Friday night I have a quite dinner with Scott and his boyfriend Michel at Village Restaurant a charming low-key delicious place to eat, where I have been going for several years thanks to Kim Hastreiter. I was delighted to learn on this visit was a frequent haunt of Mae West, funny how we unknowingly and naturally gravitate to these cultural hot spots, the bar had been all dressed up for celebrating her Birthday August 20th, as it turns out she lived up stairs and patronized this location when it was Paul & Joe’s a gay cabaret. It inspired Mae to write her controversial play “THE DRAG,” a work that kicked New York’s legal machinery into gear on 9 February 1927. Mae spent that evening in Jefferson Market Police Court and was forced to stay overnight in Jefferson Market Jail. I was told she used many of the drag performers from that bar in her play.
Saturday morning I met up with Lori aka Leroi The Girl Boi and her girlfriend Nash for breakfast and to head up to The Met to see the Anglomaina show before it closed. I apologized to Lori for not having made it out to her performance at the Friday night opening party for the NYBF. She was understanding and told me about he performance and shared what she felt were some of the highlights, Rosewood and Bambi the Mermaid in her new Lobster Act inspired by the passing of her late husband Larry. We had a sweet visit and caught up on life while eating at Mogador. Four men who were of some Middle Eastern origin were sharing a great looking meal of cous cous with lamb, as I got up I felt the need to share with them that their meal looked tasty, their reply was that I looked pretty tasty myself. I felt appreciate of that, as my eyes were inevitably puffy from crying over our loss of Adam. As we walked out from breakfast I decided I was not in the right frame of mind or ready to perform so I called Angie Pontani to ask her to pull me out of the line up for the Festival that night. I felt badly, but instantly relieved and knew I had made the right decision. Nash, Lori and I head up to The Met after picking up a supply of their favorite teas and coffee at some purveyors of such on Saint Marks on the south side of the street that I was too in a daze to make note of what it was called. It was raining again as it had been since Friday night and it was no ordinary rain this was a deluge, the residue of a tropical storm. As we move on a Big Apple Tour Bus drives up 1st Avenue and the people on the top in the open car were shrouded in deposable rain coats with hoods that made them eerily appeared like a fleet of Grand Wizards of the KKK or would that be gaggle?
The Anglomania show was enchanting and beautiful; though it felt it was badly lit. Maybe my 46 year old eyes don’t take in the light like they used to, but it was very murky and I felt I was missing out on quite a few details due to the lack of lighting. The wigs were amazing, just what I have been looking for, for a new act I have been developing since last October that requires a Madam de Pompadour coif. Westwood was gorgeous as ever and the Mohawks were over the top, they were made of tampons, cigarettes, newspaper, shoe soles and so on. I was told later that the show was censored and it made me curious what they took out. Maybe that will be revealed in the catalogue that is to come out in October, rather odd as the show closed this last Sunday. I guess someone missed his or her deadline? There were several stunning images, like the Raven ball gown vignette, hunting scene, and foppish and stately men’s wear. It was a very small show and I could have seen several more rooms of displays. The take was a juxtaposition of old and modern Anglo fashion, mixed in with antique Anglomania furniture and knickknacks. Maybe it was the time period that inspired the lighting but I still feel it should have been brighter.
When we left the rain was sideways and quite dramatic the girls headed downtown and I over to wander down Madison Avenue in the down pour to look for some new pants, a coat and possibly some shoes, as I have not packed correctly for this trip and will have nothing to wear that is dry at this rate or that is warm enough for this challenging weather. But I have to admit I did find the dramatic weather satisfying as it fit my inner broody mood.
As I had decided to not perform that night it meant I could attend the going away party for my old friend John Kelly who is leaving town to go paint in Rome for 10 months, he was awarded the Rome scholarship to The American Academy in Rome. He will be working on a series inspired by Caravaggio. The last time I was in NYC in May we had had lunch at the Cupping Room (another old haunt that was around the corner from the loft I moved into in the late fall of 82 on Canal Street) and he was waiting to hear if he had been accepted. I suggested that he write into his stipend a budget for hustlers as Caravaggio had often used street urchins and hustler as his models, it would put an authentic twist to the whole thing. We discussed Brian Butterick and Kestutis Nakas book project about The Pyramid Club and I expressed how I would love to help facilitate a reunion of use remaining cast of characters. We could share photos and tape interviews and help rekindle memories that are buried deep inside our craniums, ahh but I am getting distracted once again.
I arrived at the party around 8:30 it was at The Chelsea at his friend Scott apartment. (I lived at The Chelsea when I first moved to NYC in the summer of 82 when I was attending classes at ICP before I enrolled there full time later that fall.) The lobby has changed over the years and is more cram packed with art and the lighting is much brighter. I head up to the 9th floor and into a beautiful apartment with an impressive collection of modern photography included several pieces by the man who created “Piss Christ” whose name escapes me at the moment. One is of the Virgin Mary and Jesus and the other The Infant of Prague, and a fascination large format photo of a nude woman holding a horse cock, after a pee I assume. Several of John’s friends are in attendance all who are of interest in their own right as artists, producers, publishers, creative directors, directors, opera singers, fellow performance artists and a few of Scott’s friends are tossed in. I notice that Scott has a Rene Ricard on the wall and inquire if they are friends, it turns out that they are and that Rene may actually come down and join in the party later (he lives a few floors up) I am quite excited by this as I have not seen him in person for many years, quite possibly the last time was at Terence Sellers, when she still had her apartment on Spring Street, that could easily be 10 years ago. John and I catch up and talk about his impeding journey. In the dining room area the bar is set up and there are a few things to nibble, mac & cheese, and two stacks of White Castle burgers one stack with cheese one without. It is here that I meet John’s friend Paul who is in the midst of discussing what happened to the leather scene in NYC, and I am all ears, we hit if off, right off the bat and spent much of the evening discovering the many mutual connections we have included Rick Castro who we are both working on up coming exhibits with, Paul’s- Modern Heretics, mine -Burlesque.
Back in the living room I speak with two women who travel to Seattle frequently to work with the Seattle Opera one as a director the other a singer, me being the wretch I am, cannot remember their names and I will have to shoot John an e-mail to correct that. On the baby grand piano I see a copy of Claudio Edinger’s book Chelsea Hotel and flip through it. He was staying at the Chelsea the same time I was ( 1982) , he actually shot some pictures of me that apparently ended up on a dark room floor. It seems like this whole trip is about reminiscing and remembering the many different time periods I have shared with NY. The photo’s get me thinking about Rene again so I ask Scott about where I need to go to scare him up, Scott is still talking to the women whose names I cannot recall which leads to us trying to describe Rene to them. It did not go well and they seem skeptical of the value and of my fascination with what I consider a genius of man who lives a debauched hedonistic life, chasing rough trade taggers, who has a considerable drug habit, is a art critic, poet and artist of his own right. I love Rene and quite fondly remember the times in the 80′s when we would head over to The Eagle very late at night to shoot pool and drink more. He always said I was good bait, but I digress; so I get Rene’s apartment number and go see if I can coax Rene out of his cavern.
I arrive at his door and it is classic Ricard! There are several notes taped to his door and the floor, of course I read them as they are not in envelopes (that seems some what legitimate), the one on the door is an apology, the ones on the floor pertain to some film shoot he is supposed to be at and details of call times and such. But it was the sounds coming from the other side of the door that were so Rene to me, wild caterwauling meets vocalizing, and the moths that keep circling around and around. I ponder what state he is in and if I am game to interact in his for the time being, private madness. I decide yes, I knock and I knock and I tell him it is me, I wait and I wait and I knock but I am unable to distract him or gain his attention from his private world of what sounds rather hellish at the moment.
I want to share one of my favorite poems by Rene from “God With Revolver”.
LAUNDRY
We fucked
so much
everything
I own has
come stains
I return back down stairs and announce my defeat.
I spend the rest of the evening curled up on a sofa with John and Paul talking and laughing. Paul gave John one of his eggs that is made in the style he learned from, if I remember correctly, his Ukrainian Grand mother. He has added to the process several layers of lacquer and fills the eggs with sand. It is very satisfying to hold the egg, the weight, the smoothness and the sound that it makes when you gently shake it. Paul invites me to an opening on Thursday for the artist Vess Pitts who he has modeled for.
Monday I wander around and incidentally meet up with Joey Arias on a street corner, I feel like I was guided to him. He introduces me to his hairdresser Steven Knoll who I have been hearing about for so long. They are discussing Joey’s haircut that he is to have the following day. It seems like haircuts are a theme this week too. Several of the people I encounter this week have cut off considerable amounts of hair including myself. Joey and I take a stroll through the West Village and run into Justin Bond who is enjoying a much-needed day off from his show that is now on Broadway, and causing a considerable stir. He shares with us how his mother is handling all the media attention that Justin is receiving and the accusations of blasphemy against the church and so on, and how she is negotiating the political waters with her old friends and very conservative neighbors down in the D.C. area.
Later I meet up with Andy Reynolds and we sit in Tompkins Park and visit and then later walk over to 9th and C to meet Adam’s parents who are just outside of his, I guess former apartment. It is rather odd and more odd than I feel is polite to get into now. His parents are lovely and we learn to what extent Adam’s pre existing heart condition has played into his far to early death. It does help to know why Adam is gone, but does not really make it any easier accept. I think that makes sense? We walk them over to A7 where they are meeting Micky and Bruce, we all decided that we need to have a celebration of Adam and his contributions to our lives and settle on early November so his friends across the pond can be part of it too. Andy and I spend the rest of the evening watching “The Killing” and “Sudden Fear”.
Tuesday night I briefly stop by Happy Valley where Sister Dimension is giving a performance. Billy Beyond was a barker for the very burlesque meets drag performance that Sister gave, it was quite entertaining and lasted about 10 – 15 minutes. There was a whole tribe of the new young kids on the block, out for this long awaited performance, it has been about 10 years since Sister has done a full on act, it was also Sister’s Birthday and several if the who’s who of our generation are in attendance, well the ones who have returned from their late summer hiatuses out in the Hampton’s, Fire Island, or Province Town. The young creatures of the night were turned out in tribal desert glamour, head shrouds and wraps, with sunglasses and prefect makeup. I dash out after his performance and proper adulation and head back to Tom’s. I wonder if I am going to see Tom on this trip, as he keeps delaying his return from P-Town, everyday he has a new reason not to come back.
