am wondering “why toes?”</blockquote>
That is what took me a while to understand with his paintings. Maybe he felt that his technical abilities couldn’t render a pure presence as well as his other work. Maybe that is what fellow poet and friend Frank Bidart called his “radical purity.” Brainard’s work was so immediate, it was as if it were channeled more than created. The artist Robert Mapplethorpe called one of his own exhibits <i>The Perfect Moment</i>, but now Mapplethorpe’s work looks more like artifice, just reconstructions for the camera. Brainard was bringing us back into a perfect moment of our own creation, gently, sweetly, and full of love. I want to see those paintings again. I think I might love them now.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whippoorwill<br />
1974</td></tr>
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<i>All art works by Joe Brainard used by permission of the Estate of Joe Brainard and courtesy of the Tibor de Nagy Gallery, New York.</i>
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More resources on Joe Brainard:
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<a href="http://www.joebrainard.org/">http://www.joebrainard.org/</a>
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A site devoted to the work of Joe Brainard.
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<a href="http://www.loa.org/IRememberJoeBrainard/">http://www.loa.org/IRememberJoeBrainard/</a>
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A site build to celebrate the publication of <i>The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard</i>. Of particular interest are the videos posted by several of his close friends.
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<a href="http://jacketmagazine.com/16/index.shtml">http://jacketmagazine.com/16/index.shtml</a>
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This is a selection of pieces from an issue of the journal <i>Pressed Wafer</i> devoted to Joe Brainard.
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<a href="http://thislandpress.com/11/07/2011/the-world-is-yours-a-portrait-of-joe-brainard/">http://thislandpress.com/11/07/2011/the-world-is-yours-a-portrait-of-joe-brainard/</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.artistswithaids.org/artery/centerpieces/centerpieces_mcdermott.html">http://www.artistswithaids.org/artery/centerpieces/centerpieces_mcdermott.html</a>
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His lover Keith McDermott writes about their relationship.
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2Znn0oGrfE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2Znn0oGrfE</a>
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A video tribute to Joe Brainard on the publication of his <i>Collected Writings</i>.
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<a href="http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Brainard.php">http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Brainard.php</a>
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This is a collection of sound recordings of Joe Brainard reading his work.
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<a href="http://www.tibordenagy.com/">http://www.tibordenagy.com</a>
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The gallery that represents Joe Brainard’s estate.
Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-63008655333105120762012-09-12T09:25:00.000-07:002012-09-12T09:25:19.341-07:00Searching for Bohemia <b>And Remembering Barton Lidice Beneš</b>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barton Beneš<br />
courtesy The North Dakota <br />
Museum of Art</td></tr>
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Death is a great catalyst for remembering, for trying to make sense. My friend Kristina recently told me that the artist Barton Lidice Beneš, a longtime friend of her family, died in May. I found the obituary in the <i>New York Times</i> and thought back to the brief time I knew him in the early 1980s. He was one the funniest men I ever met. He was also one of the first committed artists that I ever knew personally. I saw him a few times in New York and in Southern California and spent an entire night staying up with him in his studio while he created a magical world. Chemicals fueled some it, but most of it was some inner turbine whirring away. That one evening in 1981 symbolized nearly everything I wanted to find outside the narrow confines of my sheltered upbringing. Like most things, it’s about context. That’s something Barton understood better than anybody, especially in his later work.
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My parents were transplanted from rural landscapes to the suburbs of San Francisco after the war. They sought education and jobs in the big city, yet were rooted in early 20th-century agrarian life. I don’t mean to say that they were conservative exactly, but they had some of the strengths, prejudices, and fears associated with growing up on the farm. They valued art but didn’t necessarily understand it. We began to travel when I was about nine, and we saw art in Washington, New York, and Montreal. At home, there were framed photo reproductions of Picasso, Braque, Monet, and Winslow Homer paintings that were windows for my young mind. Was that a phone cord in Picasso’s <em>Still Life with Antique Head</em>? Why was a rock red in <i>Girl with Dove</i>? I remember a trip to SFMOMA where we saw Ed Kienholz’ <i>Back Seat Dodge ’38</i>. My father couldn’t explain it. I wasn’t interested in the sexual content as much as the beauty of the car itself. Only later would I begin to understand the, uh, context.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Still Life with Antique Head</em><br />
Picasso</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwqqtX52l9kPPLHfguGergw3RELc1eqjRtnLxVnXeRM7XcWWvVCBceIcp1GY0GEx4ZL7simT7p73idJ9GMFVBObs_dCFBBQvdrX_VVlKxiiQK2o8TBbJrCMbCUVSoc9_I8nMt9NQnOlE/s1600/picasso_child-with-dove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZwqqtX52l9kPPLHfguGergw3RELc1eqjRtnLxVnXeRM7XcWWvVCBceIcp1GY0GEx4ZL7simT7p73idJ9GMFVBObs_dCFBBQvdrX_VVlKxiiQK2o8TBbJrCMbCUVSoc9_I8nMt9NQnOlE/s320/picasso_child-with-dove.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Child with Dove</i><br />
Picasso</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The only original piece of art I remember at home was a small painting of a rural winter scene painted by my great grandmother. This was one of the very few items that made it across the long trek from Saskatchewan to Oregon and then to my parents’ house.
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When we were kids, my sister and I spent most of our free time drawing. We rarely sat together, though, and we imagined entirely different lives. She suffered from severe asthma, and her pieces were realistic and mostly depicted disabled kids drawn in profile. Mine were chaotic stories, although eventually I settled down to drawing modernist residential floor plans and elevations. One day, I figured out how to cut construction paper and make three-dimensional sculptures that fit together sort of like Eames cards, but in Calderesque shapes. My memory is that I gave one of them to my mother as her birthday gift and she was disappointed. She rarely gave praise or criticism. She specialized in a kind of silent but constant ever-so-slight disapproval, like a light rain. She wanted fit and brilliant children, and we didn’t quite measure up.
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As a family, we saw a Claes Oldenburg show at the Berkeley Art Museum around 1971. I am not sure what my parents thought of all those melting devices, but they knew enough not to scorn it. I was transported. In high school, I would visit the building often, staring at the thick Hans Hofmann canvases. My first framed art poster was from a show of Hofmann’s.
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My friend Catherine’s father wrote art criticism and knew Roy De Forest, and another friend, Adam, had a De Forest in his dining room. His family also had a Richard Linder in the living room, a Platner side table, and a Clayton Bailey ejaculating on the hearth. We played <i>Bobbie Short Loves Cole Porter</i> on the hi-fi. Oh, I loved his house almost as much as I thought I loved Adam! As a kid, I spent more time at Eric’s house, because we rode bicycles everywhere. Later, he even went to architecture school, but after we started high school and stopped riding kid bikes, we didn’t have much in common. I still remember his mother with oversized sunglasses and her own paintings and batik pieces influenced by their talented friends. His family was close to Harold Paris, a well-known local sculptor. It was in their house I first saw odd shaped Bertoia chairs and abstract paintings on tile. In their backyard was a ceramic monstrosity that Paris had created. The story was that Eric’s parents agreed to store the sculpture for Paris, and over time the kids climbed on it and a few protuberances broke off and moss began to cover the base. When Paris saw it, he was horrified. Apparently he brought over the Berkeley Art Museum curator Peter Selz, who loved how the piece had seasoned. All was forgiven. Even at a young age, I knew art was one way out.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUDgaIPmK1hVi83t4xISB-NLmf5h2sr1JXXyPb8fjz1mzKPr0Vf2Y_YEIkJtB8dmxJp_CmveCfqbL0e24t8AHx5zwJSEYAhQiN2NaZ2VIFLgs6e5OXFxqzQmjwCsSN7qpexsL74hhv1Q/s1600/a-sculpture-by-Harold-Paris-similar-to-the-one-that-we-climbed-on-as-children-in-Erics-backyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUDgaIPmK1hVi83t4xISB-NLmf5h2sr1JXXyPb8fjz1mzKPr0Vf2Y_YEIkJtB8dmxJp_CmveCfqbL0e24t8AHx5zwJSEYAhQiN2NaZ2VIFLgs6e5OXFxqzQmjwCsSN7qpexsL74hhv1Q/s320/a-sculpture-by-Harold-Paris-similar-to-the-one-that-we-climbed-on-as-children-in-Erics-backyard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sculpture by Harold Paris - similar to the one that we <br />
climbed on as children in Eric's backyard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This was the life I wanted when I moved to San Francisco in January of 1977. Instead, I mostly floundered in college and enjoyed what any 20-year-old might in San Francisco of the late 1970s. But it wasn’t until I wrote a paper on Louis Kahn that I began to have any idea of what path to follow.<br />
<br />
In the first year or two at San Francisco State, I met my pal Kristina in acting class with Jack Cook, who was a serious actor but kind. He had known Kristina’s grandmother on the stage in New York, and she got special treatment. She came from an acting dynasty and was definitely not like the other kids. I loved that about her.
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<br />
One night we took the ferry to the house in Sausalito where she rented a room and watched the bay from under a flokati rug. Hers was not a typical student life. On the wall was a strange piece of art with smiling faces and towers and a black background. I was focused on abstract art at the time, but the collage didn’t look like something you saw in a student’s room. Kristina told me about her aunt meeting an artist in New York named Barton Beneš and how he just became part of the family. An extended family of jesters of all kinds floated in and out of Kristina’s family’s ramshackle redwood house on the beach in Malibu, and one weekend Barton was there telling funny stories about drugs, sex, and art. Maybe I was 21? He had a way of rolling all of his fables and foibles into a long monologue that I adored. He could have been on the radio. One story I remember from the beach weekend was about sticking acid up his ass and the trip he went on only to crap the pill out undissolved a few hours later. I would meet other folks in that house who were more famous, but his was the life I imagined—if I had been brave or talented enough.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsD5jMI6qck2aQNoHjCOhYeF8r72x6lfSow-Cf-9qWaLmdv8_EX6-UXbeSpeBLmvoPNQ3wWV4TOXKd7EHBOrSWJq06vxhxlhoolC9wAyoYhk_pHZC4e0UeB3cc_qyrF0-Q_TDDvl3mD3Q/s1600/Ezra+Stoller+(c)+Esto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsD5jMI6qck2aQNoHjCOhYeF8r72x6lfSow-Cf-9qWaLmdv8_EX6-UXbeSpeBLmvoPNQ3wWV4TOXKd7EHBOrSWJq06vxhxlhoolC9wAyoYhk_pHZC4e0UeB3cc_qyrF0-Q_TDDvl3mD3Q/s320/Ezra+Stoller+(c)+Esto.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Westbeth<br />
courtesy Ezra Stoller (c) Esto</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Westbeth, Barton’s home, when I first saw it in 1981 or so, did not look quite as pristine as it does in Ezra Stoller’s photos for the architect Richard Meier. The former Bell Labs building in the West Village was converted to state-subsidized artist studios. Hard to imagine in this day of antigovernment ranting. The neighborhood was still dodgy, and the building felt a little institutional and fortress-like. But once inside Barton’s apartment, you were in an enchanted chamber. You could see the Empire State Building in the distance, but there was so much else to examine that you hardly looked out the windows. This was during the era Barton was working with rubber stamps and transcribing rambling letters from his mad Aunt Evelyn in Florida. He loved it when people took interest in his art, and to the chagrin of his dealers, he gave much of it away. We talked about architecture, and he gave me a column dreaming of being a colonnade, part of his Aspiration series. (Another piece in the series was a pencil eraser dreaming of being a pink pearl.) He also gave me an apron with a portion of a letter from Aunt Evelyn that read, “THIS ONE NEIGHBOR SAID THAT SHE NEVER SAW SO MUCH DIRT AS THERE WAS NEXT DOOR THAT EVIDENTLY THE NEW RENTERS NEVER VACUUMED OR DUSTED, AND THE POOR THING DIDN’T KNOW THAT SHE WAS TALKING TO SOMEONE ELSE NOT CLEANING” He inscribed the piece “for my friend Kenny. Clean up!” Who told him that I was a terrible housekeeper? (He also rubberstamped some cleaning brushes with the same excerpt.)
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdsK2dq2VKR1301GekvMChfcg5exh9RaqHsgC39A6xLnB1-PAgS6xa966PKLtby4S7ESKvrXkJ7GZBTPu2JjHoB34KYq4NA-J_DHJAFhlP6nZeq1UBdCB0so6iei7jQdhuTojqCGCQVo/s1600/column-Dreamin-of-being-a-Colonnade_from-the-Aspirations-Series.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdsK2dq2VKR1301GekvMChfcg5exh9RaqHsgC39A6xLnB1-PAgS6xa966PKLtby4S7ESKvrXkJ7GZBTPu2JjHoB34KYq4NA-J_DHJAFhlP6nZeq1UBdCB0so6iei7jQdhuTojqCGCQVo/s320/column-Dreamin-of-being-a-Colonnade_from-the-Aspirations-Series.jpg" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Column Dreaming of Being A Colonnade</em><br />
from the Aspiration series </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5027IMZL9HHKnEKtX7txbBy_pt_gcJAJ-5KUcJl4mPgSXeo6ixx6V1ntgVFkmhLg1BtNQfjaVkN4qlyumAEjsxQBld9h7SebnaFM4AQvmZpguQsyMwT0OGsRkDsuhc7Coii43cRuz_-I/s1600/IMG_0049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5027IMZL9HHKnEKtX7txbBy_pt_gcJAJ-5KUcJl4mPgSXeo6ixx6V1ntgVFkmhLg1BtNQfjaVkN4qlyumAEjsxQBld9h7SebnaFM4AQvmZpguQsyMwT0OGsRkDsuhc7Coii43cRuz_-I/s320/IMG_0049.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My letter from Aunt Evelyn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I don’t remember what we talked about that long night. I worked on my own projects with paper, thread, glue, and scissors. He could inspire anybody. We smoked opium (is that possible?), and at some point there was a brief sexual interlude, but it wasn’t dramatic or odd. It was all of a piece. He talks about this time and before in the documentary <i>Gay Sex in the 1970s</i>. It is classic Barton. It was the tail end of that dreamy time.
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<br />
Later, he would use shells and woven money, both materials that his lover Howard Meyer had worked with. This was before AIDS changed his life, took Howard, and also dramatically changed his art.
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<br />
Following Howard’s death in 1989, Barton didn’t do much work for a few years, and then after he cut himself by accident, he started making pieces with his own HIV-infected blood. The resulting show, <i>Lethal Weapons</i> (there is a documentary of the same name), traveled across Europe and created widespread hysteria. In liberal Sweden, the health officials required that his blood be heated to 160 degrees before it was shown. But in North Dakota, of all places, the North Dakota Museum of Art didn’t worry about it. An important bond was formed with the rural museum. His fame as a political artist grew. But like most artists, he was just working with the material of his life.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86F7DKt21vWd7n4z5VejSwc6iEiHBDOjOSivoaNIFAvPBaJTJXE9lEB4gDw_RkvLd2XNsNeDWgu2TO-4Xk-BNaDTMyNmsl73nrIChC-legguwx_ybLEO0vkv695SZpRD2qByJnHkBbOw/s1600/atomizer-blood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86F7DKt21vWd7n4z5VejSwc6iEiHBDOjOSivoaNIFAvPBaJTJXE9lEB4gDw_RkvLd2XNsNeDWgu2TO-4Xk-BNaDTMyNmsl73nrIChC-legguwx_ybLEO0vkv695SZpRD2qByJnHkBbOw/s320/atomizer-blood.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lethal Weapon Series, Essence, 1994</i><br />
courtesy Pavel Zoubok Gallery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Later there were reliquaries, often created with castoffs from celebrities. He knew several, but he didn’t chase them. They just fell for him and the worlds he made in art. It was as if he had to return to humor, even if death remained the theme. Everybody sent him stuff. Toenail clippings, ashes, napkins, and cigarette butts. Kristina’s grandmother swiped jellybeans off President Reagan’s desk in the oval office. Everybody Barton met ended up working for him. This era of his work is beautifully covered in the book <i>Curiosa: Celebrity Relics, Historical Fossils, and Other Metamorphic Rubbish</i>.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzClYJfax9ewXr9NxeRKpDxWhJnxaof7uEaokPEKMzH96YRVAeNu_qnGtXnvdECIQeEni8eyJmM2fRW4sEOnpWFUaL5vu9_7JQIvBnGK3xU7ZOOm29WHgxhobf8Q1A0do5HCTNPUR8D3Q/s1600/mixed-media.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzClYJfax9ewXr9NxeRKpDxWhJnxaof7uEaokPEKMzH96YRVAeNu_qnGtXnvdECIQeEni8eyJmM2fRW4sEOnpWFUaL5vu9_7JQIvBnGK3xU7ZOOm29WHgxhobf8Q1A0do5HCTNPUR8D3Q/s320/mixed-media.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Untitled, 2011</i><br />
courtesy Pavel Zoubok Gallery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Barton didn’t like to leave the apartment except by limo. Once, when I phoned, he asked that I bring him a melon scooper—as soon as possible. He had to have it that night for a piece he was working on. The market was only a block away from where he lived, but of course I was happy to oblige. He breathed art—he couldn’t stop creating it. In the end, his most famous single piece of art was the apartment itself. He willed all of its contents (and his own ashes, which will be in a pillow on the bed) to the North Dakota Museum of Art, where the incredible three-dimensional collage will be resurrected. This will be enough reason to travel there.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWjHUTrktAVBNtTHvCAPTooJPQa2sh-RTPkqGyMy_J7NM-XsZEJ8kwdhm-EJhMlGJexQ9elEnvmNjJkLcqT3WagvSCFWkY_wcN42BY8TiNCsTyr-9KLFqWfOJV3wOtRgJRGeYgwVkeug/s1600/DiningRoomTable_courtesy-The-North+Dakota-Museum+of-Art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqWjHUTrktAVBNtTHvCAPTooJPQa2sh-RTPkqGyMy_J7NM-XsZEJ8kwdhm-EJhMlGJexQ9elEnvmNjJkLcqT3WagvSCFWkY_wcN42BY8TiNCsTyr-9KLFqWfOJV3wOtRgJRGeYgwVkeug/s1600/DiningRoomTable_courtesy-The-North+Dakota-Museum+of-Art.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barton's dining room table<br />
courtesy The North Dakota Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyIa4_bbqg5-no2SUOUge8dt52ETAvdkDBjT6VXJrboyjrI8VCIfJjJM760RamWY3XLgg2kXIUFh82j-P7cfbbe_tYkGt4lysE7EFDW4KqqTyJVP0UWEziOuqMWcgzq8z6eFrdfFzz0g/s1600/17cityroom-benes_courtesy-ny-times.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyIa4_bbqg5-no2SUOUge8dt52ETAvdkDBjT6VXJrboyjrI8VCIfJjJM760RamWY3XLgg2kXIUFh82j-P7cfbbe_tYkGt4lysE7EFDW4KqqTyJVP0UWEziOuqMWcgzq8z6eFrdfFzz0g/s320/17cityroom-benes_courtesy-ny-times.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barton's front door<br />
courtesy The North Dakota Museum
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5IGTKEK1b_tNCQUv3sjQWdmh1n9BY1Xj1zMjFjU9loWV57uRvogx3fDfqcl8SAPPsyfw2UDGnaXV2rK8whT1j-x1e_mhCC9lz3wuDtzEQ8GFEdwYVjNJVnB6al3fPVh3QMl7PCtH46AI/s1600/Bedroom1_courtesy-The-North+Dakota-Museum+of-Art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5IGTKEK1b_tNCQUv3sjQWdmh1n9BY1Xj1zMjFjU9loWV57uRvogx3fDfqcl8SAPPsyfw2UDGnaXV2rK8whT1j-x1e_mhCC9lz3wuDtzEQ8GFEdwYVjNJVnB6al3fPVh3QMl7PCtH46AI/s1600/Bedroom1_courtesy-The-North+Dakota-Museum+of-Art.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barton's bed<br />
courtesy The North Dakota Museum
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Every day, I look at the collage he gave me and think of it as a talisman for the career I was lucky enough to find. It wasn’t exactly Bohemia, but it wasn’t a corporate life either. That evening I spent with him was a generous encouragement that I wouldn’t understand for many decades.<br />
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Barton died at age 69. I imagine somewhere he is laughing about that magic number.
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<br />
There will be an exhibit of Barton’s work entitled <i>The Thrill of the Hunt</i> at the Pavel Zoubok Gallery in New York City from October 11 to November 10, 2012. His memorial takes place on October 1.
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-AikJs8ddTo" width="420"></iframe>
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<br />
There are several articles about Barton. Here are a few.
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<br />
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/19/arts/design/barton-lidice-benes-provocative-artist-dies-at-69.html">http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/19/arts/design/barton-lidice-benes-provocative-artist-dies-at-69.html</a><br />
<a href="http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/17/after-an-artists-death-his-home-becomes-a-work-of-art/">http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/07/17/after-an-artists-death-his-home-becomes-a-work-of-art/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.ndmoa.com/Barton_Bene%C5%A1/Bene%C5%A1.html">http://www.ndmoa.com/Barton_Beneš/Beneš.html</a><br />
<a href="http://www.ndmoa.com/Bene%C5%A1Hagman/Hagman.html">http://www.ndmoa.com/BenešHagman/Hagman.html</a><br />
<a href="http://www.poz.com/articles/217_11353.shtml">http://www.poz.com/articles/217_11353.shtml</a>Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-68611171063668098272012-09-05T11:34:00.003-07:002012-09-05T11:34:53.397-07:00More Than One Comic in the Village<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Remembering David Rakoff</b>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gpe9vWg28s5UY8PdXn1086R6hK3MdNXZ5LobCJbolssw1taCopLUyHIy6FjsCwPGaUle5lRpRJri4TAWyBtaT-RcNrUHGLiO9OF6WlA4n959OYtefKvUiu7IN4xLmhZZ0AafLGnLT9o/s1600/city.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gpe9vWg28s5UY8PdXn1086R6hK3MdNXZ5LobCJbolssw1taCopLUyHIy6FjsCwPGaUle5lRpRJri4TAWyBtaT-RcNrUHGLiO9OF6WlA4n959OYtefKvUiu7IN4xLmhZZ0AafLGnLT9o/s320/city.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Even though I have recognized myself as gay for close to 40 years, I am still finding layers of internalized homophobia. One of them has to do with ironic gay humorists. When David Rakoff passed away, he was often compared to David Sedaris. When I read Rakoff’s book <i>Fraud</i> a few years ago, I thought that he wasn’t nearly as funny as Sedaris, and I didn’t read further. As with Daffyd, the Welsh fairy in the TV sketch show “Little Britain,” there was only one gay in that village: there could only be one funny fag essayist, and I thought it was Sedaris. That was the layer I uncovered last week.
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Rakoff was a different kind of writer. Not as many laughs as Sedaris, but more layers. By his last book, <i>Half Empty</i>, he was really good—serious, biting, funny, but also sweet. Not sweet to right-wingnuts, but sweet with compassion for the suffering of others who do not wish anybody ill. He incorporated sadness into much of his work. He probably loved the attention that laughter brings, but he was willing to wait and work for a thoughtful, multifaceted essay to emerge, not just the quick laugh.<br />
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My favorite essays in this third book are the last two. In “All the Time We Have,” he describes what it is like to see his therapist, who is dying—the therapist who helped him leave behind dead-end jobs (which did give a fair amount of material) and write full time. And then “Another Shoe,” about the beginning of his own demise. Here he writes openly but without self pity about the beginning of his last journey. What he wants is not to eat a room full of éclairs, but to just go about his business. Last week, I had lunch with someone who is in the middle of his cancer treatment, and he told me much the same thing. He was tickled when people were yelling at him again, because that meant he was working and things were almost normal. He yearned for “normal.”
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Rakoff became known to thousands of listeners of the radio show <i>This American Life</i> for his mostly soft voice and great timing. I think the show’s host, Ira Glass, mentioned that Rakoff could use cleverness as a substitute for intimacy. I am not sure it was a substitute. When you hear him read, it is very intimate. Just publically intimate.
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I’ve included below a link to a collection of favorite Rakoff stories that <i>This American Life</i> assembled. At the bottom of that page is a video of him on stage. You can see and hear his timing and grace, even though he is quite ill. He would say in interviews that he wasn’t handsome. In the video, he mentions that he doesn’t dance anymore. Then with his left arm useless, he finishes by dancing around the stage. He couldn’t have been more beautiful.
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The photograph of him as a teenager about to pull an emergency alarm is so endearing. He is full of mischief and full of love.
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He wrote that his perfect age was 47 to 53. He died at 47.
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I wish I had started listening sooner.
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<a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/472/our-friend-david">http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/472/our-friend-david</a><br />
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<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-48434648806982386572012-08-16T10:59:00.001-07:002012-08-17T09:34:13.707-07:00Postcard from the Pines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One thing I figured out about Fire Island right away: isolation costs more. A few short miles from Long Island, the sandbar known as Fire Island requires that any good consumed by a human being be brought in by ferry. That includes everything from fuel for hot water to chilled Bandol Rosé. This kind of glorious isolation can lead you to hit “empty,” a state that my fellow blogger Charlotte Moore talks about in a recent post (see <a href="http://thedailycure.wordpress.com/2012/08/06/day-9-the-heart-of-the-matter/">http://thedailycure.wordpress.com/2012/08/06/day-9-the-heart-of-the-matter/</a>). It will also empty your wallet. But for many of the summer inhabitants at the gay male end of Fire Island known as the Pines, the isolation leads to a desire for some of the action of home. Shed a few clothes, shed your inhibitions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our pool</td></tr>
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There is one dusty, sandy, and sometimes (after a storm) muddy street called Fire Island Boulevard, used by access vehicles and the rare truck. Every other street is a narrow boardwalk winding through clusters of pine and bamboo. Housecleaners, repairmen, and delivery boys ride little Cushman scooters, but almost everybody walks at least a few miles a day on these endless planks that are always in a state of semi-disrepair. This is one of the greatest charms of the Pines. Just about every house feels like a secret compound.
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As soon as you board the jitney at the Sayville Train Station to take you to the ferry, you know this is a summer camp of some kind. The wild-eyed driver sports swimming trunks, a tank top, flip-flops, and tattoos, and he doesn’t bother with a seat belt. He turns up the volume on the disco beat, and everybody is ready to roll.<br />
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After two days, most visitors to the island have been to all of the bars and hot spots. The restaurants are not memorable, but the Pines Pantry is surprisingly well stocked, given that it has a captive market. If you want to go out to dinner, you can catch a “water taxi” to Cherry Grove, which is similar to what we used to call an “E” ticket at Disneyland. After a few moments on the short journey, I was worried that our little boat would break into a thousand pieces.
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On the way back, we heard stories of waves crashing over the captain. Cherry Grove does not have the same orderly, cedar-sided modern houses as the Pines. The retail area has honky-tonk, slapped-together ambiance. At Cherry’s on the Bay, a tree covered in red lights pierces the tent that serves as the disco/bar. Drag queen entertainer Hedda Lettuce points out that the tree is better dressed than she is. Everybody is talking about Liza Minnelli’s appearance at the Ice Palace disco and subsequent sightings. Unlike most folks, she gets her own Cushman/Popemobile or “Lizamobile.” One friend who attended her show observed that after her performance, she saw two drag queens dressed like more decrepit versions of her, and she uttered, “Dear God.” It must be hard to find yourself in Cherry Grove performing a few songs only to be confronted with poor male impersonations of your fading self. Joni Mitchell has fared so much better in this department. Hedda Lettuce referred to the weekend as “Lizapalooza.”<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liza Minelli in her "Lizamobile"</td></tr>
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A day in the sun and the salt water makes guys out here randier than usual. Since Fire Island is so absurdly expensive, older men, who may be bald and chubby, are quite common and even welcome. (Although at the “shareathons” that take place each year in New York City, some people with a lease freely state that they don’t want “fatties.”) Younger men are willing to take 1/16th of a 1/8th share and share a room with somebody they barely know. Or they attach themselves to older prosperous men. The natural environs where men seek each other out have been described in great detail several times in queer literature of yore so I won’t go into that.
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One topic of conversation was whether Grindr would kill the turf between Cherry Grove and The Pines. Seems unlikely. While all the testosterone informs a lot of fantasies and realities, there are also numerous couples and other folks who are just looking to find that quiet empty, the isolation that was the original draw. For them, discos, drugs, and multiple hook-ups are history. The area around the ferry landing does feel like a flashback to the late 1970s and early 1980s to us middle-aged folk. But then the weekend ends and the temperature drops. Even the waves got calmer.
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For me, the “empty” has something to do with the temporal nature of the place. As soon as someone finishes a multimillion dollar house here, it begins to disintegrate. The salt, rain, and bugs devour these wood boardwalks and beautiful modernist homes. When everything is closed for the winter, the storms come and occasionally take a house or two away, and according to some reports, are taking the island itself away. Last winter, the famous Pavilion dance club burned to the ground. By next summer, a new one by architectural firm HWKN should be up, and there will be another place to celebrate “tea.” When everything quiets down, you hear the cicadas, birds, an occasional vehicle, a distant boat, and then a sound like trains on the track. But there is no train here. That sound is the bouncing of roller bags as somebody walks to the ferry to return home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A modernist collage</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A more recent house</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1lN61IGc8Y9Cs1JS02yP72CzaMawJ-1sUlqtAsv5vyfj8OEyR4NPBCxfMSb3fsf9pNfTM5w0WxxQ-cxToH8XwxkoAagUIUySo-lsDpIsnnAHP7BSirjL6vUbKcSwtkKUIlAvJukqfDs/s1600/an-early-house-in-the-Pines.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1lN61IGc8Y9Cs1JS02yP72CzaMawJ-1sUlqtAsv5vyfj8OEyR4NPBCxfMSb3fsf9pNfTM5w0WxxQ-cxToH8XwxkoAagUIUySo-lsDpIsnnAHP7BSirjL6vUbKcSwtkKUIlAvJukqfDs/s320/an-early-house-in-the-Pines.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early house in the Pines</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKekHn0h2n_voSMON8kVSwaNqqqXbmcZuPLAQ4iB9yC8lx4MiG4OB9-laUY6uWXjrd5xPdBZJU3nhdzYS8nyj2CIHqkyZ4jo1Z0sBxLTRO-q45Pki7NdZpHrcdIOilvDO7MZvIMaHW4u8/s1600/fire-island-pines-pavillion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKekHn0h2n_voSMON8kVSwaNqqqXbmcZuPLAQ4iB9yC8lx4MiG4OB9-laUY6uWXjrd5xPdBZJU3nhdzYS8nyj2CIHqkyZ4jo1Z0sBxLTRO-q45Pki7NdZpHrcdIOilvDO7MZvIMaHW4u8/s320/fire-island-pines-pavillion.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image of the new Fire Island Pines Pavilion<br />
Courtesy HWKN Architects</td></tr>
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This spit is 31 miles long and somewhere between 520 and 1,300 feet wide. It can’t last. But for a few days, it’s bliss.<br />
<span id="goog_688330320"></span><span id="goog_688330321"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2OjxA3CG_iWyE-GU04_insA95Z5J6BGThakRxCxxEysLI5kkQA8TquBcxO2N-Pw-EAoZcYJLCVBjrbDaTv05aRzdEZGlRuwZyJKu4JykRgnj2rhFbCKTt9mCZ9kar2eI4XCOO5STn18/s1600/100_3199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2OjxA3CG_iWyE-GU04_insA95Z5J6BGThakRxCxxEysLI5kkQA8TquBcxO2N-Pw-EAoZcYJLCVBjrbDaTv05aRzdEZGlRuwZyJKu4JykRgnj2rhFbCKTt9mCZ9kar2eI4XCOO5STn18/s320/100_3199.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-17834414227091206792012-07-10T16:03:00.000-07:002012-07-10T16:03:22.215-07:00Testing the RealJohn Irving’s <i>In One Person</i><br />
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I have always looked for a believable narrative. When we were kids my brother and I played for hours with toy cars inventing stories to go along with the towns we built. Essential to our play was that we never mixed the different scales of the miniature cars. We had Matchbox scaled cars (1:64), Corgi (1:43), and model kits (1:25). There were houses and roads to match each size. When my brother tried to mix it up I would cry, “You can’t do that. It’s not real.” I wanted my make believe to be authentic. This is why I am not a big fiction reader. My taste runs to believable fiction, not fantasy. More along the lines of what Truman Capote used to call, “the nonfiction novel.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91IhKeJ_nUODbgby4HbmJ-Qfrqz4HtRd7Ht6_ibsvUP9cyVaTBb83QdrosOtXoXS8TnizvRhexsPJgBLc5ACnVDJvP-JwdR_AZluJjd7zQTmJj4uXhYudV0Y7retEuE9Omy-jlNNme98/s1600/the-matchbox-scale.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91IhKeJ_nUODbgby4HbmJ-Qfrqz4HtRd7Ht6_ibsvUP9cyVaTBb83QdrosOtXoXS8TnizvRhexsPJgBLc5ACnVDJvP-JwdR_AZluJjd7zQTmJj4uXhYudV0Y7retEuE9Omy-jlNNme98/s320/the-matchbox-scale.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Matchbox scale</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkF9Xyxg0dqhwsWFWgEELbdpqdhpS_8OhRKR8Z332VvV4wlU12dt811zqD1EDlFuB2MPEZ2xd12aJ9G5ZxqbbIzeyae6K7JLXZSmxAjzyWZaqe9VucSgmKC-MB3BsLyKyN7JtcI7Ca3bo/s1600/the-kit-scale.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkF9Xyxg0dqhwsWFWgEELbdpqdhpS_8OhRKR8Z332VvV4wlU12dt811zqD1EDlFuB2MPEZ2xd12aJ9G5ZxqbbIzeyae6K7JLXZSmxAjzyWZaqe9VucSgmKC-MB3BsLyKyN7JtcI7Ca3bo/s320/the-kit-scale.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Corgi scale</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCt-TgnZJioRrrql1yfquGVhU13eA5WIfrqejHzhXhjMwuV9r0zErbyt_5ADxyumM3nEODZnpgMuZ2iahRkaqphA2Q8Lqff-x5DDfkohy-V73fvXJ7qOJPmAztTMvBTuILY61JxGRyEU/s1600/the-corgi-scale.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCt-TgnZJioRrrql1yfquGVhU13eA5WIfrqejHzhXhjMwuV9r0zErbyt_5ADxyumM3nEODZnpgMuZ2iahRkaqphA2Q8Lqff-x5DDfkohy-V73fvXJ7qOJPmAztTMvBTuILY61JxGRyEU/s320/the-corgi-scale.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kit scale</td></tr>
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So I found John Irving’s thirteenth novel, “In One Person” a little hard to believe. This is no small disappointment because I think what Irving is trying to accomplish is hugely important. While sexual outsiders have appeared in his other work, in this novel he is showing, by exaggeration, that the outsider is us. Part of experiencing a play for example is to be suspended between illusion and truth. But in a novel I don’t want the seams to show.<br />
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I was drawn to the book because it is one of the first novels to deal with bisexuality so directly. Since high school I have argued that most men (I can’t speak for most women!) fall somewhere along a bisexual continuum. I have straight male friends who have never had any experience with a man and gay male friends who have never had any experience with a woman (by the way, they are referred to as “gold star gays”) but I would say these are the exceptions. That is not to say that most men reach adulthood as practicing bisexuals. It’s just too hard in this society. But John Irving’s new novel tells, in the first person, the tale of novelist William Abbott who takes this most difficult of paths. The beauty of the story is that Abbott does it honestly -- in part to renounce the secrets in his own family.<br />
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For the literary minded there are lots of references to Shakespeare (including the title), Ibsen, Dickens, and Flaubert. But it is the staging of Shakespeare’s plays that dominate. The backstage spying and the revisiting of old friends as they are dying of AIDS are some of the most poignant stories within the novel. Billy Abbott eventually emerges from his backstage adolescence to directing plays in his mature years after witnessing so much devastation. But he is also oddly cold when people within his own family die. He seems strangely unchanged over the course of his adult life. One aspect of the novel that rings true is how people from our childhood and adolescence can shadow our entire adult lives.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-GBxA3FmcTlQy5uu3gi2zsPYBhXYGQvivNMMgqSwOOWlo_fKe2VM_3CtMo9bAwLF3nj1eiMm9vBNGXaha1SftmAGECtyCl_WE8m0SdWNiNMtXUalkwfJrkBOzwfqCoFArHqYGygAOzA/s1600/in-one-person-john-irving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-GBxA3FmcTlQy5uu3gi2zsPYBhXYGQvivNMMgqSwOOWlo_fKe2VM_3CtMo9bAwLF3nj1eiMm9vBNGXaha1SftmAGECtyCl_WE8m0SdWNiNMtXUalkwfJrkBOzwfqCoFArHqYGygAOzA/s1600/in-one-person-john-irving.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In One Person</i> by John Irving</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik66Thvs2BctMDU_1-tUzC1j58EpbR-peFBb3hhl-UUYwfakcUmXs_ojcNwg2x7QYWbGYA7X-W-hV9ccEY9qsmhKOyitoWUjHnDzKM-5NpY3VJWKkvzQgTvkLwJEKDnkIaJ8F3de1ohk0/s1600/irving-wrestling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik66Thvs2BctMDU_1-tUzC1j58EpbR-peFBb3hhl-UUYwfakcUmXs_ojcNwg2x7QYWbGYA7X-W-hV9ccEY9qsmhKOyitoWUjHnDzKM-5NpY3VJWKkvzQgTvkLwJEKDnkIaJ8F3de1ohk0/s320/irving-wrestling.jpg" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Irving wrestling</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqvpYVzgBXUteZ7Vpoe_MUHUqSHyco2a2MqDVasYZF7mVzf1aw5x9JsdzD_RKmWNcVDPruIiMBhXISb1XR-TWn5XA6l29E9dalPFrz4715eUJ5gcDZ71fgAKASvvyDHrOBpPnWOtQmf68/s1600/irving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqvpYVzgBXUteZ7Vpoe_MUHUqSHyco2a2MqDVasYZF7mVzf1aw5x9JsdzD_RKmWNcVDPruIiMBhXISb1XR-TWn5XA6l29E9dalPFrz4715eUJ5gcDZ71fgAKASvvyDHrOBpPnWOtQmf68/s1600/irving.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Irving</td></tr>
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Irving’s novel takes on the challenge of living openly as a bisexual but also the challenge of living as a transgendered person. Indeed, the novel seems to be heavily populated by transvestites and transsexuals. And the strange little town of First Sister, Vermont in the middle of the twentieth century seems tolerant of these sexual differences -- unless they stray too far out of line. Miss Frost, the transsexual librarian (and former wrestling champion), is run out of town after she sexually initiates Billy Abbott (“without penetration”) in her basement apartment at the town library. An apartment built by Harry, Billy’s cross dressing grandpa, who also happens to own the mill and play the leading ladies roles in the town’s amateur theater group. I am not sure, but this may say more about Vermont than small towns. But it is all too fantastic for this skeptic.<br />
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What makes the novel tip over into fantasy is the preponderance of sexual outsiders including mothers who seduce their children. Perhaps Irving wants to include large numbers of sexual outlaws in order to defend them, but he may have overpopulated this novel to achieve his goal. Maybe this is my own prejudiced slip showing? Irving’s large number of outlaws serve to defend his own point of view rather than convey a deep compassion. This is of course a delicate balance and perhaps there are just not enough novels dealing with the lives of bisexuals and transgendered people.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRM90roVuwHW3UdpA7Tg91f5oC5Je2RkJJplPjc6pkMXnINhYLej_Fq5ZFgC8DOxlIOUS_UDqsvwl5TSQnA0teLpChbylkb4TtO8iz4ktlwyCD4EwxERPQojOyqrCrujB8i2lXwgrFA0/s1600/giovannis-room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqRM90roVuwHW3UdpA7Tg91f5oC5Je2RkJJplPjc6pkMXnINhYLej_Fq5ZFgC8DOxlIOUS_UDqsvwl5TSQnA0teLpChbylkb4TtO8iz4ktlwyCD4EwxERPQojOyqrCrujB8i2lXwgrFA0/s320/giovannis-room.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Giovanni's Room</i> by James Baldwin</td></tr>
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Early on in the book the librarian, Miss Frost, gives young Billy a copy of James Baldwin’s novel, “Giovanni’s Room” so he can accept his “crushes on the wrong people.” That’s a bold move that still feels believable. I remember a high school teacher giving me Christopher Isherwood’s “A Meeting By The River” and it was a welcoming gesture. And perhaps that was the librarian’s more serious transgression. The novel penetrates young Billy’s consciousness. You could say that part is real.<br />
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For more information:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://john-irving.com/category/videos/">http://john-irving.com/category/videos/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2757/the-art-of-fiction-no-93-john-irving">http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2757/the-art-of-fiction-no-93-john-irving</a>Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-11861656506338024042012-05-27T13:06:00.000-07:002012-05-27T13:06:52.907-07:00Johnny: Finding His Way - Part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWNBtdjlJE-JrJc_DhvYIlqStJqDcWvwGX40x3SDSk1OSNAqj9mPo5DquSFE-v9SqQJDtN1Sp3rf-sdBZ-EPVHYKj9Za77uYS-Zwab09snKbQh9S_8Q0uzA9gKsLmkqbfis7O-4ueVC0/s1600/John-Be-Your-YMCA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWNBtdjlJE-JrJc_DhvYIlqStJqDcWvwGX40x3SDSk1OSNAqj9mPo5DquSFE-v9SqQJDtN1Sp3rf-sdBZ-EPVHYKj9Za77uYS-Zwab09snKbQh9S_8Q0uzA9gKsLmkqbfis7O-4ueVC0/s320/John-Be-Your-YMCA.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John in YMCA newsletter</td></tr>
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My former boyfriend John is a film and television sound designer living in Los Angeles. His family had deep roots in Culver City where his grandfather owned a well-established electrical business. After his father bought out his uncle the business failed and the family moved around California as his father sought work. Culver City was one of the early centers of the film industry with the famous MGM lot. John remembers his father telling tales of drunk Munchkins causing trouble at the Culver Hotel during the filming of the Wizard of Oz. Following his passion for cinema John studied film at San Francisco State and eventually worked for the bay area’s leading directors as a sound editor before moving to Los Angeles to pursue more steady work. In this interview John describes his growing up, his first queer involvements and living with his girlfriend. <br />
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<b>Interviewer: I'm really interested in stories about queer men coming of age, their experience, and how other people perceived them. Try to set the scene in terms of when you were a little boy and what Culver City was like and then how your life changes radically.</b><br />
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John: The life that changed was more my sister’s life because I had only finished the second grade when we started moving.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: What did your father do?</b><br />
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John: My father was an electrician. It was a family business that had been my grandfather's. My father and my uncle did not get along, and there were problems with the business that I don't really understand because I was too young. My father bought my uncle out, and there was animosity about that for the rest of their lives. Ultimately, my father lost the business anyway, which is what started the moving because he basically went out of business. But before that, there were the salad years, which I kind of only vaguely remember. There was a new house that was built for us on Keystone in Culver City, which was 8 or 10 blocks away from where my grandparents lived. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTq2Dds51bB0m5NEbJ3q3iIonq8lJKhkG5qqXDEk-tu71KutfqSP44-GP__arFAVxL-yREIVG1eE_Qesi-S1t3xMMJ1mqtJn6lhbIxnTg3vV-bV39yIaxZTgAOqeK36F9mlxHGwnxEQyo/s1600/John-Be-with+father+in+Culver+City+1959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTq2Dds51bB0m5NEbJ3q3iIonq8lJKhkG5qqXDEk-tu71KutfqSP44-GP__arFAVxL-yREIVG1eE_Qesi-S1t3xMMJ1mqtJn6lhbIxnTg3vV-bV39yIaxZTgAOqeK36F9mlxHGwnxEQyo/s320/John-Be-with+father+in+Culver+City+1959.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and his father in the house on Keystone.</td></tr>
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My father drove an El Camino. My father loved cars. He also had a Corvette that I remember. My mother drove a convertible Chrysler.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWSJVw5IwqzZd8x0Iv6j211O-78Xei5nGEV5Gr13UDOc517RI97P3SGLsv-6W2IBwW4RmL_bAG5_THjE9v7iFwe0O5qvUrlrPhFDe3dY7ID6-ySq1qJ5PzJ117AjZahGiOc-CBvxgzYiE/s1600/John-Be-with+the+El+Camino.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWSJVw5IwqzZd8x0Iv6j211O-78Xei5nGEV5Gr13UDOc517RI97P3SGLsv-6W2IBwW4RmL_bAG5_THjE9v7iFwe0O5qvUrlrPhFDe3dY7ID6-ySq1qJ5PzJ117AjZahGiOc-CBvxgzYiE/s320/John-Be-with+the+El+Camino.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The El Camino</td></tr>
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I remember those days feeling kind of grand. My mother had a little fur. There were red panel trucks that we washed every weekend. So, there was that kind of small town success. Even in my adolescence, when I returned there, because we shared the same name people would ask after my father or my grandfather. My grandparents moved there in the early 1900s from Iowa. Culver City was a small town in the first half of the twentieth century. It would have been a very different life had we stayed there, but we didn't. My father moved us.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgmoO8P_qG2BVRYCh8jye5yYL1SHp1CFU9qgdDMDuhkMs0o1QD6X0GK7scXBVC4PB4HOjXpAgdHU0oVLd4-p1FN8EKUg-tczptOZ6EU1vMGR7Gs3evX4zjxmDH-KESVDoELocr1MixuQ/s1600/John-Be-salad-years-in-culver-city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgmoO8P_qG2BVRYCh8jye5yYL1SHp1CFU9qgdDMDuhkMs0o1QD6X0GK7scXBVC4PB4HOjXpAgdHU0oVLd4-p1FN8EKUg-tczptOZ6EU1vMGR7Gs3evX4zjxmDH-KESVDoELocr1MixuQ/s320/John-Be-salad-years-in-culver-city.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Salad Years in Culver City</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Interviewer: After the business failed?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes. But mind you, I didn't know that. My mother didn't want to leave, and my father insisted that we go. We went to visit a friend of his that had already moved to Humboldt County. That was pretty weird for me because my father's friend lived on a ranch in the middle of nowhere. I mean, Humboldt County at that time, this was the early '60s, I want to say '62, '63, maybe, was a very remote place. But this guy lived an hour away from any town. They were isolated on this big ranch. And I went with their kids to a one-room school where one teacher taught everybody. And what I remember about that visit is that while she played the piano she kept having to hike her bra strap up. This is all before we moved. My father said, "Okay, that's where we're going to go." And that’s where we went.<br />
<br />
He used to say that he was "getting out of the rat race." It was the beginning of a downward spiral economically, and probably emotionally too, that lasted basically until my parents split up when I was in high school.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So do you remember moving vans?</b><br />
<br />
John: A caravan. In fact, my father and I went up first in this big truck that he'd borrowed to bring his shop, his electrical stuff, because he had a huge storehouse of parts and things that he wanted to move up there. I remember the anxiety of that was that I was supposed to be telling him when he could change lanes and when he could merge, and I had no idea. It was a huge truck that drove really slow, and I was terrified of being wrong and getting us into an accident.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: And you are six years old?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes. I would get yelled at if somebody honked at us 'cause it was too close or something. My father was a very odd combination of things. He was kind of just toughen up and suck it up kind of guy. He also gave me over to other men to kind of toughen me up as well and basically just stood back, which just makes me think that he felt like he was not adequate to do that. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJj5Jc5VTPoA5EKrPUyKFcDKAhOt6faKxkPs65QgEHkLXcqL5K_7VbX3AoB8M4VKNIFSgXVQpYG3FX1skKn0t86WvvYNtHzayixfojnuTPK52PIqrZBlbKZAOH9HMLdGrAaChYmWnZXs/s1600/John-Be-Myers-Flat-Elementary-1963-crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJj5Jc5VTPoA5EKrPUyKFcDKAhOt6faKxkPs65QgEHkLXcqL5K_7VbX3AoB8M4VKNIFSgXVQpYG3FX1skKn0t86WvvYNtHzayixfojnuTPK52PIqrZBlbKZAOH9HMLdGrAaChYmWnZXs/s320/John-Be-Myers-Flat-Elementary-1963-crop.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John in Myers Flat, 1963-64.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Do you think that he sensed then even when you're that young that you're kind of effeminate or soft?</b><br />
<br />
John: He must have because it was a recurring theme -- my father was a big tease, but it was mean-spirited and could be humiliating. Often it had to do with being “girl-boy.” Like when the '60s music started, the British invasion, I was just obsessed with it, and I took a lot of shit. If ever I wanted to watch something on television, I had to endure his ridicule if he were in the room. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: You mean The Beatles?</b><br />
<br />
John: They were girl-boys, and he bet that they shaved their armpits, and that they wore frilly underwear. He was constantly feminizing almost anything that I was interested in. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So you were kind of an exotic in your own family?</b><br />
<br />
John: Oh, yes, sensitive, smart, intuitive. One of the lessons I learned from the trouble I had seen my older sister get into and from a variety of family experiences was to keep to myself, to keep it under wraps.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Don't expose yourself?</b><br />
<br />
John: Just don't let them know what you're doing, who you are really. I had a lot of independence. My parents were very self-involved and just didn’t pay attention. By the time I was an adolescent, their marriage was on the rocks, and they were both drinking a lot, so that meant as long as the police didn't come and I got good grades in school, I could pretty much do whatever I wanted, which was perfect for me.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: I want to go back to when you move up to Humboldt County and your father is pawning you off on his friend.</b><br />
<br />
John: Warren Linville. Well, my father had a series of friends. Warren is the best example, but he was not the first one -- people that he kind of submitted to and modeled himself after. Warren was the superintendent of the little school district in southern Humboldt County. And my mother ultimately worked for him; she was his secretary. He had been a Marine officer of some kind, and he had two daughters. He was a hunter; he was constantly killing things. He had guns in his truck. It was what you would imagine -- guns in a rack behind him, and he'd see a deer and pull over and shoot the fucking deer on the spot. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did he put it in the back of the truck?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yeah. This was the part of the toughening up period in Humboldt County. I was in the third and the fourth grade, so that's still a pretty little boy. They used to slaughter animals, and I was expected to participate, or at the very least witness. And it was things like slaughtering a steer, slaughtering lambs. There was one day where they were neutering the young male lambs, and there were a lot of them so they cut the balls off of 50 sheep like all in a row, it seemed like a thousand, and I'm just standing there and watching this. One time they decided that they would butcher a whole bunch of chickens at once. They were chopping the heads off of chickens and then handing them to me. So I had a chicken’s foot between each finger. I had two fists full, eight chickens all with their heads cut off, flapping their wings like mad. And if you dropped one, it ran away.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Headless?</b><br />
<br />
John: Right. I was horrified by this, but that did not seem okay. To be horrified was not a reaction that was acceptable, so I just kind of had to find a way to get through it.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: In those kinds of gruesome situations, did you hide that you were horrified?</b><br />
<br />
John: I tried my best. I can't imagine that they didn't know, which is why I loved Ed. Ed was a very old Russian man who didn't speak English who lived on Warren's ranch. I guess he came with the place.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: He was a caretaker?</b><br />
<br />
John: He was just there, and you had to let Ed live there. He would just show up in these situations when no one was around and show me how to do stuff that frightened me, like how you could move the chickens with a stick so you didn't have to touch them. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Helpful hints on how to get through this nightmare?</b><br />
<br />
John: Ed was my hero. He would just appear like Boo Radley. "Oh, there's Ed." I don't even know if Ed was his name. That's just what we called him. It probably wasn't his name.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: After Culver City, Humboldt County couldn’t have been more different. Can you talk more about how that influenced you?</b><br />
<br />
John: Well, Humboldt County was the first of many situations where I would go to school for the first time in this town that was wildly different from anything I'd ever experienced before, so I was certainly other. Now whether or not that other was identified as feminine or not, I'm not sure. In this case though I was a city boy for sure.<br />
<br />
But the experience of holding back and observing becomes a big piece of my personality. Seeing the lay of the land, what do people do here? What do people respond to? How do I place myself in this environment? I would take a bus for half an hour or 40 minutes to go to school, as everybody did. When I was young, I would get fixated on the other boys. Now I understand that I had a kind of sexual attraction to them. But at the time, I would just become obsessed with some boy. There was a boy whose father must have been a logger because he lived way up in the hills. And if it rained, he didn't come to school because the road would wash out. Often these boys were nothing like me, but I would fixate on the clothes they wore. He wore rubber boots, and I wanted rubber boots. "Why do you want rubber boots?" "I have to have rubber boots." And I was indulged with that kind of thing too, which I guess is feminine. I always had very strong ideas about what I was supposed to wear. But it was usually associated with some boy that I was fascinated with or something I saw on TV. I would try to emulate what was attractive to me without really understanding why.<br />
<br />
I just would watch this boy. He didn't like me. He wasn't my friend. Later I got to be friends with some of these boys, but in those days, I just watched them. I just watched what they did, listened to how they talked, watched how they moved. It was also very important to me the way they moved in their bodies, which makes me think it was sexual in nature.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: You lived in different places in Humboldt County?</b><br />
<br />
John: We lived in Phillipsville, a very small town, something like 250 people. We lived there for two years. I was in the third and the fourth grade there. And we were there when that big flood happened in 1964 too, the same year as the Alaskan earthquake.<br />
<br />
That was fantastic. I loved that because our house wasn't flooded, but our town was isolated. It was flooded on either side, and the Red Cross would fly in with helicopters and bring supplies. I just loved it. And my sister…one time they came to bring supplies and literally we were all standing there, and the helicopter blades are turning and the wind's going everywhere, and the soldier says, "We have room to take someone out. Does anyone need to leave?" And my sister Sheila says, "I do. I need to go back to school." And she got in the helicopter and flew away. And I just thought, oh my god, I want to do that.<br />
<br />
I just thought everything about that episode was fantastic. We mucked out the houses. One of the teachers organized the kids, and we went down -- there was a hotel that was owned by this old woman and her brother who was blind who also made wooden shop things, like planters. And he had cut off his arm 'cause he was blind and working with power tools.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Of course.</b><br />
<br />
John: So he had this wooden prosthetic, which he sometimes cut off, you know?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Just make another one.</b><br />
<br />
John: We went down to help muck out their place because they weren't able to do it themselves, so we were down there digging. And the mud was all the way up to the roofline. It was like digging to get down to even get in. I just loved it.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOctcCe2LWqPBQpIFumJhHaFxAw2Cd5htLqUaXCs5RysTiGKYQ-pEm_lSD4b7ekMBGwP57xXOuQrxB0jpdHHAPVYt6GKfhmp8KsF3093wfPgy4ei9-52t6rMLjoMfCNU7sXQ2xf-6J5s/s1600/Phillipsville+Flood+1964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOctcCe2LWqPBQpIFumJhHaFxAw2Cd5htLqUaXCs5RysTiGKYQ-pEm_lSD4b7ekMBGwP57xXOuQrxB0jpdHHAPVYt6GKfhmp8KsF3093wfPgy4ei9-52t6rMLjoMfCNU7sXQ2xf-6J5s/s320/Phillipsville+Flood+1964.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The flood of 1964.</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Interviewer: After Phillipsville where did you move?</b><br />
<br />
John: My father had his first heart attack in Humboldt County, '63 or '64. My father had this plan that he was going to be an electrician in Humboldt County. Well people there just didn't hire people to do their electrical work, they just did it themselves. There was some work, but not nearly enough. And then after his heart attack, he had to do something less physically taxing. He started driving a school bus. <br />
<br />
So we lived there for two years, and then we moved to Eureka, which is still in Humboldt County, it's a small city. We moved there because they were building a community college, The College of the Redwoods. He was hired as a construction foreman. I'm not sure precisely what, but he was involved with the building of the school. But we only lived there one year and then we moved to Barstow. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifROLrsKsEF9XOULNvONlWKw2TfDP-5OU9X-Rs5sZMM16Djxg7ZOFtMc3m33jpiYXRZsOGLGcyI13HndwBF6COXPTPsneMbRpAe6dCOqPKjyBiKOO2q1I_N6-BEmnDdh5WH_flp133A6c/s1600/John-Be+Humbolt+County.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifROLrsKsEF9XOULNvONlWKw2TfDP-5OU9X-Rs5sZMM16Djxg7ZOFtMc3m33jpiYXRZsOGLGcyI13HndwBF6COXPTPsneMbRpAe6dCOqPKjyBiKOO2q1I_N6-BEmnDdh5WH_flp133A6c/s320/John-Be+Humbolt+County.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John with fish in Humboldt County.</td></tr>
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<br />
<b>Interviewer: Barstow?</b><br />
<br />
John: Warren Linville moved to Barstow first. He was the superintendent of schools there and he offered my father a job. That was the first time my father worked for a school district as a maintenance foreman. And that was a job that he did basically for the rest of his life. We went from foggy, cold, northern California to the Mojave Desert. These were the kinds of moves that we made. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: You are in the sixth grade in Barstow?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes. We lived there for some time, two and a half years. I was in the sixth, seventh and first half of the eighth grade in Barstow. I didn't mind Barstow when I was young. When I got into junior high it was bad, and it would have been worse in high school. There were gangs there. The SA’s and the surfers they called themselves. The surfers were the white kids, and the SA’s were the Hispanics. And they fought. And they attacked in the hallways and slam you against a locker and ask, "Are you a surfer or an SA?" Well obviously I'm not an SA. I don't know. What's the right answer?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you have any friends?</b><br />
<br />
John: In Barstow there's a lot of military because of Fort Irwin. So there was a culture of people who didn't stay anywhere very long. There was a kid named Bill I particularly liked. I had friends there, not a lot of friends, but, as you know, I only need a few. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you start to become aware of your sexuality at that point? Typically, that’s when there is some sort of awareness.</b><br />
<br />
John: There was some of the kind of boy humpy stuff that we did. And I also kissed my first girl then. That was funny. I had a crush on a guy, but it was his sister who I kissed. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Do you think anybody there was gay?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yeah, there was a little bit of that kind of laying on each other and kind of pushing with the crotch stuff. I did that with several different boys at that time. Oh, but I did have one of my boy crushes there. He was the older brother of one of my friends. He had a strange haircut, which thankfully I didn't emulate. It was really short on the top and slicked back on the sides. It probably had a name. And he drank too because his father kept a keg. Alcohol is part of my story but I wasn’t drinking yet, just noticing. <br />
<br />
His father kept a keg in a refrigerator in the garage. It wasn't locked or anything. And so the thing that I emulated with this guy was motorcycles. He had a motorcycle. None of us had licenses, we were too young, but you could ride in the desert. It was a lifesaver because there was nothing to do in Barstow, but that was really fun. My father went along with that. My mom didn't like it, but she was overruled. So yeah, I'd follow this guy anywhere, we'd go on the bikes off into the desert. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you have your own motorcycle?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yeah, it wasn’t large.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Is this sexually charged, this riding, or is it just because there was nothing else to do?</b><br />
<br />
John: At thirteen it was really fun to be off on on our own in the middle of Mojave Desert riding motorcyles. There was no adult anywhere. As I mentioned before what I did with these guys was fixate and emulate them. I saw them as knowing what to do and I didn't. I wanted to not just emulate them, but inhabit them if it were possible.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMsF4EvwTDTPffpKnbB29VdXMjiH1-BO_KwYEQcktX1P1ATc4xu1wMbZmBaQeXAUA7rswv7Tg80SEgdVSnTzISYP1DX_aTzpisRuQiEehd2mEs7wRLpC9UeW2wsPNdmEKS0EUJ7vlusk/s1600/John-Be-Barstow-1966-crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMsF4EvwTDTPffpKnbB29VdXMjiH1-BO_KwYEQcktX1P1ATc4xu1wMbZmBaQeXAUA7rswv7Tg80SEgdVSnTzISYP1DX_aTzpisRuQiEehd2mEs7wRLpC9UeW2wsPNdmEKS0EUJ7vlusk/s640/John-Be-Barstow-1966-crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Next stop: Barstow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Where do you go after Barstow?</b><br />
<br />
John: From Barstow we moved back to Culver City. <br />
<br />
My grandfather died, and my father thought that we needed to go back to Culver City so that he could help my grandmother run her affairs. And I think my father must have imagined that there was more of an estate than there was. There wasn’t much to manage.<br />
<br />
And then he started working as an electrical engineer, but none of those jobs lasted very long. He would get a job and then get laid off. I think this was more because of the economy of the time than anything my father did.<br />
<br />
This is another interesting, emotional period in my family life. Both of my sisters are long gone. They were gone by the time we moved to Eureka. They missed all this crazy moving.<br />
<br />
But my father was very depressed after we moved back. He couldn't really hold a job, and that's the period of time when he was the most abusive towards me. It was horrible. He would taunt me and bait me, and then pull the, "You can't talk to your father like that" when I got mad. <br />
<br />
One of the things about returning to Culver City was it was the first time that I really felt like I found some people; I made a life for myself. That’s where I met Greg, which was just kind of love at first sight for me. But this time I was determined that I would get to know this boy and make him my friend.<br />
<br />
The conflict with my father came about because he was trying to step on my life that I finally liked, and I was willing to fight to protect it. And that was our showdown basically.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So you're 15 or so and you're in conflict with him. But are you more aware about gay feelings or is it all kind of rolled together, you're just sexual because you're a teenager?</b><br />
<br />
John: Well, at 15 I had sex for the first time. And within a couple of months of sleeping with a girl, I slept with a boy. So they kind of happened concurrently. One of my friends from back when we lived in Culver City the first time before I got to know Greg and Mitch and other people I got close to later. This friend and I started having sex. Neither of us knew much but it went on for a few years.<br />
<br />
Ultimately he was straight so he was doing that thing that young, straight boys do, and I was ultimately gay so he was just my first experience with a man. The first girl I slept with was a slutty girl who said, "I'm sleeping with boys and I think it's fun, so you want to," and I said yes because I thought that's what you did, and it was horrible. I remember that she had an aquarium and I just was looking at the fish hoping it would be over soon.<br />
<br />
But then I had a girlfriend who was a hippie, on the pill and who was enamored of me, so it was kind of perfect. That was probably the most sexually-active period of my life, when I was 15 to 18. This was also when my young, hippie friends and I were smoking a lot of pot, and I was taking hallucinogenic drugs. I wasn't drinking too much then because I was underage and it was hard to buy. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Whereas pot and mushrooms and LSD and all were relatively easy to get.</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes. I went up to see friends at UC Santa Cruz, met Michael, and it was a jaw-dropping attraction. In fact, Michael and I dropped acid together for the first time about two hours after we met. So that relationship was very much about LSD.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately we never had sex. I don't know why we didn't. I think I was terrified. He was even bisexual. It was an intense relationship, and it definitely was romantic, but it was not physical, which is a regret of mine. That was kind of the first time I actually had feelings for a man that were reciprocated in some way.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: But at this point, your parents are beginning to kind of let go of you?</b><br />
<br />
John: Like I said earlier, they just didn’t pay much attention. They would believe whatever I told them. My bedroom in Culver City was a guest room that was off the garage, not attached to the main house, so I could come and go easily.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did your father finally get work?</b> <br />
<br />
John: No. My mother slept in the bedroom, and he slept on this horrible, uncomfortable, hide-a-bed in the den, which I could see from my bedroom. I could see him because that was in the back of the house. He eventually gave up even looking for work and was just watching T.V. and sitting around the house being morose. So when Warren Linville offered him another job in Danville, we were packing up.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHScfd0cXy6uFVhgLCvrKw-K4NDI7FScLktH2jC9GEZTcRIN6Wg7eI9jYSd0JeylEhQFt_uU2VLuoGUaqd8WTKn8mzTK-G-XC4tNFtgNMpgJ1ICS9xrp61qZwcjXRbKMQd5d366lABO-c/s1600/John-Be+as+a+teenager.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHScfd0cXy6uFVhgLCvrKw-K4NDI7FScLktH2jC9GEZTcRIN6Wg7eI9jYSd0JeylEhQFt_uU2VLuoGUaqd8WTKn8mzTK-G-XC4tNFtgNMpgJ1ICS9xrp61qZwcjXRbKMQd5d366lABO-c/s320/John-Be+as+a+teenager.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John as a teenager.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWEWJOsqT9wsbcaq6ZGR345xrrEYRUcUOzxHk1R-pBu19n9boZcnC3QHLnq-FfjCkA3x8Q8zM91uvHQM4xZbQeyUZx5CyfC1IylNdzUeIwxV740AXUGeqJTd4OzEct6685-7WKOKdofQ/s1600/John-Be+1973+first+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWEWJOsqT9wsbcaq6ZGR345xrrEYRUcUOzxHk1R-pBu19n9boZcnC3QHLnq-FfjCkA3x8Q8zM91uvHQM4xZbQeyUZx5CyfC1IylNdzUeIwxV740AXUGeqJTd4OzEct6685-7WKOKdofQ/s320/John-Be+1973+first+photo.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>Interviewer: All of you?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yeah, mother and my father and me.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: I didn't remember that your mother went to Danville.</b><br />
<br />
John: Well, the interesting part of that story is that Greg decided that he wanted to come with us. And this was big -- I loved Greg. Greg was my best friend. But he not only wanted to come with us, but when his father said no, he cried. I had no idea that his attachment to me was so strong. And he could not have picked a worse time to want to enter into our household. So, Greg moved with us.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: His father relents? And he’s straight?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes and yes. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: What do your parents think of your best friend moving with you?</b><br />
<br />
John: They both liked Greg, I don’t know what they thought about us. I was a little flamboyant in the Danville days. Why the hell did Greg want to move with us? I'll never know -- you'll have to interview him. <br />
<br />
I was really angry. And I didn't care who knew it. I was kind of mad at the world. And I would do things to be kind of contrary and spiteful. I had very long hair then. Greg and I spent a lot of time at the Renaissance Fair in Southern California. One of the affectations I picked up there was wearing a feather in my hair. It kind of had a leather thong and you tied it in your hair.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQZpzzIEhb1fCnbrG6dAfClJoY3ZD7Uk6L9z0O2p1YDdpoLKIDuMOFYNaRJX3J8einWGTTq4F46WUTTHUSZDjrsSYW5aAuUEmw39wlDV89BWrEYfpv9IXX6gLXuAjX1q0PxadB2wB5jI/s1600/John+friends+on+the+way+to+renassance+faire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQZpzzIEhb1fCnbrG6dAfClJoY3ZD7Uk6L9z0O2p1YDdpoLKIDuMOFYNaRJX3J8einWGTTq4F46WUTTHUSZDjrsSYW5aAuUEmw39wlDV89BWrEYfpv9IXX6gLXuAjX1q0PxadB2wB5jI/s320/John+friends+on+the+way+to+renassance+faire.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John takes a picture of his friends <br />
on the way to the Renaissance Faire.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And I wore a jumpsuit because I fancied myself kind of hippie radical. It was a military green jumpsuit. And I had a big purse that I carried, and I just didn't give a fuck. Well, everyone thought that Greg and I were lovers. And I was perfectly happy for them to think that because I worshipped Greg, and I was proud to have them think that I was his lover. I don't know why Greg didn't mind. He didn't seem to care. <br />
<br />
Greg had been studying dance in Culver City, and I hated P.E. We befriended the girls' P.E. teacher. In fact, she had a big crush on Greg. So we arranged to get ourselves admitted into girls' P.E. so that we could take dance classes with her. And so now we're thought of as the two queers from Los Angeles who were in girls' P.E. and dancing instead of playing football. We’d put on our dance clothes in the boy’s locker room and then walk to the girl’s gym. Oh, so this was my great moment with Warren Linville because he tells me that this is all getting around the school district.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: In Danville?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes, and it's quite an embarrassment for my father He’s basically asking me to tone it down. And I said I couldn't care less if my father is embarrassed.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So people think you and Greg are lovers in Danville among the adults as well as the other kids, and Greg doesn't seem to care?</b><br />
<br />
John: Doesn't care at all. God bless him. I adore Greg for that. He's the only one really that stood by me during that time, the only one really.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zD8BiA7qpKYZsv6xN0Tgb65W2uwoigZRBvp_DYfk0NYbdQB6Wf1QJPeG6FQGypQSLLaWhyphenhyphenaSfJip5BmqUmaB-rpYWtU4VGG7dPoEJl9G91_8Xf2p7aGZizXvM7p_wPzwoS-L3-G2pgw/s1600/Greg+Spector.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zD8BiA7qpKYZsv6xN0Tgb65W2uwoigZRBvp_DYfk0NYbdQB6Wf1QJPeG6FQGypQSLLaWhyphenhyphenaSfJip5BmqUmaB-rpYWtU4VGG7dPoEJl9G91_8Xf2p7aGZizXvM7p_wPzwoS-L3-G2pgw/s320/Greg+Spector.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best friend Greg moves in.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b> </b><br />
<b>Interviewer: What happens in Danville?</b><br />
<br />
John: Well, this is when my parents’ relationship is really disintegrating. There's a lot of drinking going on. And I am stoned a lot. So the household is kind of tipsy most of the time. And I hate it there, and I want to go back to Culver City. I think Greg would have stayed. <br />
<br />
My father was receptive to me leaving and going back to Culver City, and I think it helped facilitate my parents splitting up because if I was gone like what was the point? So the upshot was Greg and I stayed in Danville for one semester.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: What grade is this?</b><br />
<br />
John: We are in the 11th grade. We return to Culver City and lived with Greg's father. After one semester Greg’s father suggests I make other arrangements. My plan was to move in with my grandmother, which would basically be back in that same house I'd lived in before with my parents. But my mother leaves my father and also goes back to Culver City, so I lived with her. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: In an apartment?</b><br />
<br />
John: In an apartment, across the street from my grandmother, who was my father's mother, not my mother's.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Were they close or friendly?</b><br />
<br />
John: They were quite friendly. My parents were married for 28 years.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So then for your senior year, you end up…</b><br />
<br />
John: In an apartment with my mother.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: But you're almost like roommates by then, right?</b><br />
<br />
John: Pretty much. In fact, we negotiated. She didn't assume that I would live with her. She basically came and asked me if I would live with her and we agreed to terms. I essentially said I'm not interested in being parented. I'll be respectful, and I'd be happy to live with you, but I don't want much interference, and she agreed to it. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: At this point, are you having boyfriends and girlfriends?</b><br />
<br />
John: I didn't have any boyfriends in high school other than the one I mentioned. I had some gay friends. And I was involved in theater at Culver High. And the theater teacher, Mr. Bodger, was an older gay man, kind of Tennessee Williams Theater gay. So there were places to sort of try that out. What did we do? What was that theater that they did in the '60s where you kind of were blindfolded and people touched you and it was this whole sensual thing? The Living Theater, we did some version of that, which was just an excuse to be horny and rub on each other.<br />
<br />
But it was all couched in theater. My first real boyfriend was in my first year of college.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So do you identify yourself then as bisexual? How do you see yourself in this kind of last year of high school?</b><br />
<br />
John: I was definitely bisexual because I continued to have girlfriends. I liked intimacy with girls more than boys really. And I hadn't had sex with a boy who knew anything because my friend in high school and I hadn't had sex with anybody but each other. I didn't do the “go to the bars and have sex with an older man thing.” I think that's how you learned to have sex then. It wasn't really until I met Jeremiah that I had sex with somebody who knew what to do.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So are you identifying yourself as bisexual to other people?</b><br />
<br />
John: It depends on who they are. I was pretty much in the closet. My girlfriend at the time, who was a bit more worldly than some, she knew I was bisexual and was totally into it. She thought it was very exotic and fun.<br />
<br />
I can't remember at what point I told Mitch and Greg; not initially. It depended on who you were. I was not out, no. And oddly enough, in Culver City I didn't necessarily have the same rep that I had in Danville. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Was your hair still long with a feather?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yeah, but it wasn't so unusual there. Maybe it just was a different environment.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_ktqvgS921agYLw6GljJsablmGTJHgH2siQ3X6VAo-9mT6dz190zFS-0DJgG-ghW_ImQxSigqrMV5AM1IpapKZrFBJBzBZftXtYR041ytag0qx2Fjb1SNohjTZJPlJiU18fxU5m84G4/s1600/John-Be+graduating+high+school+1973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_ktqvgS921agYLw6GljJsablmGTJHgH2siQ3X6VAo-9mT6dz190zFS-0DJgG-ghW_ImQxSigqrMV5AM1IpapKZrFBJBzBZftXtYR041ytag0qx2Fjb1SNohjTZJPlJiU18fxU5m84G4/s320/John-Be+graduating+high+school+1973.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and Greg at high school graduation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Are you working at this time?</b><br />
<br />
John: I always had a job because I needed money to be able to go places and do what I wanted to do. I had a job in Danville. That’s a funny story. So my father is the maintenance foreman for the school district and gets me a job as a janitor at the junior high school. Greg had one too. We both did that. I was cleaning urinals and sweeping and cleaning chalkboards. I didn’t really like doing it so I was usually stoned and kind of hostile to the kids.<br />
<br />
And then I got fired for nepotism, and I just laughed. Some personnel guy called me down to meet with him and fired me because of nepotism, and I just like, "Oh yeah, my family connections makes it so I can clean urinals."<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So when does the interest in film start to happen?</b><br />
<br />
John: Well, that's actually something I shared with my father. My father was into movies and not necessarily mainstream movies. He liked foreign films. He thought they were earthy. He liked it that people pulled off the road and peed and then got back in their car. He liked things that felt human and real to him. So my father and I went to the movies wherever we lived. And when we lived in Humboldt County, there was only one theater, and they showed horrible films. They showed those bad Roger Corman movies and we went and saw them because that's all there was to see. <br />
<br />
When I was in high school, I found there was a theater downtown, I can't remember what it was called, that showed foreign films, so I saw Fellini films. I had a lot of significant, emotional experiences that were tied with movies too. I've been moved by films all my life.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewier: Was film a vehicle that allowed you to get outside of yourself?</b><br />
<br />
John: They showed me a world that I could live in that was different than the one that I lived in currently. I hung my hopes on that.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So how do you get to San Francisco from Culver City? Why didn't you go to Cal-State L.A. or Northridge or UCLA?</b><br />
<br />
John: I love it when my friends say "Oh, we're taking our son to go look at schools on the East Coast." I borrowed my mother's car and took a road trip and looked at schools by myself.<br />
<br />
I considered Fresno State because they had a big theater department. I considered Hayward. But San Francisco was easy because they actually had a film department. And I hadn't gone there thinking that I would study film. But when I got there and found that it was an option, because I didn't know that it was an option -- I didn't know much. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: There were no fleet of counselors.</b><br />
<br />
John: There was nobody helping me figure things out. I wasn't really able to go to a university. I didn't have the money for that. When my father died I got some Social Security to go to college, which was really great; it really helped a lot. I got some money from my mother. I had a job, so state college was manageable. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: And it was $90.00 a semester.</b> <br />
<br />
John: I hadn't really realized that you could study film, and then, "Whoa, sign me up." Plus it was in San Francisco.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Of course.</b><br />
<br />
John: When I moved to San Francisco, it was before The Castro. I actually witnessed The Castro blossoming. I didn't move to San Francisco because it was a center of gay life, but I just wanted to get away. And I lived in the dorm my first semester because I didn't know the city, and I had never had an apartment. The dorms didn’t work for me. I actually got chased by drunken football players one night. I was not in the right dorm. There was a gay dorm there, but I picked the wrong one, who knew?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: When did your father die?</b><br />
<br />
John: He died the summer before I started at State. 1973.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: On the very eve of your mother getting remarried right?</b><br />
<br />
John: He died the morning of the day that my mother married Jack, yes.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Unbelievable.</b><br />
<br />
John: My sisters and I made the decision not to tell my mother until after the ceremony so that she could have her day. So we spent the day of my mother's wedding with this knowledge that nobody else had, which was very surreal. It feels like so many times in my life when big, emotional things have happened there's been some reason I've had to cope in some way rather than just react. I mean, there's always been some other thing that needed my attention rather than how I felt about it.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: What did you do?</b><br />
<br />
John: My sister Sherry and I had had a little gin bender. That's what we did.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdB6ut0KMyosSu_cNzK8CThHUSSXfpb4TdFvN7gMc3vNY6hLBeGrud4qyE_jbMwvX0hTki7Owh0PEx8Os_jm4vaAdXblLARLoPy1MDbetI1GTZQV7g1viqQ0X-NVeZLcEnNCGVoV644sI/s1600/John+on+mothers+second+wedding+-+day+father+passes+away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdB6ut0KMyosSu_cNzK8CThHUSSXfpb4TdFvN7gMc3vNY6hLBeGrud4qyE_jbMwvX0hTki7Owh0PEx8Os_jm4vaAdXblLARLoPy1MDbetI1GTZQV7g1viqQ0X-NVeZLcEnNCGVoV644sI/s320/John+on+mothers+second+wedding+-+day+father+passes+away.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John at his mother’s second wedding reception <br />
the day his father died.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Interviewer: When did you meet Jeff?</b><br />
<br />
John: I met Jeff Sevick right away, He was in the dorm that I should have been in. I had a big crush on Jeff. We tried to be boyfriends off and on here and there, but it just was not what we were meant to be. But I adored him, and we were good friends most of the time until he died. But at times we would be not seeing each other so much when he got involved with a boyfriend, and then he'd be off in that for awhile. But he was always coming and going. He had strawberry blonde hair that stood straight up like David Bowie and he wore this old, kind of wool, '40s sports coat. And oh god, he was gorgeous.<br />
<br />
Around that same time I met Jeremiah. And I was crazy for him. It was not a relationship without conflict, but I was crazy for him. It was also the first time that I had good sex, and so that kind of opened my eyes to being gay in a different way. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Was Jeremiah a student at State too?</b><br />
<br />
John: Yes. I met him on a bus going to State. Oh god, do you want these kind of details?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Yes, I love these kind of details.</b><br />
<br />
John: It's kind of like out of a movie.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Tell me!</b><br />
<br />
John: He was sitting several rows away from me, and he was staring at me. And when I made eye contact, he mouthed the words, "I think you're perfect."<br />
<br />
So obviously I had to go with him.<br />
<br />
He was a little bit older than me, but not very much. He was studying Russian. He had Russian charts all over his room. He lived in a house with two or three straight men, so then there was that dynamic because we'd come to breakfast in the morning, and there would be these guys with their girlfriends and me and Jeremiah. It was friendly. I don't know why he lived with them. I don't know what they were to him, but that's where he lived. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you ever see Jeremiah again after you broke up?</b><br />
<br />
John: No. And I've actually tried Googling him. I have no idea what became of him. I hope he didn't die.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: What happens next?</b><br />
<br />
John: That's what I was trying to figure out. Well, as you know, I didn't have a lot of boyfriends. So in 1978 is the year I bought a house with the woman that I was involved with. We'd already lived together for a year before we bought the house. When we made the decision to move in together that time, we also made the decision that we would be monogamous. And that was really the first time that I'd ever committed to a gender, not only to a person, but that meant I wasn't going to be sleeping with anybody else. Not only was I going to be monogamous, but I wouldn't be sleeping with men. <br />
<br />
Those years were really good years. I loved her. I loved the intimacy and we tried hard to make it work. We were two young people making our way in the world on our own, and we helped each other with that. And it is part of our bond to this day. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoPAy9LU_kG9tGbXDxJwMg0BtCTGFss28LIyva4968Du_rMbD4I-yTHk_aO9AQ0gXC5jWnVGZO_Cc4z-2KfJvHfqqDCrnjxBo3WJ51o2x2iv0VVJLxlUq28ZpsBpwUnOzd-kl2kw1i8I/s1600/John-Be+with+nephew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoPAy9LU_kG9tGbXDxJwMg0BtCTGFss28LIyva4968Du_rMbD4I-yTHk_aO9AQ0gXC5jWnVGZO_Cc4z-2KfJvHfqqDCrnjxBo3WJ51o2x2iv0VVJLxlUq28ZpsBpwUnOzd-kl2kw1i8I/s400/John-Be+with+nephew.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John with nephew</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
END OF PART ONE<br />
<br />
In Part Two John talks about his beginnings in the film business and living as a queer<br />
man.Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-35880386661876966452012-02-09T15:19:00.000-08:002012-02-09T15:19:09.477-08:00Postcard from a Queer Colonialist in PV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkE8Hgto6QQ3VL4fzD-bly5b2TYfnnyYxqX6jLImxhs1vT7iaz7CMSDcHL2kCagP9_ticDLB5XdAueVKGR7jHIhXTe2Onz64tjnQVkACaqt9OzUFm84UwI8MpatiudYzEST7hGso_CQ8/s1600/IMG_2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkE8Hgto6QQ3VL4fzD-bly5b2TYfnnyYxqX6jLImxhs1vT7iaz7CMSDcHL2kCagP9_ticDLB5XdAueVKGR7jHIhXTe2Onz64tjnQVkACaqt9OzUFm84UwI8MpatiudYzEST7hGso_CQ8/s320/IMG_2019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">All photos courtesy of Courtney Harrell</span></i><br />
<br />
The last time I was in Puerto Vallarta was the summer of 1976, just before I turned 18. If the town was gay then, I missed it, but I wasn’t looking. Mexico was the first third-world country I ever visited, and the poverty, threat of dysentery, and stern-looking <i>federales</i> frightened me into following around my taller and more worldly lady friends like the proverbial puppy. I was not venturing into territory that I’d only recently acknowledged.<br />
<br />
These days Los Muertos Beach, the center of gay activity, is also known as Blue Chairs Beach. Blue Chairs is a well-known gay hotel and entertainment venue named after its distinctive blue beach chairs. Although called a hotel, the place seems more dedicated to entertainment than hostelry.<br />
<br />
The blue chairs themselves cover a narrow stretch of beach from the hotel to the water’s edge. The food is so-so, but if you are staying up in the hills and want a place to hang out under an umbrella, they don’t bother you to buy more than an obligatory beer or soda. The waiters are often incredibly handsome, and many are fluent in English. All are friendly and some flirt. <br />
<br />
A fellow at the next table had purchased a wood mask with a long curving tongue, and the conversation quickly focused on the sensuous protuberance. The guest joked that the waiter could come back later that day to enjoy his tongue or something to that effect. I was only half listening. In perfect English, the waiter responded that he preferred fish—he meant women. The gay guest and his buddies were a little taken aback by the frankness. That’s when I paid more attention. Someone stepped across the divide. The waiter chatted about his wife and kids, who were almost grown, and how the last little one came much later. He said the last one was a mistake, that his wife wore a diaphragm and that he must have been just too powerful. Suddenly it had turned from gay flirting to straight male locker-room talk. By accident, everybody had stepped outside what I would consider the boundaries of slightly distasteful discourse, but not in the ways I am used to. Sex talk, straight sex talk, is preferred to nothing? But the gentlemen seemed to have something of a conversation, even if it was somewhat offensive, that wasn’t the usual waiter/client banter. Interestingly, there were few Mexicans sitting on those blue beach chairs. A few internet searches (unconfirmed I might add) suggest that the establishment does not encourage Mexican citizens to pull up a blue chair and have a beer.<br />
<br />
Earlier in the week, our writing group met for drinks at the club on the top floor of Blue Chairs. Of course, the elevator was broken, so we took the stairs. As I walked up the six flights, I thought it would be hell to stay there and have to listen to an incessant disco beat. Most of the ladies in our group ventured to the very top floor, which opens to the sky and features a cool soaking pool (a common feature in PV’s heat) and views overlooking the beach. The gents wandered down to the next level, which had curtains to provide a faint gesture of privacy for the dancing go-go boys. I found out that scantily clad smooth-skinned young men gyrating on a platform or bar are not uncommon in the town’s nightspots. <br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pDLmbHU7X9nG1p-xZYx-qaIpJuahkHztdttDZqkich-KtLAnaLq_jQTYMknvwqM-locOcE766bTGVF5ETBW_Gd2_-lipaXuVGOHN3sYBkMWTi5LI3TubfWp6mHlMIpIldTJ7ydj__Jc/s1600/IMG_2107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1pDLmbHU7X9nG1p-xZYx-qaIpJuahkHztdttDZqkich-KtLAnaLq_jQTYMknvwqM-locOcE766bTGVF5ETBW_Gd2_-lipaXuVGOHN3sYBkMWTi5LI3TubfWp6mHlMIpIldTJ7ydj__Jc/s320/IMG_2107.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbLhzbQejyGxNaBjk3oDL7cr5jxRTGY-iZFHmshlpmfhqWD6DtDArQb5q2q18H81gq6mC8Btw9P0bfgLooleG6krsFzgUigRG6VbghPymGnKoRIAz-72xJR3zTVwBK2jCeTMqj0QVlSp0/s1600/IMG_2117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbLhzbQejyGxNaBjk3oDL7cr5jxRTGY-iZFHmshlpmfhqWD6DtDArQb5q2q18H81gq6mC8Btw9P0bfgLooleG6krsFzgUigRG6VbghPymGnKoRIAz-72xJR3zTVwBK2jCeTMqj0QVlSp0/s320/IMG_2117.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
You can trace this objectification back to the young men who live at Maxine Faulk’s hotel in John Huston’s film adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ “Night of Iguana” shot down the coast in the early 1960s. The general idea these days is to tuck pesos into the dancer’s skimpy shorts. If you are lucky, perhaps you get a peek at what was barely left for the imagination anyway. I watched this transpire a few times at another club, La Noche, one night, didn’t care for it, thought little about it, and went back to dancing with my friends. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBYZRbnyp1Ud4VYJZ5SIA7a0yhqKoOa40DxfujKCqy1o4crPtkQXNSASoGoLmfrcZmkIlHXP0CcUbTDChYWf8jJ38SMOpeNc_wnV2HET4CrP-u33UPjRc1j7SHu9kE0VBzjGk-Enuvx4/s1600/IMG_2106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifBYZRbnyp1Ud4VYJZ5SIA7a0yhqKoOa40DxfujKCqy1o4crPtkQXNSASoGoLmfrcZmkIlHXP0CcUbTDChYWf8jJ38SMOpeNc_wnV2HET4CrP-u33UPjRc1j7SHu9kE0VBzjGk-Enuvx4/s320/IMG_2106.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
But at Blue Chairs, the dancers are less discreet. You get more than a peek, apparently. Truth be told, I cannot verify this, because I had to escape the pulse of the music, but I heard stories later that the dancers removed their shorts and displayed themselves. My prudish side kicked in when I heard this. No doubt this kind of paid intimacy leads to other paid intimacies. On this front, I try to remain without judgment. “Happy ending” massages are a common occurrence in the gay male community. If it’s mutual and safe, I am neutral. But what about interactions where the balance of power is so one sided? Are we (generally white) wealthy master colonialists buying favors from oppressed poor men (generally of color)?<br />
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One person I told this story to assumed the men were under age. No, that is not the draw here. There is some kind of myth, one that writers like Tennessee Williams picked up on decades ago. Hard-working strong men with smooth brown skin represent something slightly unattainable or naughty to affluent white boys. If you have traveled in Mexico and have any kind of conscience, you are aware that your tips to taxi drivers, waiters, cooks, housekeepers, gardeners, and all of the people who serve you in some way or another make an enormous difference in the working person’s income. So is liberal guilt assuaged somewhat by the realization that someone serving tourists in a place like Puerto Vallarta might make an income that might be almost enough to live on? But in this age of internet porn (and everything else), the idea of paying almost naked men 20 or 50 or 100 pesos (at thirteen pesos to the dollar right now) for a peek at their genitals seems more degrading than forbidden. Degrading to those who pay and those who work? I am not writing about this experience to criticize the people who dance or watch or even touch. But I want to understand why it bothers me. Perhaps it is my age. At 53, I am more tuned into my role as an oppressor than my role as a libertine. If I had had more confidence in 1976, I might have been lining up at the bar. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjXSKXivoiDUAzIaozc1xTrWy-5MTBe2ot1aBcS1wHXzgrmVSdkRcy-DGhtt5WyAujI1iwozQ68AMRRzi7Y_X1orCAF0SyV2z7rQ2HiVaDrDgJwgFA-wtVPHdl-Nbdm2gd5makX4FoJg/s1600/IMG_2143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJjXSKXivoiDUAzIaozc1xTrWy-5MTBe2ot1aBcS1wHXzgrmVSdkRcy-DGhtt5WyAujI1iwozQ68AMRRzi7Y_X1orCAF0SyV2z7rQ2HiVaDrDgJwgFA-wtVPHdl-Nbdm2gd5makX4FoJg/s320/IMG_2143.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-79624295336592369462011-05-27T18:23:00.000-07:002011-05-31T10:22:13.610-07:00Notes On "A Single Man"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKcVml-D9Hbw1ClkBszUivvWRXy5t8ZWQ2O7l4eouJLivtPhF0xX6bVqGXGUS90YdVcM3AzAgrgph2PnV0YIIZVHqjEjwsRsWKjZ5q-v0k2d4iP-8lJRf8joEGi5U-0hxUPldNatXmsY/s1600/isherwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKcVml-D9Hbw1ClkBszUivvWRXy5t8ZWQ2O7l4eouJLivtPhF0xX6bVqGXGUS90YdVcM3AzAgrgph2PnV0YIIZVHqjEjwsRsWKjZ5q-v0k2d4iP-8lJRf8joEGi5U-0hxUPldNatXmsY/s320/isherwood.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of Christopher Isherwood<br />
Don Bachardy<br />
UNTITLED II, AUGUST 19 1985<br />
Acrylic on paper<br />
29 7/8 x 22 3/8 inches<br />
courtesy Cheim & Read, New York</td></tr>
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That man of funky letters, John Waters, once wrote that Tennessee Williams saved his life—in the public library. For me, it was Christopher Isherwood that saved mine. A perceptive high school teacher gave me a copy of <i>A Meeting By the River</i>. I was a sophomore or junior, so what could be better than a novel about being gay and spiritual? Isherwood soon became my patron saint of the fulfilled queer life. <br />
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Of all his writings, <i>A Single Man</i> (1964) was said to have been Isherwood’s personal favorite, according to his lover, the painter Don Bachardy. We rented the 2009 movie adaptation the other night and I can’t get it out of my mind. Director, writer, and producer Tom Ford has claimed that it isn’t a gay film, and weirdly enough, after thinking about what defines a queer film, I think he’s right. So, what constitutes a queer film?<br />
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Perhaps the first feature-length queer film I ever saw (albeit inadvertently) was <i>Cabaret</i> (1972), based on Isherwood’s <i>Berlin Stories</i>. In the edited-for-TV version, Michael York, as Isherwood’s Brian Roberts, has his queer line deleted, but if you were a hip high schooler, you understood Brian’s bisexuality anyway. Despite the film’s lack of overt queerness, Isherwood’s pre-WWII experience of Berlin came through. Of course, it also featured Joel Grey at his queerest best.<br />
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There was no pretending that the <i>Rocky Horror Picture Show</i> (1972) was anything but queer. In a very underground ‘70s way, the open sexuality and pot smoking in public was all part of the movie-going experience. We thought ourselves so brave to be attending the midnight show on Powell Street, where we smoked joints in the theater. We were suburban teenagers committing a revolutionary cultural act.<br />
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Clearly, 1972 was a big year for queer-oriented films. There was the made-for-TV movie, <i>That Certain Summer</i>, with Martin Sheen and Hal Holbrook. I have always loved Martin Sheen for taking on that role when he was so young and vulnerable. And he ends up becoming President! But it was still too early for an out-and-out queer love story in mainstream movie houses. Ten years later there was a mediocre film, <i>Making Love</i> (1982) that played in theaters all across the country. I admit my pride (and pleasure) in seeing Michael Ontkean and Harry Hamlin in bed together even if that Angel, Kate Jackson, was awful. When I saw <i>Philadelphia</i> (1993) in downtown Berkeley (of all places), the crowd gasped when Tom Hanks and Antonio Banderas kissed. The progress during the two decades from my early adolescence to adulthood seemed slow indeed. But things sped up after that, in part because of TV sitcoms like <i>Ellen</i> and <i>Will & Grace</i>. It is hard to admit that sometimes liberation has popular culture to thank.<br />
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Despite this long relationship with cinema, I am still one of those people who would rather read the novel than see the movie. Isherwood, of all people, understood that whenever a novel is adapted for the screen, a lot gets changed. But although it has been thirty years since I read <i>A Single Man</i>, Tom Ford’s adaptation, with its lushness and beautiful quotes from the novel sent me back to the book, and back to Isherwood’s life. He wrote the novel after a trial separation from his partner Bachardy provoked fears about being left alone. Yet they reconciled and lived together in a cocoon overlooking the Pacific until 1986, when Isherwood died at age 81. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiux3Kxu_yxm1fTIqCwNkweIcP77DOCfenuMhU41hb3pc4wN6NmXQKDdFWVPEk0Hmu4zniVnsD84UrPP16185I5ur0IJ5_CRxj8NcxQsvMT-fxMBvu97uS68LYLYEMmRcLEMbKUoKz1Lds/s1600/isherwd_bachardy_68.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiux3Kxu_yxm1fTIqCwNkweIcP77DOCfenuMhU41hb3pc4wN6NmXQKDdFWVPEk0Hmu4zniVnsD84UrPP16185I5ur0IJ5_CRxj8NcxQsvMT-fxMBvu97uS68LYLYEMmRcLEMbKUoKz1Lds/s320/isherwd_bachardy_68.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="style2 style5">Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, 1968<br />
<span class="style6">acrylic on canvas, 83 <span class="style7">1/2</span> x 119 <span class="style7">1/2</span> in.<br />
courtesy hockneypictures.com</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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In the novel, fifty-eight year old George Falconer lives in a small modest hillside home, not unlike Isherwood and Don Bachardy’s own home in Santa Monica. The literary George is not as debonair or wealthy as his film counterpart. Despite Tom Ford’s incredibly good taste in architecture (early Lautner, natch), décor, clothes, and cars, something gets lost in the film translation. It is not only that George lives in modernist architectural splendor and his gal pal Charlotte’s home recalls Ted Graber’s Beverly Hills, instead of the rickety canyon bohemia of Isherwood’s novel. Tom Ford operates in what some call a “post-gay” world: everybody knows someone gay, and if you live on the coast, you act like half the world is queer.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSDEODhF0IiYmtDjL_9CCQfFGFhqbX5Z5T78U9SkiECtkycNVOEM4BfPSXm1m357klHBunIVn9MCuq2etyiEG4ecsYiiRAbUKpZ105SUJhaXv4luR18N5TrLbDHu_u2E2ONFtmd0EicEU/s1600/santa-monica-fog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSDEODhF0IiYmtDjL_9CCQfFGFhqbX5Z5T78U9SkiECtkycNVOEM4BfPSXm1m357klHBunIVn9MCuq2etyiEG4ecsYiiRAbUKpZ105SUJhaXv4luR18N5TrLbDHu_u2E2ONFtmd0EicEU/s320/santa-monica-fog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Monica Canyon</td></tr>
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Ford’s introduction of the suicide theme is akin to modern gratuitous violence. If there isn’t a revolver somewhere, we don’t feel alive enough. Of course, Isherwood didn’t need a gun; his text carried the urgency and the radical rage of the voice within, something he was always working with by removing some layers and not others. In the film, a potential suicide stands in for the rage—a sad and angry gay man would be too subtle without a pistol in today’s contemporary world. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZw_oHrW1SdjolKnJrkpKz8G46oAf_VBHg7I1m2EwvucjetYpafZ_b0jjo1M7hP4cNJ_X8SfeelzTWX2_Je2M4hqFqv-Td6m-FbQehUCpFjvfw_b-mqGVxaSSFyrUV5kLV31v_QeSSnOY/s1600/single_man_film-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZw_oHrW1SdjolKnJrkpKz8G46oAf_VBHg7I1m2EwvucjetYpafZ_b0jjo1M7hP4cNJ_X8SfeelzTWX2_Je2M4hqFqv-Td6m-FbQehUCpFjvfw_b-mqGVxaSSFyrUV5kLV31v_QeSSnOY/s320/single_man_film-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Single Man</i><br />
courtesy The Weinstein Company</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqbaoqIsZuHEo7IwejLCMjxD-15F-khe3ba_wCc1kemTEZx1wsLATn3h52wA5jhhHHc7RLNpxsFSyxQEHWOzP-XDO15b_pID1OQx_GPAJOQ-6RjfhRGdUHWWrYYzWxDlpP9pruD0fsgY/s1600/single_man_film-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqbaoqIsZuHEo7IwejLCMjxD-15F-khe3ba_wCc1kemTEZx1wsLATn3h52wA5jhhHHc7RLNpxsFSyxQEHWOzP-XDO15b_pID1OQx_GPAJOQ-6RjfhRGdUHWWrYYzWxDlpP9pruD0fsgY/s320/single_man_film-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Single Man</i><br />
courtesy The Weinstein Company</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmU-uTbePCeHMrX5FTAKKLm0ddRpx129ld0fUxFbY_60V6dAtcwscjlA8tEc4Nz3eEvPaNyPnsOFy7HUCeBdSmH6cVsV3qvoYIY3ffymNbbqqG7A37TOwm0TUtMV5Kjv14KcZUm1G6ns/s1600/single_man_film-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicmU-uTbePCeHMrX5FTAKKLm0ddRpx129ld0fUxFbY_60V6dAtcwscjlA8tEc4Nz3eEvPaNyPnsOFy7HUCeBdSmH6cVsV3qvoYIY3ffymNbbqqG7A37TOwm0TUtMV5Kjv14KcZUm1G6ns/s320/single_man_film-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Single Man</i><br />
courtesy The Weinstein Company</td></tr>
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Ford takes the most beautiful scene in the novel—a swim in the ocean—and turns it into the visual leitmotif for the film. After his lover dies, George is always suspended in a kind of non-reality, turned upside down and sideways, but not quite drowning. <br />
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In 1964, few stories were as bold and took such a strong stance against the heterosexist hegemony as <i>A Single Man</i> did. Even today, save for some minor details, Isherwood’s novel could stand in as a contemporary indictment of the repressive right wing. But in Ford’s hands it feels like a nostalgic and luxurious film about an era when gay partners weren’t invited to the funerals but could still live very comfortable and tasteful lives together. Indeed, the thrill of the secrecy from the pre-Stonewall era has been replaced by Southern California movie affluence. Tom Ford can afford to make a film that floats beautifully above most of the world’s repressive queer reality. <br />
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In one of the film’s earliest scenes, adapted slightly from the novel, a child beats a bathroom scale with a hammer. This is the kind of fury that is just beneath the (proper British) surface of the novel, but for the most part it is lost in this all too pretty film. I wouldn’t mind the fabulous Lautner house or the vintage Mercedes, but I would have left the pistol in the drawer.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fW8DlJyobKYFfwOsPS1pIf0bDLN4yooswUfjmoaUIw6fFFvyle6qCDPNjxRrlxyzEhfz_dpbpVZTBU63LNCgJmtqXoJoKFy-sHdeINlpCplcRdJmaeTtOKOOuT5OSEKsQrq5LUnqojY/s1600/colin-firth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0fW8DlJyobKYFfwOsPS1pIf0bDLN4yooswUfjmoaUIw6fFFvyle6qCDPNjxRrlxyzEhfz_dpbpVZTBU63LNCgJmtqXoJoKFy-sHdeINlpCplcRdJmaeTtOKOOuT5OSEKsQrq5LUnqojY/s320/colin-firth.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Single Man</i><br />
courtesy The Weinstein Company</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-74958731777747695702011-04-14T13:40:00.000-07:002011-04-14T13:40:35.769-07:00A Gay Uncle in the Mist<i>David Kerr knew his Uncle Chuck was different when he would come visiting. David grew up in the suburbs of Austin, Texas and his uncle lived at the Y in mysterious Manhattan, doing odd design jobs and living a bohemian life. His parents worried that they would have to care for Uncle Chuck in his old age because he would have no resources. By the time he was a teenager David knew that his uncle was gay, but that didn’t mean he felt close to him. Chuck worked just enough to travel to Turkey, which he would visit repeatedly. Although he accumulated piles and piles of business cards in Turkey no clear business purpose was revealed.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>He rarely saw his uncle as an adult, but out of a sense of loyalty, familiarity, and a regard for the other, David sent his uncle postcards, holiday cards, and letters. In December 2008 David received a phone call from the New Orleans coroner. They had found his uncle’s body when he hadn’t been seen for a few days. He was 77. In his apartment in the French Quarter the officials found notes on the desk and guessed who was next of kin. I thought it would be interesting to talk to David about the process of knowing an unknowable gay uncle who lived as a gay man long before Stonewall. They shared a middle name, but not much else.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTkGjsai8q0E2nvyTPEJA1fjz6DeWAz48Tmhnxx6yf2zXU3tDvjXoDNLeaqegxDyoUISQgZl-oufBsD81PoNCm_Prs7Z0hLgpuD38tEBDuXeUw2WGahtToRNljU1LJ0gSh5B2hNL6CYQ/s1600/0637+C-Allen+Siegman+b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTkGjsai8q0E2nvyTPEJA1fjz6DeWAz48Tmhnxx6yf2zXU3tDvjXoDNLeaqegxDyoUISQgZl-oufBsD81PoNCm_Prs7Z0hLgpuD38tEBDuXeUw2WGahtToRNljU1LJ0gSh5B2hNL6CYQ/s320/0637+C-Allen+Siegman+b.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Allen Siegman - <i>"Uncle Chuck"</i></td></tr>
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</i><br />
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<b>Interviewer: What did you call your uncle? His name was Allen but you called him Chuck? </b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: We just called him Uncle Chuck. Charles Allen Sigmund was his full name. Charles was his father’s name too. All of his friends in New Orleans knew him as Allen. So I guess as an adult he’d gone by Allen, which is my middle name. It’s a family name. My grandmother’s maiden name. But my Mother had called him Chuck since they were kids.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: When did you first become aware that your uncle was gay?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: When I was very young I knew my uncle was from another planet. He carried all his things in a little European net shopping bag. And he wore this Lyrca, speedo-like bathing suit. He had long hair and long fingernails. He was bohemian — like nothing that any of us had ever seen in Austin.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: Did he come at regular times of the year?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: He traveled a lot. He would show up on his way to his travels. My parents were always sure that he was going to spend all his money. There was always a lot of chatter and worry about him. Even if they hadn’t said anything, I would’ve known that he wasn’t like anybody else. As a kid I was too young to know that he was gay. But I just knew he was other, something different.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZkQbWzZNqrLhuL-A39KQZmo59gxKRDiTXCDPHHlUWC0uQ3HSoVxRDJZXIAFuFG8Bk_rOy_mKLmOHSWN1WHWZJdzGg0o0Joyk8ygptQdUwJXAsqvjGAA5VHAM65dVSawrRM5j3jktzlw/s1600/Allen-2-passports-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZkQbWzZNqrLhuL-A39KQZmo59gxKRDiTXCDPHHlUWC0uQ3HSoVxRDJZXIAFuFG8Bk_rOy_mKLmOHSWN1WHWZJdzGg0o0Joyk8ygptQdUwJXAsqvjGAA5VHAM65dVSawrRM5j3jktzlw/s400/Allen-2-passports-web.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C Allen Siegman passports from 70s, late 50s</td></tr>
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<b>Interviewer: Did you know what he did for a living?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: Well, he didn’t do anything. That was the other thing about his bohemian-ness. He didn’t seem to really have a job. He went to art school and he had been a painter, he had worked for a textile company. I had these curtains in my bedroom that he had designed, this wonderful cheesy western scene.<br />
<br />
He did store window design in New York. But when my grandfather died, which was when I was five or six, he and my mother each got a very small windfall. He only worked enough to have money to travel. So, when he got that windfall, he didn’t work for many years after that. He just was very, very frugal. He was a lifelong vegetarian. He only ate off wood, chopsticks. I remember once we were having dinner and he said, “I forget how food tastes on metal utensils.” He didn’t believe in metal. He just seemed like a kook, and had this smell — patchouli and something else. He mixed his own fragrances. <br />
<br />
I never saw where he lived while he was alive. But when he died I went to New Orleans and saw his apartment. He mixed his own cologne. He had all these little vials of patchouli oil and all these little spicy, scenty oils. The place had a very exotic look and very exotic smell.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So as you got older, did he seem to settle into a career? </b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: Not really. In New Orleans he worked for a little tchotchke art shop, antiquey kind of place in the French Quarter. And his best friend there owned this shop. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: How did your mother describe him? </b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: My parents weren’t judgmental. It’s not like she came out and said, “This is the way not to live, or this is the way not to spend your money.” But it was clear that she was worried about him blowing all this money and not having a real job or career. That it just wouldn’t end well. And I’m sure more than once she told me that she knew that she and dad were going to end up responsible for him. But they didn’t.<br />
<br />
Then a little later, when I was going through puberty — I guess I must’ve been 12 or so. And my dad had the talk, that horrifying talk. He took me to the church. Not because of the religious overtones, because they weren’t religious, but just to get some quiet. And so he talked about that it’s not abnormal to feel like you’re going through a phase where you’re gay. And he said that I shouldn’t tell my mother that I knew this but that my uncle was gay. He told me that it had been a big rupture in the family and that my grandfather had kicked him out of the house for a time. I never heard the full story because I wasn’t supposed to ask my mother about it. <br />
<br />
By the time I was 12, I knew. Back then he used to spend a long time in Yugoslavia when I was a kid. I guess you could stretch your dollar further there.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Where did he and your mother grow up?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: They grew up in Rocky River, which is just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_a2WaJlbMW4iZ20iDZjR7E4AkjKPWCtW-kzKkCdWGU4E-0uslaZVQkLAOW2AjGIN7rwxX4U8bIPLmr3DGIiFJoR1xt8qJ90vmsLjHf06Y0-ettQzoEY6R3BuQBvS9oHqbslJsap9WTjQ/s1600/Birthday+Grandma+Rosa+09-1939+marian%252C+bob%252C+ed%252C+charles+jr%252C+roas%252C+ruth+agnes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_a2WaJlbMW4iZ20iDZjR7E4AkjKPWCtW-kzKkCdWGU4E-0uslaZVQkLAOW2AjGIN7rwxX4U8bIPLmr3DGIiFJoR1xt8qJ90vmsLjHf06Y0-ettQzoEY6R3BuQBvS9oHqbslJsap9WTjQ/s400/Birthday+Grandma+Rosa+09-1939+marian%252C+bob%252C+ed%252C+charles+jr%252C+roas%252C+ruth+agnes.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chuck Allen Siegman, center, with his sister Ruth (David's mom) at their Grandmother's birthday in 1939, Cleveland Ohio.</td></tr>
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<b>Interviewer: He goes to art school. He becomes a window dresser and bohemian and then travels when he has enough money, and —</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: He goes to New York and lives in the YMCA for years. That was his address. When he moved to New Orleans he moved to the Y. I don’t know if he moved to New Orleans because it was less expensive. I suspect that as New York got sort of gayer and more post-Stonewall, it wasn’t really a good fit for him.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOcKDsHRMu8Vgbc7HBcLi6FEHBDMpt6IugFqwefWEcguSScbPUNYGGlZkTMmpRtrFS2GaTmjnZVfyV9Efc8Fl6vQbd-eumsP_xNRtM3D8SkXNSj27xmdU8Z3Vo1M0OSQZP0jYwKonRnw/s1600/allen+apartment20081207_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAOcKDsHRMu8Vgbc7HBcLi6FEHBDMpt6IugFqwefWEcguSScbPUNYGGlZkTMmpRtrFS2GaTmjnZVfyV9Efc8Fl6vQbd-eumsP_xNRtM3D8SkXNSj27xmdU8Z3Vo1M0OSQZP0jYwKonRnw/s400/allen+apartment20081207_0002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Chuck's apartment in New Orleans.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>Interviewer: As you get older, do you lose contact with him?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: We never had much contact with him. In the Y, you don’t have your own phone, right? There’s a phone in the hall. So he never really had a phone. In college, when I came out, I came out to him in a letter. I sent him postcards. When I got a boyfriend, I would send him news. And very, very rarely would I hear from him. I can think of two postcards I got from him, and maybe two phone calls with him my entire adult life. I think it was more about his being sort of a monastic.<br />
<br />
He didn’t like the phone. His friends told me that he believed if it was important it could wait until the next time he saw you. The woman who owned the store where he worked said, “You know, he’s probably my closest friend. But when he goes to Turkey, he’s gone, you won’t hear from him — you’re lucky if you get a postcard. And he’s not going to think about you for four months until he shows up. And then he’s back. And here he is.” He didn’t really connect with people over distance.<br />
<br />
But what was interesting is, after he died, I realized I’d been one of his most frequent correspondents. He kept all the stuff I sent him. He had every postcard, every note, every Christmas card. It was all there. <br />
<br />
And so that’s why I was the first person who was notified. One of my cards was on his desk. The coroner called me when they were looking for the next of kin. <br />
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<b>Interviewer: Tell me how this all unraveled.</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: I get a call from the New Orleans coroner. At first, I thought, I’ve got to get my dad involved. My dad has to deal with this. But I kind of realized that it was a turning point in my relationship with my father. I could tell he was completely overwhelmed. And I didn’t realize until after it happened that there’s this point where it changes. I just said, “Dad, I’m going to go take care of this.” And he said, “Okay.” I mean, he was just like a kid. It changed my dynamic with my father. And I think because my uncle was gay, and because he was a connection to my mother, who’s been gone for 20 years, it just felt like something I wanted to do.<br />
<br />
I flew out there and it was a mess. He hadn’t left any sort of will and had all this not-very-valuable jewelry in a safe deposit box. He’s of that generation of people who have safe deposit boxes and things stashed away in there. So it was quite a process because nobody had legal right to go in there. <br />
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<b>Interviewer: Who decides you have the legal right, then?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: I’m the next of kin. My brother and I were his last living blood relatives. We had to sign papers and do stuff with the bank. I went alone on the first trip and my brother came on the second. This was around the same time his friends held a small memorial for him at the shop where he worked. I got to meet his circle.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: Tell me about that.</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: He lived downstairs from and was friends with the landlord and his partner. His apartment was just a mess. Bowls and scents and bottles and all kinds of stuff. Every piece of paper he’d ever had, it seems. All these little statues and screens, and all these jade bowls. I mean, that must’ve been 10 jade bowls, and all these brass cups, I think from Turkey. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRuvqX4qLHCHwYhfrV_mYBG48oGSjOzjWKzoTcbRlDMLIlYx28E5NxnxP1uAOrQGLiC7RqO9GtXfPLT3NxGMRWLbuiLuVj6DG4Lvkl-_3GMbrfHxJoj27c7h0c7G_nt3T-nK97H99vSo/s1600/allen_siegman_12-2008+012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQRuvqX4qLHCHwYhfrV_mYBG48oGSjOzjWKzoTcbRlDMLIlYx28E5NxnxP1uAOrQGLiC7RqO9GtXfPLT3NxGMRWLbuiLuVj6DG4Lvkl-_3GMbrfHxJoj27c7h0c7G_nt3T-nK97H99vSo/s400/allen_siegman_12-2008+012.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brass cups, statue, etc.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0LCzYxTSwTC6NR6dqchiyw_i6kit1pR4NGDhvT5KPlPAZW4oDqgD9FEwRYKBMxs9j_dBkBlbfC7QwX1yJ9FqJaIIszSq9UzO2BN6aFlNicEIcP7Mq5PZtrZZRBSawQqdFSAbD4aVp0Y/s1600/allen_siegman_12-2008+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0LCzYxTSwTC6NR6dqchiyw_i6kit1pR4NGDhvT5KPlPAZW4oDqgD9FEwRYKBMxs9j_dBkBlbfC7QwX1yJ9FqJaIIszSq9UzO2BN6aFlNicEIcP7Mq5PZtrZZRBSawQqdFSAbD4aVp0Y/s400/allen_siegman_12-2008+010.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jade bowls, and bowls, and bowls...</td></tr>
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<b>Interviewer: Did he fix things?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: He did repair on old things for a few antique shops. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Do you know how long he worked in this antique shop?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: He worked for a couple different ones but probably, you know, 13 or 14 years, so for a long time. And bags! He knit bags. There were probably 60 bags in his apartment.100 bags? These knit string bags.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: What’d you do with all that?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: I have a few of them, but we gave many away at his memorial.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: At the memorial, what sense did you get of him? </b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: People really loved him. But he had a certain kind of formality. There was a religious order that he knew. I think they were Catholics. And he befriended one of them. And so he was kind of a fixture over there. But he didn’t have a cell phone until after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. So for most of the time he lived there, he would just show up. <br />
<br />
There was this artist he was close to and I was looking for her. All I knew was that she showed her art on a certain square certain days. I wandered around asking the artists if they had heard of this person. And I didn’t find her there. But she came to the memorial. And she just loved him. She had a picture of him walking in this sort of caftan — he must’ve either made them or gotten them in Turkey. There is the great photo of him walking away. But she said he would just arrive. He would show up at his regular places everyday. <br />
<br />
They found him because he didn’t show up at the shop or the square for a few days, and that was really unusual. He made jewelry, too. Here’s a ring that he made. It looks very 70s. Here’s Margaret, who owned the shop. Margaret thought of Uncle Chuck as a member of her family. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCc1b3-_8-aikvCdLLRIJRUfu54MSI6FxrgdfujrnsdjjNYHGxsx7W9o_0kSTgb0x7tZfLkxrMbf1kAYDCJUs-x9FbasN3bgqWVD4s-T02dr8QugFl084jTX7A_OYVEGxr2ZMaV6HEy4g/s1600/Allen+Memorial+01-24-2009++03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCc1b3-_8-aikvCdLLRIJRUfu54MSI6FxrgdfujrnsdjjNYHGxsx7W9o_0kSTgb0x7tZfLkxrMbf1kAYDCJUs-x9FbasN3bgqWVD4s-T02dr8QugFl084jTX7A_OYVEGxr2ZMaV6HEy4g/s400/Allen+Memorial+01-24-2009++03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memorial for Allen Siegman, New Orleans, January 2009.</td></tr>
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<b>Interviewer: He minded the shop and did some repairs?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: If she wasn’t there, he would hold down the fort. They came to know each other when she broke her foot and just couldn’t get around. So she needed help in the shop to do things. That’s when they became friends.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: What happened when Katrina hit?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: He and his landlord, who had by this time lost his partner, decided to stay. They were fine through the storm. They had some very low flooding, but not very bad. The problem was there were no services, no electricity, no food. After close to a week, it was clear nobody was going to come back. They got on one of the planes that flew out. <br />
<br />
This was a time when you just got on a plane and they just flew you to wherever the plane was going. They ended up in Arizona or something and made their way to Austin on a bus. He stayed with my dad and stepmom in the RV for a month. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So, you have no idea really what he was doing in Turkey.</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: No. There were thousands of business cards but I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. I’m sure he had friends there, but you couldn’t tell if the cards were just a rug place where he shopped, or someone he knew very well. I did find out he had been learning Kurdish—a bookseller in New Orleans told me he’d gone to great lengths to get a Kurdish language study book. <br />
<br />
But Uncle Chuck was very enigmatic. I think this was probably his being from the pre-Stonewall era. If he any kind of intimate relationships there was nothing about them. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: No evidence?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: Either he didn’t have “gentlemen callers” or he hid it. His gay landlords upstairs had no sense that he ever had a visitor. So he was either really monastic, or his sexual life was hidden. But I felt like I got to know him, by seeing his stuff and seeing how he lived. I just never realized that not everybody is on this planet to connect with people. At first I thought it seemed so sad how solitary he was, but now I don’t think that was his project. I think he was very in his mind. He was on a different program, you know?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you keep some of the stuff?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: I’ve got a bracelet. And I kept a bowl. I kept this brass sea serpent. That was amazing. My therapist had been telling me about this Jungian archetype serpent/gremlin, which represents however much you plan or get ready, something can throw a wrench into the works. He pulled a book off his shelf and showed me a drawing. And then between that session and the next time I see him, I got the call about my uncle. I went to New Orleans. I went through all of his stuff. And I found this little brass statue, exactly the same as the drawing that he’d been showing me. It was just like a little wrench in my life, unplanned. But a gift too. I wish I could remember the name of this figure. [He later remembered it was Mercurious]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOEfae-8ddECWLJbiJ99A3365E4NfSQUkcmzCzLb3RdwxmsnRtStamlrROaRt737MkkE-w18YBVqUShxmufr47Xq7cqg9I_Yw3U5tu-ZJnGXgeZLJFbxA9TEkUqe3WiBHMM-UnEY603M/s1600/Mercurious+brass+figure-sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbOEfae-8ddECWLJbiJ99A3365E4NfSQUkcmzCzLb3RdwxmsnRtStamlrROaRt737MkkE-w18YBVqUShxmufr47Xq7cqg9I_Yw3U5tu-ZJnGXgeZLJFbxA9TEkUqe3WiBHMM-UnEY603M/s320/Mercurious+brass+figure-sm.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brass figure Mercurious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>Interviewer: So have you thought some about how it fit, how your uncle’s story fits into your story?</b><br />
<br />
David Kerr: We were both gay men. But we were on different planets. I am grateful to have learned more about him and to be connected with him after his death. Coming out and being gay was a big part of my identity as a young adult. If we had been in touch, I suspect he wouldn’t have had any idea what to make of that. But while he was a loner, he was independent. Nobody had to take care of him. He lived by himself until the end and died in his bed and did exactly what he wanted to do. There is something amazing about that. It felt like this wonderful gift, you know, to be able to drop in. I never gave up on keeping in touch with him, even though I probably didn’t give it much conscious thought. But the gesture was received and, in some way, treasured. Whatever it was we did have this relationship, this bond. I don’t know why I kept writing him all those years and rarely getting anything back. But it felt really good to know that we’d connected in some way.Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-79771316525557465202011-03-22T12:00:00.000-07:002011-03-23T08:53:16.605-07:00The GLBT History Museum<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIvsw_MHDghC7UASqNoRkrAl5b8dFNyVZK2NBxcmoDcOVHbGhs8FCh-IjCbCpe-tOP3-VXmmbww8m0GWB_RQR0WyqGH-b7ISqE9Du-JeGk2sdgBQHwWJFAg53QVggLvAsvC_Palol2ek/s1600/museum-opening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIvsw_MHDghC7UASqNoRkrAl5b8dFNyVZK2NBxcmoDcOVHbGhs8FCh-IjCbCpe-tOP3-VXmmbww8m0GWB_RQR0WyqGH-b7ISqE9Du-JeGk2sdgBQHwWJFAg53QVggLvAsvC_Palol2ek/s320/museum-opening.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Daniel Nicoletta</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The GLBT History Museum opened January 13, 2011, near 18th and Castro Streets in San Francisco. My friend Steve Const, who was the architectural designer for the museum (with Kuth Ranieri Architects), invited me to the opening. Mayor Ed Lee was there, as was former District 8 supervisor Bevan Dufty, current District 8 supervisor Scott Wiener, and a lot of people who were part of the history being shown, including Phyllis Lyon, Cleve Jones, Daniel Nicoletta, and Armistead Maupin. <br />
<br />
As I walked around the exhibit, I heard people telling stories of their own histories. I heard laughter and tears. Although the space is relatively small, it was designed and curated to a high standard. It is a storefront museum in that it is right on the street near several watering holes, but it feels like a museum, a grassroots kind of museum. This is due to the diverse leadership, but also to the fact that a lot of the beautifully crafted exhibit cases came from the de Young Museum. I thought it would be interesting to ask a few people who I either met or knew what the new museum means to them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5trmEFGImrI4X9FQkLJEdRgHO-EpvFB6R4detuWbP6lUUksVlgXgsiqOn8J68LVW7ojSX9xiIRabClF9vWcWcXItyayBelGufgm8oKnz-jo4q8ORgFLYC-OVMnFUXrHkIOWD2PVNCB8/s1600/Nicoletta-Castro_Camera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5trmEFGImrI4X9FQkLJEdRgHO-EpvFB6R4detuWbP6lUUksVlgXgsiqOn8J68LVW7ojSX9xiIRabClF9vWcWcXItyayBelGufgm8oKnz-jo4q8ORgFLYC-OVMnFUXrHkIOWD2PVNCB8/s320/Nicoletta-Castro_Camera.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Nicoletta working at Castro Camera.<br />
Photo by Harvey Milk. Circa late summer/early fall 1976. <br />
Courtesy of the Harvey Milk/Scott Smith Collection <br />
at the James C. Hormel Gay and Lesbian Studies Center, San Francisco Library.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<b>Dan Nicoletta</b><br />
<b>Photographer, San Francisco</b><br />
<br />
I was really excited to be invited. My friend Deborah St. John, who is a fellow photographer, was my date. She has been covering the queer scene for many years as well. We were both very excited. It was a low-key evening full of poignant speeches. I thought they did a marvelous job and it came off without a hitch except for the little leak in the ceiling. I looked at all of those exhibits and thought, “God that’s my life.” There is always some little quirk that is a message of some sort. <br />
<br />
I am a huge supporter of the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender Historical Society. They will be able to show my work beyond my life on the planet. I am constantly using the organization for my own research and creative work. <br />
<br />
In the vitrine in the middle of the room was a handmade binder which held tributes to Shanti project clients. They elected to open to a page about Leland Toy. I have been looking for Leland Toy for many many years because he is the creator of the image of the human billboard, which was Harvey’s strategy. Stand on Market Street and wave to commuter traffic. This picture was in Harvey’s negatives. Years later when I was printing images for dissemination, I tried to find Leland Toy, but I couldn’t find him. So we were doing the research for the Milk film. There is this amazing iconic image out there. But we couldn’t find the creator. Of course, I would credit him, but I would have my heart in my mouth because I couldn’t find him. Sure enough, he did pass away from AIDS. It was a complete circle to know who he was. And then in the middle of this opening show I find a full-page description about what kind of life he led. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon<br />
Photo by Daniel Nicoletta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<b>Steve Const</b><br />
<b>Principal, DOES Architecture, San Francisco</b><br />
<br />
I was brought into the project by Bob Michitarian, who helped negotiate the lease and improvements with Walgreens, and then began working with Paul Boneberg, the Historical Society's executive director. In developing the architecture of the space, our goal was to foreground the collection and the exhibits. When you have a very modest budget, sometimes it makes sense to use the architecture in less obvious ways. The focus of the design was on the presentation of information. We didn’t want the design to overshadow what was said by the institution or any single exhibition. The design does not shout. I think there is a balance there. For example, we needed to sequence the entry experience past the all-important gift shop, yet make places for people to pause and converse or reflect.<br />
<br />
Even with input, the design process is fairly insular. We have been kind of buried in the archive. Then suddenly the diversity and beauty of the LGBT community is revealed and played out in space, not as an abstract idea. People from all walks of life, from 20-year-olds to legendary pioneers, were mingling. I met the folks who keep the LGBT Historical Society functioning, from administrators to curators and donors. And I met members of the larger community that I had never known. <br />
<br />
I have to admit, it was great to be recognized by politicians like Mayor Lee, former supervisor Bevan Dufty, and current supervisor Tim Wiener. That means that what we are doing is not going unnoticed. I hope it is not too grand to say that we felt unified.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvey Milk and Denton Smith<br />
Photo by Daniel Nicoletta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<b>James Mowdy</b><br />
<b>Americas Travel Manager, Ten Group USA, San Francisco</b><br />
<br />
As a native San Franciscan now in my 40s, I was impressed by how important each of us is in terms of our shared history. It was thrilling to celebrate GLBT San Francisco's gateway to a history that's still being written.<br />
<br />
My involvement has been mostly as an observer thus far, but I am working to change that with a few projects I’ll hopefully be helping Paul and the board with over the next several months.<br />
<br />
My partner Peter, on the other hand, has a much more involved role, over several years, and so he will have a different take on things. Many of my memories are from growing up here.<br />
<br />
I was a huge fan of the <i>Chronicle</i> and <i>Tales of the City</i>, which I used to read every day (weird kid)! I also remember ABC KGO News with Van Amburg, and so I think these were the places that I’d see reports in real time on Anita Bryant, Harvey Milk, and what was happening in the Castro or related to the gay community (before I was an out adult and in the milieu). <br />
<br />
I remember that as soon as Mayor Moscone and Harvey Milk were shot, it was announced over the intercom at school. Many of us kids (all in the 6th grade) were crying. I was so shocked and a bit scared. I knew of both figures since I followed the local news. The most tangible experience on this front was walking on the steps of the State Building across the street from City Hall just a couple of days after the White Night Riots. I was with my mother, oddly enough. The State Building steps were still spray painted with lots of graffiti from the protestors, and I remember seeing City Hall totally shut down, with all the broken glass windows.<br />
<br />
Living in the Castro in the early and mid-1990s was a scary introduction to AIDS, having friends and coworkers succumb to it. But it was also a great time. <br />
<br />
My favorite exhibit? Definitely Mary Ann Singleton’s dress from Tales and the City, donated by Laura Linney to Armistead Maupin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinpWJym_puREMnMv38O2m5SnsHyTmhFAhUnkdNnvm4RdmFJuZ9iGMztorLPGaRI8dd-zFCkvhYCnkmy7YWKqv5Td4REpczxQoEMW2LqViZYvtwPn7m7AB3eQVeCfDBZEG6nNPUI0IRdw8/s1600/Harvey_Milk_Victory_2_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinpWJym_puREMnMv38O2m5SnsHyTmhFAhUnkdNnvm4RdmFJuZ9iGMztorLPGaRI8dd-zFCkvhYCnkmy7YWKqv5Td4REpczxQoEMW2LqViZYvtwPn7m7AB3eQVeCfDBZEG6nNPUI0IRdw8/s320/Harvey_Milk_Victory_2_web.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvey Milk victory<br />
Photo by Daniel Nicoletta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<b>Peter Lundberg</b><br />
<b>Chief Financial Officer, Community Housing Opportunities Corporation, Davis, California</b><br />
<br />
I was introduced to the GLBT Historical Society in 1998 with a tour of the archives by Gerard Koskovich, when it was located in the mid-Market area. Susan Stryker was the executive director at the time. I was blown away. I had never thought about gay history and historical societies. Sounded dusty and old. I was stunned by the realization that who I COULD BE TODAY was the residual effect of so many people over periods of many lifetimes, many of whom we would never know about because they were ordinary people, like myself, going through daily struggles of life, just wanting to love, be loved, and be happy. (Over the years, I saw this same reaction in the eyes of hundreds of people who visited exhibit openings and events at the archive offices on Mission Street).<br />
<br />
I asked how I could become involved and was invited to join the board. Well, after nine years on the board (eight as president), I saw the organization grow from a budget of $100,000 to more than $500,000, triple the space, mount exhibits in the archive space on Mission, and finally open of the current full-fledged museum in the Castro—our dream come true. However, the real strength of the organization (and coming from a corporate background, I did not really understand the importance of this) is the involvement of the community. The board is dynamic in its diversity—cultural, social, gender, and professional. Corporate (like myself), academic, archivist, activist, transgender, ethnic.<br />
<br />
And there is one common element in the continued success and growth of the society. This is an extraordinary high level of passion for the mission of the Historical Society. This also makes for interesting and challenging discussions in the board and community. Board members are super volunteers and argue their points of view passionately. The result is actions, policies, and directions that go beyond what any one person could have ever imagined. The GLBT Historical Society and Museum is truly an organization that holds, preserves, and tells ALL our stories. It deserves and must be supported by every GLBT person with financial donations, large and small. Every dollar is significant.<br />
<br />
The line of people, going around the corner, waiting to get into the museum, on opening night brought tears to my eyes. Chatting with people who have made the museum happen—volunteers, politicians, donors, celebrities—reminded me how important this museum and the Historical Society is to so many people.<br />
<br />
My favorite exhibit was in 2004, “Sporting Life,” which explored the growth of gay and lesbian sports groups, Gay Games, and the impact this movement has had on the self esteem and outside image of gay people.<br />
<br />
I talk endlessly about the society and museum to friends and take them all to the archives and museum when they are visiting. It will be the Castro’s next international attraction.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5hY-DbBgKLH67YQMbRGNmd_t2e0mSH6DnmqNBCAtUDznk1yebbFc7kbJLUaKBkJI9ZI9bfTRWnDfeK4viUwJbmEvjDCU4UwRPqlyFsC1S-ZL7KnBZNLnuav7PYiWKaK-_POhV3UsKV8/s1600/0470-32_d1_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix5hY-DbBgKLH67YQMbRGNmd_t2e0mSH6DnmqNBCAtUDznk1yebbFc7kbJLUaKBkJI9ZI9bfTRWnDfeK4viUwJbmEvjDCU4UwRPqlyFsC1S-ZL7KnBZNLnuav7PYiWKaK-_POhV3UsKV8/s320/0470-32_d1_web.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White Night Riots - May 21, 1978<br />
Photo by Daniel Nicoletta.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-84838064559664893962011-01-25T08:47:00.000-08:002011-01-25T08:47:29.392-08:00Faith & Joy<b>Reynolds Price<br />
1933–2011</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reynolds Price<br />
Courtesy of Duke University</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
One of the few people who could reach me on the topic of faith was the novelist Reynolds Price. He died January 20 in Durham, North Carolina. In his memoir of surviving spinal cancer, <i>A Whole New Life: An Illness and a Healing</i>, he wrote about a vision of Jesus pouring water over his back. Despite this suggestion of healing, he went forward with radiation treatment, which left him a paraplegic. He suffered for the rest of his life from pain and disability—but he lived. And wrote several more books. His various memoirs mention faith, but not in a doctrinaire way. Indeed, he referred to himself as an “outlaw Christian.”<br />
<br />
Growing up gay in North Carolina must have been difficult. His first serious affair took place in Oxford when he attended the university as a Rhodes Scholar. But he didn’t discuss this widely until he published his third memoir, <i>Ardent Spirits: Leaving Home, Coming Back</i>, in 2009. Price wanted to be called an American writer, and begrudgingly accepted the term “Southern writer.” Like that phrase, “queer writer” would have been too narrow. On <i>Charlie Rose</i> and elsewhere, he said he didn’t think Americans were that interested in queer relationships, so he didn’t write about them. When Rose brought up <i>Brokeback Mountain</i>, Price responded that the short story made a great movie, but it didn’t win a Oscar for best movie or screenplay but for best director. At his military physical, he declared himself homosexual and didn’t serve. He wasn’t in the closet, yet he didn’t write much about his personal affections. He left scholars 38 books to look into for clues.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This novel won the National Book Critics Circle Award.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was my introduction to Price's fiction. It is one long letter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The novels contain entire worlds of families and individuals left adrift and searching for mercy. He could write in male or female voices, rich or poor. I think that his otherness gave him the perceptiveness to travel around all kinds of lives.<br />
<br />
He was best known for fiction, but his second memoir, about his illness, brought him a whole new readership. I went to many readings, and the audiences seemed to be split between literary fans and fans of healing. They didn’t cross over except perhaps in sharing the quest for mercy themselves. <br />
<br />
He had a rich deep voice that could read anything. I would have traveled far to hear him if he hadn’t come to the Bay Area so often because his writing and his person conveyed compassion. Readings often bring out predictable questions, but he did not condescend and answered each question with compassion. Compassion because the person was unique even if the question was not. Compassion because every human being suffers some kind of pain.<br />
<br />
When Terry Gross asked him if life would be unbearable without faith, he replied, “I’ve never thought of that.” Later in the interview, he said, “I am a great believer in joy.” I never spoke to him, but I loved him.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are Price's three memoirs. I only wish there were going to be more.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Here are a few videos worth watching.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://video.pbs.org/video/1757619337/" target="_blank">http://video.pbs.org/video/1757619337/</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvqerqnsjHQ" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvqerqnsjHQ</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YIkaFdhDEo" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YIkaFdhDEo</a><br />
<br />
Terry Gross’s interviews can be found on <a href="http://www.npr.org/" target="_blank">www.npr.org</a>.Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6501195393167007284.post-82033010481813620842010-11-23T10:07:00.000-08:002010-11-24T10:50:39.960-08:00Storymaking - Part 1<b>An Afternoon with Michael Adams</b><br />
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Michael Adams is a quiet editor with a fierce streak. The first time I walked into his office at I noticed he had a poster that said “Fuck Bush.” Every week he volunteers at Housing Works Bookstore and it’s hard to imagine him anywhere besides Greenwich Village. His apartment is filled with books and an oversized fireplace. It is an inviting kind of sanctuary. As gay people we learn to tell stories. He told us some good ones over the course of an afternoon.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, this is the first of several interviews.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: I want to start with a little background about what Detroit was like when you were growing up.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: We lived in Royal Oak, a suburb for the auto industry. My father was not in the auto industry, but many people were. We moved there when I think I was 12, in 1959; midway between the Eisenhower and the Kennedy period, a period of transition for the country.<br />
<br />
My father was in sales and he was transferred to that territory from East Grand Rapids. Detroit was the first big city I had ever really lived near. To my eyes, it was a lovely, civilized place to live. But Detroit was very segregated. Royal Oak had no black families that I know of, so I didn't know any African-Americans. You could probably spend a lot of time there without seeing any black people. That was important because it was an unreal view of the world.<br />
<br />
Detroit had a small, manageable downtown and that's the only place I would go. My parents saw no problem with me going downtown by myself to go into Hudson's Department Store, to go record shopping, to go to the Fisher Theater, which was the big place for out-of-town musicals in those days. <br />
<br />
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<b>Interviewer: Were there black people downtown?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: There must have been, but they were very much "the other" and you didn't socialize with them; you didn't go into their neighborhoods and they didn't come into yours unless they were cleaning your house. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you have a housekeeper?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No. My mother was not one to have a housekeeper. That was all very distant from us. I didn't really know much about Martin Luther King. My parents didn't talk about it. My father was king of the racist jokes. I knew every synonym and pejorative for a black person. But that’s not what you asked about.<br />
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<b>Interviewer: I was asking about the context.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Many people say it was an innocent time, but it was a terrible time in that way.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: I assume then you didn't know any gay people?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: None.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Or even a concept of what gay meant?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I guess I learned that just by reading as much as I did and melding it with my own awareness of my own sexual preference. But from what I read I couldn't even tell you what alerted me to the fact that there were such things as homosexuals. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So when did you first begin to realize that you might be another form of the other?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: There was a definite transition because I remember being aroused and interested in female breasts from a very early age. That was sort of the heyday of Playboy and to go to the drugstore and open a centerfold was thrilling. I guess maybe you're all just a whole bundle of sexual nerves in that period. And I remember those were the days of actresses like Jayne Mansfield and Diana Dors and these big-breasted women fascinated me.<br />
<br />
Somehow along the way that transferred, but I don't remember if it was a day or a week or what it was that suddenly made me conscious. But I do remember when I was between eighth and ninth grade thinking, "Oh, high school's going to be great because I'll be able to see a lot of guys with hair coming out of their t-shirts." That is a vivid memory, but, when does something like that become conscious in your mind? I don't know. It doesn't happen, it's just gradual. And then you realize who is the object of your interest; that's what you look at.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: When you went downtown what were you shopping for? Is that linked to your growing awareness of being gay?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I would go to record stores all the time because I collected records. There was a Fabian record and he was in swim trunks. And I kept returning to that record. I'd go to show tune albums and look at the covers in the Judy Garland section, but then I'd keep coming back surreptitiously to that Fabian album, not fantasizing, but just fixated on it. And then it was like, "Well duh! This must mean something." And then I just fell into the awareness that that was my sexual preference, even though I didn't even know the mechanics of sex. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did you know what to name it?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Not really. I knew what it was because the phrase ‘latent homosexual’ came into my consciousness. I had read it somewhere, only I thought the word latent meant "seriously." I didn't think, "I've got to get out of this." I still had crushes on popular girls. There were a lot of popular girls who I had crushes on. The ones who were unavailable and maybe I was trying to force myself unconsciously to be a part of that.<br />
<br />
So there's a split going on; my lust was going one way, but another way, at least my social awareness was, "I'd like to date some of these really cool girls." And none of them were interested in me, but I befriended them because I was kind of popular in high school. Not popular for sports, but popular because I was president of the Thespians and vice president of the French club and National Honor Society and all of that.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: All that overachieving, over compensating.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Exactly. I was kind of a character. I was in the school plays and I sought to be well known, well-liked is the better phrase.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97u-1ap3JA-1HsEPX9djqFy5AgTqU-bzUMjf5mULEkboJB_v9DpqRNQB-w_R7lNRDaKarJIjYbvsd83CyE3q6tq7jzCsJQzDRUtBhBMn-AyTql4S-nPJJbg9wzEm5Ij2tuH4InPy71pc/s1600/Michael+Adams+at+Senior+potluck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97u-1ap3JA-1HsEPX9djqFy5AgTqU-bzUMjf5mULEkboJB_v9DpqRNQB-w_R7lNRDaKarJIjYbvsd83CyE3q6tq7jzCsJQzDRUtBhBMn-AyTql4S-nPJJbg9wzEm5Ij2tuH4InPy71pc/s320/Michael+Adams+at+Senior+potluck.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Adams at the Senior Potluck. 1965</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<b>Interviewer: Was there any guilt associated with those seriously homosexual feelings?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Totally, total, total, total. Guilt in the sense that I knew this was a secret I had that I could not tell anyone in my family.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Could you tell anyone?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No, I had no one. There was no one. You didn't go to the school counselor. At the same time I had the realization, I realized that this was something I would have to live with forever. I mean in those days I used to have nightmares that I would be walking down the aisle, because in those days it was like college, military, marriage. That was the thing you were on and there was no wavering from this. So I just assumed that I would have to endure those things, even though I had this very, very, very deep dark secret.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: There weren't any girlfriends in those early years?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No. In fact, a few of the best friends I had in high school I told just last year. I mean they knew I was gay, but they didn't know then, or at least they didn't know they knew. It was like, "Oh, in retrospect you probably were." But these are not girls I dated. These were girls I hung out with.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Was it a prosperous time for white middle class people in Detroit because of the car industry?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah. We were very solidly middle class and my father did well, we had a car, but our house was small. Eventually we had two cars. We didn't take vacations. We might go to somebody's house on the lake for a couple of weeks, but we were not wealthy. It was late '50s, early '60s. There was a self-satisfaction; a contentment about America's place in the world. We certainly didn't know any poor people; not poor-poor. And the guilt came from being raised Catholic. That was big time as my mother was devout. <br />
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<b>Interviewer: When did you stop going to church?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: When I went off to college. For several months into college she would ask, "Are you going to Mass?" And I'd say, "No." And then finally she said, "Look, you're an adult; do what you want as far as that's concerned."<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: But all through high school?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Mass, Mass, Mass, every Sunday.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: And Catechism and all that?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah. Because I went to a public school I had to take religious instruction, as it was called. I hated all of it. You can say you don't believe it, but when you're a Catholic, there's still something that embeds in you that you can't quite escape - ever.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: It follows you.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I think I have escaped it now, but you still think in terms of mortal sins and venial sins and heaven and hell. Sometimes when I was young I would go to sleep thinking of what eternity was like; forever and ever and ever and ever and trying in my mind thinking what that must be if you went to hell.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: As you're emerging as a sexual human being?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Horrible, horrible. But I never tried to pray my way out of it because somehow I knew that there was no prayer that was going to "cure" this. It was a matter of fact. If somebody had said, "Oh by the way, you're going to wake up tomorrow and you're going to have no arms," or whatever, you'd say, "Okay, I'll just deal with it." I mean you'd be terrified, but it was a fact. It was something like, "Oh hell, if I pray I'll grow two more arms." No. I knew that this is what I was.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: There was no changing that?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No. There wasn't this mechanism that was going to change it.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Tell us what you can about the troubles in high school.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: My best friend was a guy named Ron and basically he brought me out. We met in gym class because we both hated gym and we started going to the movies. You spend a lot of time together; stuff comes up. And, again, it was even hard to talk about with a peer because the culture made it very clear and my family made it very clear that effeminacy was wrong and bad because of what it represented usually, which was this unnamed sexual deviancy.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So it wasn't even named.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No, not in my family, no. No one ever said, "Be very wary of the strange man who comes and offers you candy." I never had any of that. It just was that even as a little kid I was chided if I did anything the least bit effeminate. It was very clear that effeminacy was bad and to be cured for want of a better word. The only cultural references we had were all bad.<br />
<br />
On television [the comic] Ernie Kovacs had a character called Percy Dovetonsils, who was a very effete poet. He had a little mustache. He had little pursed lips and was, to my parents, hilarious. But the subtext was he's hilarious because he's a freak. He wasn't called a homosexual, but it was alluded to, and to anybody who knew, that was what he was doing. He was an object of ridicule. He was funny because of that. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: You get these signals.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Very early on those signals were clear; this is not something that's good.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So the story begins with Ron?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: He basically brought me out because we started talking about it and it got to the point of like, "Well if you had a football team and had to do whatever you wanted, what would you do?" And we talked about taking pictures of them naked, but that was only if we were queer this is what we would do kind of stuff.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So hypothetically if, if, if.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: We were playing this game with each other and he was the one who finally gave in and said, "By the way, you know I am homosexual." Again, the terminology is a little fuzzy to me because I don't know when "gay" became the word. But actually it was around that time that we probably started using it, but we might have said homosexual. I don't know if we ever said queer. Anyway, he finally admitted to me. He said, "You know I have to tell you I am," and --<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: How old are you?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I was 15 or 16.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: And he was the same age?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yes. And that's when reality hit home. I remember leaving that conversation, whatever we were doing, going home; lying down on my bed, turning hot, turning cold. Just like okay, now it's all been back here in my head, but now it's real. Now somebody has actually said that. You didn't have the courage to say to him, "Me, too," but that will come in time. He went on to try to seduce me and succeeded in New York City the week we saw the original production of Funny Girl. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: And by then it's still the same period of time approximately?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: It's the summer between my junior and senior year in high school. It was the week before my 17th birthday.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So then what happens? How do you name yourself?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: There were still vestiges of not totally owning up to it, primarily because there was the Catholic guilt going on and because I wasn't totally in love with him. Whether or not that was because he was gay and he loved me or it was because under any circumstances that wouldn’t have been my choice I don’t know. But he was the only outlet I knew. In those days there wasn't a gay/lesbian alliance at high school where you could attend a meeting. <br />
<br />
As far as I knew he was the only one in the world that I knew. He was much more sophisticated than I was. By the age of 17 he was out and going to the bars in Detroit. He was going down to Toledo where you could, at the age of 18, legally drink what they called near beer. He was definitely adventurous in ways that I never could be. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: That was bold for those days.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I still wasn't ready to come out, but he prompted me. He introduced me to gay guys that he knew from Detroit.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Young also?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yes. We would be driving around Detroit and some guy would beep at him in a car and he'd say, "Oh yeah, there's Ralph. He's a famous rim-queen." And that's when I said, "What's that?" And then he told me and it was like, "No, no, nobody can do it." I was very naïve about a lot of that stuff. <br />
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<b>Interviewer: So where does that lead in terms of the troubles that happened?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: So he was trying to convince me that there had to be homosexuals in the school.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Besides the two of you.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Exactly. He was like, "It's common sense that we're not the only two." So then he pointed out this really attractive guy who was on the football team and said, "I have a feeling he is." I mean he would say this to me in a department store when a guy was helping me try on a sweater and said something and then we left and Ron said, "I think he's one of us, and that sort of thing. And I would like, "Huh? Really? What? Why?" <br />
<br />
So he was pushing me towards… he was like, "Okay, if I can't have you," -- because he was ostensibly in love with me and wanted me to be his boyfriend, but basically he said, "Well if I can't have you, I'll at least get you out in the world and let you leave the nest," sort of thing. So then he pointed to this guy and he said, "You know we're going to have to be very cagy. Let's start sending him letters." So we sent him gay love letters.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Together? </b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Together. I wrote them because I was on the school newspaper.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: A career foretold.</b> <br />
<br />
Michael Adams: We would leave him signals and ask him to leave signals that he was getting our letters and understanding what we meant and kind of complying.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: But you didn't identify who you were?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Not until the very last. Finally we thought we've got to bring this to a head, no pun intended. We needed to make contact with him.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did he respond? </b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Did he respond to your letters by doing what you asked him to do?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Well I think there were a couple things like, "If you're interested, wear such-and-such on Thursday," and he did.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: And he did?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yes, yes. But he was also delivering the letters to his football coach who was taking them to the principal.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Of course.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: So we were ultimately caught.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Entrapment.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Is it entrapment when we start the whole ball rolling? I don't think so. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Now do you think he was following the cues out of some plan to try to trap you?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Yes, not in response to the attention?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Oh no, no, no, no, no. We're probably lucky that he didn't meet us and beat the shit out of us.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Were both of you signing the letters?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No, no, no. It was ostensibly under one person doing it because we thought two people doing it would have been too weird. Like this wasn’t, weird enough. Yeah, we thought that it would make more sense, but the fact that both of us were involved was a saving grace because then my parents were able to say to themselves, "Well it was just like this little prank that two kids do." It wasn't like one kid going crazy with lust for another. Do you know what I mean?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So how explicit were the letters?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: You know it's funny because in doing this, I really think I blocked them out of my mind, out of real shame that I did such a thing.<br />
<br />
The letters were more purple than they were anything else. A friend says we should put me under hypnosis to see if I can recall the letters. But I remember one line that was something like, "If the Greeks had a god of something or other, masculinity or something, you would be it," or some ridiculous piece of crap. But it was that sort of adolescent prose from one who read too many books. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So what happens? What is the final thing that gets you caught?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: We had to decide whose name and number were going to be on the letter and in my greedy little way I decided I had to get the reward because I was doing all the work by writing the letters. Talk about hoist on your own petard. So we put my first name and my phone number.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So your home phone number?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yep. We were actually also communicating with him by telephone.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Already? </b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah, well along the way. So, again, all of that is really fuzzy. Did this last six weeks? Did it last a week? I don't know. But there were some communications. I think we would actually call his home and ask for him and talk to him.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So then what happens? The principal then calls you? Or you get called in?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I got called out of history class around 11:00 o'clock in the morning. I remember that vividly. I think it was a Friday. The principal tells me nothing. He asked me questions like, "Do you go to church?" And it was a very short drive from the high school to my home, but we drove in his car and it was like I knew what this was all about, but I thought, "No, no, it can't be." And the cinematic moment that was absolutely true is that he turned the corner, and he was carrying a manila folder, and as we turned the corner the manila folder spills out all the letters that I had written. They were in the folder.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Onto the seat?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Right between us. They were in between us. That’s when my imagination went into overdrive and I thought like Lucy Ricardo, "How do I get out of this one?" My mother was home. He took me in and they sent me to the other room. He showed her the letters and my father was called home from work and he basically said, "If it turns out you're gay, you will no longer be allowed in this school." I don't think he used the word gay. I'm not sure, but "If this turns out to be true..."<br />
<br />
And that's when I said, "I know what this looks like, but I did this" -- and again, I'm not sure when I brought Ron in to kind of bolster my case, but I said, "I was seeking revenge on somebody who humiliated me in front of a girl I liked." Fast thinking, right?<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Incredible. You thought this up on the spot?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I did. I remember sitting in front of the TV while we were waiting for my dad to come home watching some game show or something, staring at the TV and thinking, "Alright, well it's got to involve a girl." And I had like five minutes to concoct this story. And it bought me time. Because I knew that any admission of guilt would get me thrown out of the school. In the fall of my senior year when I have all these irons in the fire in school; where I was in my own little way a big boy on campus. They would have sent me to the Shrine of the Little Flower High School, a Catholic high school. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Shrine of the Little Flower?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Exactly, exactly. Where I could have had an affair with a priest. The priest is just sitting there waiting for the guys they send over from the public schools because they're queer boys. I knew that was not possible for me in my life. I could not imagine how I would explain that to my friends. I had to get out of it. I had to lie my way out of it, but there was never a moment when I thought I'll just say, "Yes, I'm having those feelings. Help me." Impossible, impossible.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So you cook up this story in the few minutes it takes your dad to come home?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: They must have known that you were lying. </b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: They believed you?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah, because they wanted to. And the principal said, "Well that's all well and good, but you're not going to be allowed back in school until a psychiatrist gives you his seal of approval."<br />
<br />
So I was kept out of school for several days and the principal said, "We'll tell the school that you're out looking at colleges," which people did occasionally. They would take tours of prospective colleges. "And then you'll be allowed back in when the psychiatrist gives his okay."<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So then did you call your friend Ron and say, "This is the deal."?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: No, strangely enough. He called me. Our phone was in the family room where everybody could hear and I pick up the phone and it's Ron and he says, "I'm ready. I have rope, I have poison, I have whatever." He was ready to do a dual suicide. Now was he just being dramatic or was he serious? Probably a little of both, but he really thought the jig was up and we'd have to kill ourselves. Maybe he thought that was, again, totally romantic. I don't know. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: It’s unreal.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Here I was on the phone with both my parents in the room going, "I think I've got this covered, just don't do anything. I think we're going to be okay with this one." I don't know how I didn't crack under the pressure.<br />
<br />
My parents hated Ron anyway. That's when I said to them, "Look, I didn't do this alone, but I don't want to bring Ron into it. I don't think it's fair." And they were okay with that. But as I said, it allowed them to think, "Well two kids kind of being prankish and mischievous or revengeful is better than having one freakish son."<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Right.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: So that helped them.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Talk about the psychiatrist. Do you remember that? What happened?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: I couldn't tell you what he looked like. So much is just a blank. Did my father take me? Did he wait outside? I don't remember any of that. But I do remember, again, thinking, "Alright, I've read enough about homosexuality to know it's all about loving your mother and hating your father." So I just kind of flipped them and said how much I admired my father and how much time we spent together. I didn't condemn my mother, but it was like she was not so present. I just created this whole thing.<br />
<br />
Recently I've had a revelation about that though. I'll never know because I've gone through my life thinking this was the dumbest shrink in all history in that he took my word for it, because he reported back to school, "No, he's not gay. He's not a homosexual." I think he said, "He has the capacity for self-punishment," or something like that. But I got a clean bill of health. Somehow just in talking it out I’ve thought, "Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe I didn't fool him for a minute." But he knew the consequences. Maybe he was gay himself. Or at least he was compassionate enough not to humiliate me. Now he's a hero. <br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So you get this sort of clearance, so to speak. And you go back to school. What happens with the football player? Does he just ignore you then and does everything just kind of go on?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yes. He deserves a lot of credit because according to the principal, if Steve, which was his name, spread the story, I'd still be out. All Steve would have had to say is, "Hey, you know that guy over there?" However, I think Steve would not have wanted to tell anyone that he was the object of some young boy's lust.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Right. It would indict him.</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Exactly. That's my five-cent psychological guess as to why he didn’t say anything. When you're that age in that era you know nothing about homosexuality. And he probably wondered, "Why me? Did they see something in me?"<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: Do they know something?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yeah. Because it seems like nobody went to him and said, "Well the story is that you humiliated him in front of a girl and that's what this is all about." So nobody was like weighing evidence.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So in buying yourself time, then that gave everybody kind of what they wanted; which was for it to all go away?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: Yes. Strangely Steve, the football player, started dating a woman that I was really close to.<br />
<br />
She and I were talking and he came to pick her up or something and then just walked away. And she said something like, "Steve doesn't like you. I don't get it. Everybody likes you, but he doesn't seem to like you." But again, if he had opened his mouth I would have been in deep shit. And to his credit he didn’t say anything. I think it was shameful for him, too.<br />
<br />
<b>Interviewer: So what did your parents say to you as all of this is going on?</b><br />
<br />
Michael Adams: We were not a communicative family. Like a good trial lawyer, you don't ask your child questions you don’t want the answer to.<br />
<br />
So they said nothing. I mean they didn't say, "Have you ever had these thoughts?" Because I hung out with so many girls they were able to convince themselves that I was straight. I didn't have a steady, but not everybody did. I went to the prom with a girl. There are none so blind as those who will not see and that was written all over their faces. You don't want your kid to be queer, so you accept any scrap of evidence to prove that he isn't. So it was just like this chill in the air for a long, long time.<br />
<br />
What's important to say, it was the time. Families did not have gay children. Gay people were the scum of the earth. They were in dark corners. They were waiting to jump at you perhaps, although, again nobody ever warned me that that was the case. Then, it was all best left unsaid.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU_YGTUupEEv-NQz3tIqfpW5inE_7aU4tdYhPtqp7_uaAPpfTr3-UTg9Viw9falqpi5_w8BowseV7oDbS3gE8wv44XUBPiO7h1pJidab_LbhhTczO4T2gvydYEdV-Q35NYpoyDwei3C4o/s1600/Michael+Adams+yearbook+photo+1965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU_YGTUupEEv-NQz3tIqfpW5inE_7aU4tdYhPtqp7_uaAPpfTr3-UTg9Viw9falqpi5_w8BowseV7oDbS3gE8wv44XUBPiO7h1pJidab_LbhhTczO4T2gvydYEdV-Q35NYpoyDwei3C4o/s1600/Michael+Adams+yearbook+photo+1965.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Adams Senior photo, 1965</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kenneth Caldwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877278524477312027noreply@blogger.com2