Monday, July 4, 2016

Joe Gould's Teeth by Jill Lepore

July 4, 2016

On Jill Lepore’s Joe Gould’s Teeth…Deconstructing the Myths of Joe Gould and Joe Mitchell

By Dylan Foley

Less than a year after the Harvard historian and writer Jill Lepore published an epic New Yorker article on the Greenwich Village eccentric and writer Joe Gould and his relationship with the New Yorker writer Joseph Mitchell, she published a book version of the piece called Joe Gould’s Teeth. Getting the slim volume in the mail from the Knopf publicist, I thought it was going to be a lightly buffed up version of the article in book form.

I could not have been more wrong. In Joe Gould’s Teeth, Lepore has written an engrossing portrait of the “last bohemian” writer Joe Gould, who came to New York from the Boston suburbs in the teens of the last century, was part of the counterculture of 1920’s Greenwich Village, then stayed for the next 30 years, as a quirky leftover, cadging money for his Oral History of the World.

Ransacking university libraries and archives around the country, Lepore goes through Joe Gould’s extensive paper trail, letters asking for money, letters showing that he was a willing participant in the eugenics movement of the teens and ‘20’s, letters attacking various writers in New York.

Lepore turns her formidable academic mind to the story of Joe Gould and comes up with a meticulously researched, fluid story of Gould’s turbulent life in New York and Joe Mitchell’s two very different profiles of Gould.

In 1942, Mitchell published his New Yorker profile “Professor Sea Gull,” which created an endearing portrait of a semi-homeless intellectual trying to create a massive oral history, recording the speech of the common man and woman, in all their banal glory. Mitchell’s piece made Gould a Village celebrity. He was given a free meal at the Minetta Tavern (as long as he ordered a cheap pasta) so he could write in the window, showing off a real bohemian to the tourists who came down.

Gould lived off handouts from friends and acquaintances. In Mitchell’s 1942 profile, Gould claimed that he could speak to seagulls, and he lived off a tomato soup he made from hot water and tomato ketchup stolen from diner counters.  He aggressively solicited donations to write this history.

In “Professor Sea Gull,” Mitchell recounts that the proprietor of a 6th Avenue bar named Goody’s would give out free drinks to Gould and the down-and-out poet Maxwell Bodenheim, who hated each other. The two fallen literatis would rip into each other with zestful viciousness for the entertainment of Goody’s patrons.

Mitchell, a failed novelist, whitewashed the story of Joe Gould in the 1942 profile, covering up the fact that he had been arrested numerous times for groping women on the street and had been saved at one point from commitment to a mental hospital by the famed poets e.e. cummings and Ezra Pound, who wrote letters in his support. (Both poets were well-known anti-Semites.)

Lepore also details Joe Gould’s hounding of Augusta Savage, a sculptor from the South who had become one of the major movers of the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920’s. Gould pursued her so relentlessly, implied Lepore, that she left Harlem and became a subsistence farmer near Woodstock, N.Y. Or as Lepore also notes, Savage may have fled Manhattan because she may have been unmasked as an FBI informant, spying on her fellow African-American artists.

(Joseph Mitchell, 1989)
Every young aspiring journalist should read the work of Joseph Mitchell, including his titanic profiles in McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon, like “The Old House at Home” (the great McSorley’s essay) and “King of the Gypsies.” Raised on a tobacco farm in North Carolina, Mitchell adopted the manner of a country writer, still enamored by the big city ever since he arrived in 1929.

While Joe Mitchell’s 1942 article “Professor Sea Gull” develops the eccentric bohemian’s striving for the impossible task of an oral history of the world, his posthumous view of Gould in 1964 was a much more searing portrait, revealing Mitchell’s view that the Oral History of the World only existed in Gould’s mind.

Mitchell compared Gould’s failure to write the oral history with his own failure to write a novel on North Carolina he had written in his own mind. Despite having become the New Yorker’s foremost profile writer, he compared himself to Gould by saying, “He is me.”

According to Thomas Kunkel, Mitchell’s biographer, the death of Mitchell’s father and his close friend the New Yorker writer Joe Liebling in 1963 and the intense reporting and writing of “Joe Gould’s Secret” helped plunge Mitchell in a deep depression that made the Gould profile his last published work at the New Yorker. He went to the office for the last three decades of his life and devised several profiles that were never published.

Lepore recounts that after his second profile of Gould, Mitchell received number of letters from friends and benefactors of Joe Gould, including people who had many of Gould’s notebooks in their possession, indicating that a substantial part of the oral history may have existed. Mitchell gave his correspondents the polite brushoff, as his recently released letters archived at the New York Public Library indicate.

Despite Mitchell’s brilliant writing skills, Lepore points out that a posthumous examination of his writing has shown that Mitchell often made up composites of characters to move a story along, and invented characters when it was useful for a piece. The fact-checking rigor of the 1940’s New Yorker were also not as ironbound as those of the modern New Yorker.

One senses towards the end of Lepore’s slim volume on Joe Gould that she is exasperated and by her subject. As she takes down the legend of Gould the genial eccentric, she replaces this with a more toxic view of the man—a serial groper, a man who hounded and undermined the career of a prominent and talented sculptress and who may have destroyed Joseph Mitchell’s ability to write publishable material.

Gould’s end was grim. After a concussion, in the early 1950’s he eventually wound up at Pilgrim State Hospital on Long Island. This is where Gould’s story takes a grim turn. The director Dr. Harry Worthing was a gleeful practitioner of lobotomies from 1945 to the mid-1950’s. He published a study of 350 lobotomies performed in his hospital, a procedure often done on rebellious or violent patients. Gould may have been patient case #231.

Though she can’t confirm that Gould was lobotomized, she found a published case study of a 57-year-old man who had physically resisted shock therapy. The lobotomy made the patient more compliant and stopped his prolific letter writing.

Gould died in 1957 at Pilgrim. The director sent out a telegram, asking that his body be claimed. Mitchell, whose original profile of Gould put him on the Greenwich Village map as a bohemian eccentric, was asked to give a eulogy for Gould. He declined, saying that he was going to be out of town. e.e cummings did not attend the memorial service, and the famed editor Malcolm Cowley was a no-show, as well.

The packed service on August 23, 1957 was covered by the fledgling Village Voice. Reporter Dan Balaban wrote that the service, for Gould at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home on the Upper East Side was financed by Campbell and the local Village Lions Club president, a Grove Street lawyer who was one of Gould’s long-time benefactors. In his coffin, Gould was neatly arranged looking like a little wax doll, with a trimmed beard and make up covering a famous scar on his forehead. With the more famous friends of Joe Gould like William Saroyan missing, the ceremony was attended by about 80 people, including some surviving bohemians from the 1920s, younger hipsters and members of the Lions Club.

Gould was buried in Ferncliff Cemetery, in Hartsdale, N.Y. According to a Village Voice article from 2000, the grave is still unmarked.  After Gould’s funeral, the Lions Club donated $100 to start a scholarship fund under Joe Gould’s name at NYU. No trace of the scholarship today exists.

Here is the link to Jill Lepore's original article:

Friday, May 27, 2016

Missing Neal Cassady Letter Found! Gerd Stern Cleared of Beat Libel!

The real story behind the long-lost, drug-fuelled ‘Holy Grail’ letter that inspired On The Road

National Post (Canada)


Neal Cassady (left) with fellow Beat figure Jack Keourac. Cassady was a central character in the novel On the Road
Wikimedia Commons Neal Cassady (left) with fellow Beat figure Jack Keourac. Cassady was a central character in the novel On the Road.

Beat movement figure Gerd Stern carried the blame for 60 years for losing a 16,000-word typewritten letter, about to go up for auction, that inspired the revolutionary style of Jack Kerouac’s celebrated novel, On the Road.

The 1950 drug-fuelled letter, written by Beat legend Neal Cassady and valued at more than $500,000, was thrown overboard on Stern’s California houseboat.

Or at least that’s the story Kerouac told the press.

“It appeared in various literary journals and it was annoying,” says Stern, now 87.

“I never thought that I had destroyed it.”

Gerd Stern / The Beat Museum
Gerd Stern / The Beat Museum Stern in 1963. The Beat figure was blamed for over 60 years for losing Cassady's letter

Stern, a poet and artist who was connected to the writers known as the Beat Generation, was finally vindicated in 2012 when the long-lost letter was found in the home of a man unconnected to both Kerouac and Stern.

“The reason they are so interested in the letter is that it’s one of the few remaining artifacts that has been brooded about for all those years,” Stern said.

Christie’s recently announced the letter will be up for auction on June 16 in New York and estimates its value between $523,500 and $785,250.

Christie's / AP
Christie's / AP16,000-word typewritten letter from Cassady to Kerouac was thought to be lost for over 60 years

Cassady’s 18-page letter to Kerouac describes a drunken and sexually charged visit to his hometown of Denver, Colorado. The honest and fluid nature of the single-spaced, double-sided document directly influenced Kerouac’s prose.

“I got the idea for the spontaneous style of On the Road from seeing how good old Neal Cassady wrote his letters to me, all first person, fast, mad, confessional, completely serious, all detailed, with real names in his case, however (being letters),” Kerouac told the Paris Review in 1968.

“I got the flash from his style.”

The novel-esque letter, known as the Joan Anderson Letter for its description of a brief romantic encounter with a woman, was apparently completed during a three-day writing binge while Cassady was high on Benzedrine.

“He was a speed freak,” Stern said of Cassady.

Kerouac told the Paris Review he passed the exceptional letter on to friend and Beat poet Allen Ginsberg, who then loaned it to Stern. Kerouac believed Stern lost the letter over the side of his boat, forever gone at sea.

“Allen shouldn’t have been so careless with it, nor the guy on the houseboat,” Kerouac told the Paris Review.

Tom Palumbo / Handout
Tom Palumbo / Handout Kerouac's writing style was directly influenced by the letter's honest and fluid nature.

But Stern says the story was a lie conjured up by Ginsberg.

“It was Allen’s conclusion. Allen was mischievous,” Stern said.

Ginsberg had mailed the letter to Golden Goose Press in San Francisco, with the hopes of getting it published. Instead, it sat unopened — buried among other unread submissions — until the publishing house closed down. It was about to be thrown out, until an operator of a music label, who shared an office with the publisher, took all the archived documents home with him. His daughter, Jean Spinosa, uncovered the letter while cleaning out her late father’s house in 2012.

Spinosa, a Los Angeles performance artist, took the letter to Joe Maddalena, owner of auction house Profiles in History, to authenticate it.
It’s just as significant as the original scroll version of Kerouac’s manuscript of On the Road
“I wasn’t terribly impressed with it when I read it; it’s about an affair that Neal had, and no one has ever been able to identify who the woman was,” Stern said of the letter.

“He had quite a few affairs.”

Jerry Cimino, founder and director of the Beat Museum in San Fransisco, said the letter is “literally the holy grail of the Beat Generation.”

“We’ve all been hearing about this thing for 60 years, and it was considered lost, it was considered destroyed, and nobody really ever read the whole thing,” Cimino said.

“It’s just as significant as the original scroll version of Kerouac’s manuscript of On the Road.”
AFPThe original scroll manuscript of Kerouac's On The Road. The scroll was bought for US$2.4 million by James Irsay in 2001

The letter was first put up for auction in 2014, but was taken off after both Cassady and Kerouac’s estates claimed ownership. The estates have since reached an amicable settlement, allowing the letter to once again go on the market.

Cassady’s influence on Kerouac and Ginsberg was perhaps his biggest contribution to the Beat movement, said Gord Beveridge, literary expert and professor at the University of Winnipeg.

“He was a muse. Allen Ginsberg refers to Cassady as ‘the hero of On the Road’,” he said.
On the Road character Dean Moriarty was based on Cassady, who died in 1968. Cassady’s travels with Beat figures including Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs was the basis of Kerouac’s 1957 novel.

“He is certainly important with his relationships to the Beat writers, but even at the end, he and Kerouac did not get on at all,” Beveridge said.

“They had nothing much to say to each other when they met again just before Kerouac died.”
Being such a critical document to Beat scholars and literary lovers, Cimino said he hopes the letter will eventually be on public display. Cimino has even spoken to a few potential donors about raising enough money to purchase the letter for the museum.

“We would love to have it here…. This is the type of thing people ought to visit.” Cimino said.
But despite the letter saga, Stern continued to be a part of the Beat scene and knew Allen for the rest of his life.

“I wasn’t fond of either Jack or Neal. I was a little bit fonder of Allen.”

Stern said he will be attending the auction in June. 

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Patti Bown, Singer and Pianist. The Long-Form Interview

Patti Bown, Pianist and Singer, died in 2008 at 76.

Patti Bown was a native of Seattle and began playing the piano when she was two years old. Bown attended the University of Seattle on a music scholarship. She moved to New York in the mid-1950’s. In her distinguished career as a pianist and singer, she had played with many of the greats, from Dinah Washington to Quincy Jones. In 1958, Bown came out with her album “Patti Bown Plays Big Piano”(Columbia). The next year, she traveled through Europe, performing with Quincy Jones’ orchestra. She returned to the United States to work on the Sammy Davis Jr. musical “Free and Easy,” which failed to make it to Broadway.

In the early 1960s, Bown worked for the singer Sarah Vaughn as her musical arranger. She played piano in thr orchestra pits of Broadway musicals and wrote music for film and TV.  Bown moved into Westbeth, the artists’ colony in the West Village in 1973.

I interviewed Patti Bown in her apartment several years before she died. Ms. Bown had been crippled by several accidents and when I met her, she was bedridden and had a full-time home-care attendant who was coached to answer the phone, "Miss Bown's residence." The apartment was stuffed with boxes and Ms. Bown regaled me with a loop of stories from her bed, tooting her own achievements as a pianist and jazz singer and her battles with racism and sexism in the music world.

I met a second Patti Bown when I came back with the photographer to take her portrait for the exhibit. She was gleefully nasty, telling the same stories and keeping myself and the photographer hostage for three hours as she did her make up and moved at a glacial speed. She wanted the company.

Patti Bown died in March 2008, in a nursing home in Pennsylvania, far from her beloved Village. Here's an excerpt from our 2005 interview

My dream was to be here in New York. My mother didn’t want me to be in the nightclubs.                                                                                                    
I was the youngest of six girls.. We all had perfect pitch.  We could hear anything and play it. I made up my mind that I couldn’t do it in Seattle. I had to do it in New York.

I came here in 1954 or ’55. It takes a while for the union to let me play. I had these weird jobs. These old guys would book me into nightclubs where old businessmen would try to grab me, I’d slug them and be out of work.

Dinah Washington and I never had a rehearsal together. We went to Asbury Park. She called me. She used to call her Chrysler the Blue Beetle. “The Blue Beetle is coming to pick you up and we are going to Asbury Park.” She talked in the car. She sang and my perfect pitch told me what key she wanted. Quincy called her and told her I was in New York.

Quincy Jones grew up partially in Seattle. There’s a documentary called “In the Pocket.” I’m in there. Crazy things happen.

Patti Bown's record, 1958

Word spread fast. This very nice Jewish guy from the Bronx said that he was going to turn me on to Columbia Records. They had signed a lot of black artists, like Aretha Franklin, but didn’t promote any of them.

When I was with Quincy’s band in Europe, we had two hit records. I came back to New York to work at the Village Vanguard.

I played in Birdland. Steve Allen and all these famous people were there. I got a standing ovation. Word spread that there’s a gal from Seattle, Washington, who can play her butt off.

I got a call from Mary Lou Williams. You want a job?” she said. She called Joe Wells of the Wells Restaurant in Harlem and I got a job with Count Basie. He had a club uptown. I got a call one night. “This is Lil Armstrong. I understand you’re hot. I got Katherine Basie here with me. We’re taking a cab from St. Albans to Harlem. You better be hot tonight, sister.” I’ve never been scared. I started playing as a small child. You learn how to concentrate on what you are doing and not trying to impress the audience or having phony motivations. It comes from your heart.

It was hard for a woman to get a job. A lot of men wouldn’t hire a woman. That was a serious, hard thing for me. I knew I could play. They said Benny Goodman was looking for a pianist. I went down there. The people auditioning me clapped like crazy, but he wouldn’t hire me. He never gave me a reason. Goodman’s musical director called me and said, “You sure can play, but he won’t hire you. He has some complex about chicks. He thinks they draw too much attention.” Some more wicky wacky prejudice.

When I first moved here, my dream was to live uptown. My dream was to play jazz in Harlem.. I was grateful for the many jobs I was offered, which I couldn’t take., because I had a son who was ill. I came home one night and found him in a pool of blood.

Q. How old was your son when he passed away?

Why do you want to know? You’re an age freak. I don’t want to go into that..

Q. What was the jazz scene like in the 1950’s and ‘60’s?

It was popping. Everywhere you looked, there was someone. I walked into some place and there were so many outstanding people.

The word spread that I could play and I could sing , and that I was a nut and I entertained people. When Quincy Jones found out that I was in New York, he called and I went to his house for dinner. He said, “I’m forming a band and I want you to be the pianist. I want you.”

I left my job, thinking we would start in a week. It took a year.

His manager Rory Alexander offered me my own TV show on Channel 13. I was excited, but when I spoke to the sponsors, they wanted me to explain jazz in their context, not mine. I realized I couldn’t do that.  I knew the show was going to fail. They thought because they had the money, they could dictate the show. Another girl took it and it folded in a week.

I lived on Christopher Street. I met a lady in a nightclub. I rented space from her on Christopher Street. It was ’58 or ’59.

Q. What were the important jazz clubs?

The Blue Note was on West 3rd. I met Thelonius Monk and Charlie Rouse. Sometimes when they would finish work, they would pop in on me. Thelonius said that he was going to try to get me work at the Five Spot, but they didn’t hire you unless you had a record. I didn’t have a record. It was very hard to get work as a female. Most men didn’t trust that a woman could play strong.

I did some record work. It wasn’t the greatest. I went to one place and the guy said, “I thought you were Patrick Bown.” “Well, I am Patti Bown. You are losing hundreds of dollars a minute. Give me a shot.” When I played, he said, “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got a lot of work for you.” It was hard for the average woman to get decent work. I got really frustrated at one point. When Quincy said that he was forming his band, I thought, “Something’s going to pop with this.”

Q. How long did you play with Quincy Jones?

I worked with Quincy from 1959 to ’60. We were living in Paris. We came back because we were doing a show with Sammy Davis, “Free and Easy,” that was supposed to go to Broadway. We nicknamed it “Freaking Greasy.” Crazy musicians. The guy who was the producer never collected the money. He announced one day that the tour was over.

We got into Europe. We did a few interesting things. We toured with Nat King Cole. He was very arrogant. One night I played with the band and got a standing ovation. I told Quincy one night that some of the guys in the band started to hate me because you gave me these piano solos.” Quincy told me, “Don’t tell me how to run my band. Do you know what you do? You’re a female and when you go out and start to platy, you cook, so those guys have to play.”

Q. How did you make ends meet?

 I was freelancing. I never knew what was coming up. Sometimes the word would spread that I could play and I’d get a gig someplace. I felt bad because I really wanted things to happen. Many of these people you’d see in little places wouldn’t help you.

There was Thad Jones, the trumpet player. I sat in with him . He dropped out.  It was only me and Sonny Payne.

Dizzy Gilespie gave me a few gigs in New York.

I had an apartment further down in the Village, when I came home from Europe with Quincy’s band. I was living on Morton Street. I lucked out on the apartment. Some places down here wouldn’t rent to me because I am black. There was a coterie of people who wanted to keep the Village Italian. I met a super sweeping in front of a building. I asked if there were any apartments available. He said there was one, but I probably wouldn’t like it. “The woman who had the apartment was over 100 when she died.  The walls were painted black.” I said, “I’m black. I can handle it.” He laughed.

The apartment had a fireplace and shutters. I had a friend build up the fireplace so I could look into it. A lot of people came to my funky apartment—Sarah Vaughn, Tennessee Williams. I had a big thick carpet on the floor. I spackled the ceiling and spray painted it. It looked like a cafe. The rent was $75 a moth. There was a tub in the kitchen and no heat.

I came to Westbeth in 1972. I was invited by the board of directors to live here.

Westbeth had a lot of problems in the beginning. They used unlicensed labor. I had an architect friend of mine come by. He told me the wiring was messed up in the basement. He told me all the problems. Do you still want to live here? he asked. I said yes, it was the right place. I trusted my instinct. When I heard all the artists were going to be here, I got really excited.

Q. How has the Village changed in your time here?

Commercially, the Village is trying to aim to the people with the big bucks. It doesn’t have much love for us artists. Many of us don’t have millions of dollars. In the beginning, the management was crooked. Many of the people who live here are not artists. Some people who got in here have no artistic talent whatsoever—they can’t paint, they can’t play piano, but they paid off somebody. Some people rent their studios out to other people.

I wrote a song for this building when it opened. I had a 10-piece band. I believed in this place. It went askew. I felt so bad. I used to participate in the community, but it killed my spirit.

Q. When did the Village stop being hospitable to artists?

They commercialized the Village. It became a lot of hippes and freaks and the whole character of the place changed. The artists still wanted to live here.  I always wanted to live in the Village.

If you notice, wherever the artists go, other people want to come. The artists take a bad neighborhood and bring it up. The next moment, the rents go up.

Q. Financially, could you have stayed in the West Village without Westbeth?

 I think I would have been able to get by. I was born with my million dollars. When I discovered music, my whole body lit up. I found something in my life. I used to see people in Seattle, going to jobs they hated because they had to pay the rent. I felt so fortunate. 

One of my mother’s best friends was Marion Anderson. She’d call up and go, “Green, what’s in the pot?” She knew that blacks couldn’t stay at the hotels in Seattle. She would come and my mother and her would pig out. My mother would send us upstairs. Me and my sister would watch these women eat all this food with their fingers. I was about four years old.  I asked, “Why is it that Marion Anderson can eat chicken with her fingers and I can’t?” My mother said, “Because she’s Marion Anderson and I’m your mother. Go upstairs.” On Saturday nights, my mother cooked up a lot of food. My father made dandelion wine. One room would be the dancers. Another room would be the painters. Another room would be the musicians. Everybody just kind of took over the house. We had a party that lasted. They knew this was really the only place where they could get down with people in their profession.

Now, with myself not being able to walk. I had three different car accidents. I was playing a private Japanese club, a geisha girls club. I fell off a moveable stair. I liked to wear a gown. I had people in my band. I used to bow, then gracefully walked down the stairs. This night, the stairs weren’t there. I fell about 35 feet. I really hurt everything. Sometimes you can’t prophesize how things are going to go.

I still believe in this building. I just hope it doesn’t go down.

Saturday, April 2, 2016

An Interview with Anita Steckel, a controversial feminist artist, who used erotica to challenge and mock the patriarchy.

 (Diane Arbus, 1971)
 The feminist artist Anita Steckel was born in Brooklyn in 1930, the daughter of Russian immigrants. She was educated at the High School of Music and Art and Cooper Union.

When she was a teenager, she rented a loft on University Place in Greenwich Village, where she held salons. At the age of 19 in 1949, she dated Marlon Brando, who was then performing on Broadway in “A Streetcar Named Desire.”

In the Village, Steckel hung out at the San Remo Café, on Bleecker and MacDougal. She would sell sketches for a dollar for drinks, spending time with the dissolute poet Maxwell Bodenheim, who would recite fragments of poems for shots of whiskey. She was also befriended by Anatole Broyard, who wrote about her crew of young hipsters in his essay “A Portrait of the Hipster” in the Partisan Review.

Steckel started exhibiting as a painter in the early 1960s. Her first project to get major attention was a series of drawings called “Giant Women,’ which showed giant nude women climbing through the iconic skyscrapers of New York, including one woman who was impaled on a spire.

In the early 1970s, Steckel moved into the Westbeth Home for the Arts, the artists’ colony in Bethune Street, near the Hudson River. She was befriended by her neighbor, the photographer Diane Arbus. Before she killed herself, Arbus took gorgeous photographs of Steckel.

In 1973, Steckel was up for a job in the art department of Rockland Community College and was warned to remove all sexual items she had in the exhibit. She added more sexual artworks in response and caused a media firestorm. Needless to say, Steckel did not get the job.

During the rockland controversy, Steckel broke out with a feminist manifesto on art. In biting satire, she mocked the predominantly male curators refusal to allow images of erect penises in their museums.
If the erect penis is not wholesome enough to go into museums it should not be considered wholesome enough to go into women,” wrote Steckel in March 1973. “And if the erect penis is wholesome enough to go into women then it is more than wholesome enough to go into the greatest art museums.”
For 26 years, Steckel taught at the Art Students League. As a drinker and as a lover, she hung out at the Lion’s Head on Christopher Street, famous for the journalists and novelists, like Pete Hamill and David Markson, who drank there. Steckel also frequented the 55 Bar, two doors down, famous as an interracial pick up joint with an anything goes atmosphere, where bathroom stalls were often occupied by two people.

Steckel continued with the provocative artwork. She moved on to photo collages. When I met her in 2008, the project she was working on consisted of euphoric women water skiers in a line, with the face of George W. Bush pasted to their groin areas.

I first interviewed Steckel at her cluttered Westbeth live-work studio, where a hammock took up a large chunk of the room. We met a second time at the Bus Stop restaurant off Abingdon Square near Westbeth, where Steckel took most of her meals for the last decade of her life.

Anita Steckel died at the age of 82 in 2012.

Here is my interview:

Q. How did you meet Marlon Brando?

A. I met him through (the folk singer) Dave Van Ronk. My relationship with Brando never leaves my life. People are always interested in that.

Q. At your loft on East 10th Street, did you run a salon in the 1940s?

A. That was a big part of the bohemian scene. Mark Connelly, the playwright, went there. He wrote “Green Pastures.” Brando brought people there because it was such an extraordinary place. The Katherine Dunham Dance School would come and dance, playing congos.

Q. You  were friendly with Anatole Broyard in the 1940’s. What was he like?

With the mambo, it was the same thing. Anatole was always a little outside. He was a delightful person. He wanted to be an insider, but he wasn’t.

Q. You knew Diane Arbus at Westbeth?

A. I have a series of photographs, 10” x 14”, taken by Diane. She was a fan of my work. She came to some of my shows. She was trying out a new lens. She gave me the contacts and negatives.

Q. Where did you socialize in the Village?

A. I drank at the 55 and the Lion’s Head. Dennis Duggan (the late newspaper columnist) thought I was some ideal of the female species. The group at the Lion’s Head was wonderful. It was Irish and it was journalists. We partied outside the bar. We became a family outside of the bar. I was going through some very hard times. For about seven years, I was drinking heavily. Being with the Irish during those times was the most wonderful thing, the way they look at hard times. Somebody dies, and of course they will be sad, but then they have a party. They have a wonderful sense of life. Frank McCourt was the main one.

The Lion’s Head wasn’t the most enlightened place. They had bartenders that were very rude to the women. I was a very strong person. I didn’t go for being attacked. It didn’t stop me from being with people I wanted to be with. Women who came into the bar often felt that they were being mistreated.

Q. Were the women treated like meat?

A. No. That would have been nice. That was the 55.

Q. Was the 55 a dating bar?

A. The word “date” was a little fancier than what went on. It was an interracial bar. That was its big thing. People would come down there.

Q. How did you become involved in making photo collages?

A. Did you ever hear of Ray Johnson? He was a very close friend of mine. We had a friend in common named Bill Wilson. He wrote about Ray and collected his work. In 1962, Bill sent me four sepia photographs. The photos saddened me, so I started painting on them, changing the reality here and there. I started laughing. I had a show of those collages in the Hacker Gallery in 1963.

I became heavily involved with the feminist art movement.

Censorship issues? I was completely uninhibited, so the work I did was completely uninhibited. In the late 1960s, the women’s movement was very prescient. I was aware that I was a painter, but then I became aware I was a woman painter. My work became gender identified. Previously, women did not want their work to be gender identified. If someone said, “You work like a woman,” that was an insult.

I had a show at the Rockland Community College. They tried to close the show. This was the early 1970s. One of the teachers called me and said, “If you want a job here, you better take anything sexual out of the show.” That threw me into a tizzy. It became clear to me that I could not censor the show, for it became clear to me that I would find myself censoring myself in the future. That’s the worst thing I could do as an artist.. I brought in everything I had that was sexual to the show. I went in fighting. I also brought a paper that was about censorship.

The next morning, I was awakened by a radio show.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Alice Denham, Novelist and Sexual Adventurer, RIP, January 27, 2016, Aged 89

My friend Alice Denham died on January 27, 2016 at the age of 89. She was a Playboy centerfold, novelist and sexual adventurer, pursuing some of the biggest writers of the 1950's and 1960's, including Philip Roth and James Jones. (The married Joseph Heller would only make out, no sex.)

I interviewed Alice in 2009. She was a charming Southern belle, very honest and witty about her dating past.  She could also be steely. When I mentioned that her ex-lover Ted Hoagland had wrote a derogatory description of her in his own memoir, she noted that he never brought women to orgasm because his erections were never fully hard, like a piece of asparagus.

Alice was a Playboy centerfold in 1956, and had a short story published in the same issue. She had sex with Hugh Hefner and said that he was technically proficient, but more like a metronome than a lover.

 In Alice's memoir "Sleeping with the Bad Boys," she noted that her relationship with Playboy ended when the magazine's ad executives tried to pimp her out to their major advertisers. When Alice Denham refused to be used, the magazine cut her off.

--Dylan Foley


Alice Denham, Who Kissed and Told About Literary New York, Dies at 89

Alice Denham in 1962. Credit Peter Basch/Cardoza Publishing
Alice Denham, a writer and former Playboy centerfold who left a vivid chronicle of her literary and sexual adventures in her 2006 memoir, “Sleeping With Bad Boys: A Juicy Tell-All of Literary New York in the Fifties and Sixties,” died on Jan. 27 at her home in Manhattan. She was 89.

The cause was complications of ovarian cancer, her husband, John Mueller, said.
Ms. Denham came to New York in the early 1950s, fresh from the University of Rochester, with two things on her mind: literary fame and romance. The city held forth the promise of both, in abundance. “New York in the fifties was like Paris in the twenties,” she wrote in her memoir.

A stunning beauty with a talent for repartee, she made her way easily into Manhattan’s literary salons, and her presence did not pass unnoticed by a long list of editors, publishers, film producers, actors and writers — most of whom made a play for her, quite a few successfully.

“Manhattan was a river of men flowing past my door, and when I was thirsty, I drank,” she wrote.
Her conquests, she said, included the actor James Dean, a close friend until he fell hard for the Italian actress Pier Angeli; the authors James Jones, William Gaddis, Evan S. Connell and Philip Roth; and Hugh Hefner, whom she had persuaded, in a clever gambit, to feature her as a centerfold and reprint, as part of the package, her first published short story.

“Of course he was no egalitarian,” Ms. Denham wrote. “But he possessed one of the finer male characteristics I was aware of: He liked my writing.”

She counted among her many friends Norman Mailer, Joseph Heller, Gore Vidal and the painter Ad Reinhardt. “As a proper Southern girl, I was bred to be good at men,” she wrote. “I was, too.”

Alice Denham was born on Jan. 21, 1927, in Jacksonville, Fla. Her father, a stockbroker, lost everything in the Wall Street crash and moved the family to Coral Gables, Fla., where he found work as a property manager for a large company. In 1940 he was hired by the Federal Housing Administration, and the family moved to a Washington suburb, Chevy Chase, Md.

After graduating from the University of North Carolina in 1949 she won a scholarship to the University of Rochester, where she earned a master’s degree in English the following year, writing her thesis on T. S. Eliot’s plays.

Ms. Denham headed immediately to New York, where, through an actress friend, she met James Dean. “This Jimmy boy looked like an adolescent, like my kid brother, with surprising maturity and great swaths of infantile petulance,” she wrote. She gave him high marks as a lover.

Ms. Denham plunged into the bohemian life. She modeled by day, posing at camera clubs and doing photo shoots for romance and detective magazines, paperback covers, comic strips and movie posters. For a spread in True Adventures magazine, “Girl Gun Runners of Saigon,” she posed as four different Vietnamese women holding an array of weapons as they took position on a ridge.

Always, she wrote. In 1955, Discovery, a well-regarded literary magazine edited by Vance Bourjaily, published her story “The Deal,” about a young woman, an aspiring artist in Las Vegas, who agrees to sleep with an aged gambler for $1,000. The story, she wrote, “ made me a novice artist among artists, I hoped, not a mere model.”

Years of struggle followed. Playboy, after reprinting “The Deal,” with an illustration by Leroy Neiman, in the July 1956 issue that included her centerfold, rejected two more of her stories, informing her in a letter that it did not intend to have any more women’s bylines.

While she searched in vain for a publisher for her first novel, about the love affair between an artist and a composer in New York, she wrote jacket copy for publishers, acted in films with titles like “Olga’s House of Shame” and modeled at industrial shows, appearing as Miss Minute Maid in 1957 and 1958.

Socially, her dance card was full. “Every month I had a mad new crush, a fabulous new romance,” she wrote.

Her novel, “My Darling From the Lions,” eventually came out in 1967, attracting little attention. She had asked her many writer friends to contribute a blurb. None did.

Ms. Denham later wrote the novel “Amo” (1974), about a feminist centerfold who has a fantasy life on another planet, and “Secrets of San Miguel” (2013), a tell-all chronicle of the expatriate artistic community in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, which she visited for many years.

Ms. Denham’s first marriage ended in divorce. In addition to her husband, she is survived by a brother, John, and a sister, Leila Starke.

“Sexual friendships taught me politics, race, class, countries, temperaments, occupations, all useful for a novelist,” she wrote of her heyday playing the literary field. “But that wasn’t my motive.”
“Sex,” she added, “was my great adventure.”

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Times Obituary of Adele Mailer, 90, the wife Norman Mailer Stabbed, Nov 23, 2015

Adele Mailer, Artist Who Married Norman Mailer, Dies at 90

(Adele and Norman Mailer in court in 1960, a month after he stabbed and seriously wounded her at a party at their apartment. Credit United Press International)
Adele Mailer, an artist and actress who made headlines in 1960 when her husband, the novelist Norman Mailer, stabbed and seriously wounded her at a drunken party in their apartment, died on Sunday in Manhattan. She was 90.

Her death was confirmed by her daughter Danielle Mailer.

Adele Morales was an aspiring painter in 1951 when she met Mailer, the author of “The Naked and the Dead,” who was on his way to becoming recognized as one of the pre-eminent postwar American novelists. The two began living together and married three years later. It was Norman Mailer’s second marriage.

The relationship, marked by heavy drinking and ancillary love affairs on both sides, was stormy.
“I decided I was going to be that beautiful temptress who ate men alive, flossed her teeth and spit out the bones, wearing an endless supply of costumes by Frederick’s of Hollywood,” she wrote in her memoir “The Last Party: Scenes From My Life with Norman Mailer,” published in 1997. Her notion of romantic life, she wrote, was the opera “Carmen”: “You lived from crisis to crisis, sang love duets and had screaming fights.”

On the verge of announcing his improbable candidacy for mayor of New York, Mailer decided to celebrate with a party at their apartment on the Upper West Side on Nov. 19, 1960. The guest list was unusual. Since the author thought of his natural constituency as the disenfranchised, he invited several strangers off the street.

At the same time, he instructed his friend George Plimpton to summon the city’s power elite, handing him a list that included the police and fire commissioners, the banker David Rockefeller and the Aga Khan. None of them came, but the party could still be described as glittering, with attendees that included the poets Allen Ginsberg and Delmore Schwartz, the editor Norman Podhoretz and the actor Tony Franciosa.

With the liquor flowing, it all made for a volatile mix. Ginsberg and Podhoretz got into a fight and had to be separated. Drunk and belligerent, Mailer, wearing a ruffled matador shirt, repeatedly tangled with his guests. Around 4 a.m., he confronted his wife in an incoherent rage.

In her memoir, Mrs. Mailer recalled having taunted her husband, bluntly deriding his manhood, and making an ugly reference to his mistress. Some guests recalled that the point of no return came when she told her husband that he was not as good as Dostoyevsky.

Mailer stabbed her in the stomach and back with a penknife, puncturing her cardiac sac.
Mrs. Mailer initially told doctors that she had fallen on broken glass. Later, in the intensive care unit of University Hospital, she told the police that her husband had stabbed her.
Mailer was charged with felonious assault and committed to Bellevue Hospital for psychiatric observation.

“In my opinion Norman Mailer is having an acute paranoid breakdown with delusional thinking and is both homicidal and suicidal,” Dr. Conrad Rosenberg, the doctor who first treated Mrs. Mailer, wrote in a medical report to the judge.

In court, Norman Mailer argued, “Naturally I have been a little upset, but I have never been out of my mental faculties.

“It is important for me not to be sent to a mental hospital, because my work in the future will be considered that of a disordered mind,” he added. “My pride is that I can explore areas of experience that other men are afraid of. I insist I am sane.”

The judge disagreed. “Your recent history suggests that you cannot distinguish fiction from reality,” he said.

Mailer was released from Bellevue after 17 days and in November 1961, after pleading guilty to a reduced charge of third-degree assault, received a suspended sentence. The couple divorced the next year.

Speaking to The New York Times Magazine in 1979, Mailer said, “A decade’s anger made me do it. After that, I felt better.” In a documentary shown on PBS in 2000 as part of the series “American Masters,” he took a more remorseful tone. “It changed everything in my life,” he said. “It is the one act I can look back on and regret for the rest of my life.”

Adele Carolyn Morales was born on June 12, 1925, in Brooklyn. Her mother, Consuela Rodriguez, known as Mae, was of Spanish descent. Her father, Albert, who came to New York from Peru as a teenager, was a typesetter for The Daily News and a semipro lightweight boxer who taught his son-in-law a good deal of what he knew about the sport. Some lessons were emphatically hands-on, with Norman Mailer going down for the count in one early sparring session.

After graduating from Washington Irving High School in Manhattan, Ms. Morales moved to a cold-water flat in Manhattan and earned a living making papier-mâché models for department store windows.

She took art classes with Hans Hofmann, studied literature at the New School for Social Research and threw herself into downtown cultural life, frequenting artists’ hangouts like the San Remo and the Cedar Tavern. She had a romance with Jack Kerouac and, before meeting Mailer, was in a relationship with Edwin Fancher, who later founded The Village Voice with Mailer and Dan Wolf.
It was Wolf who introduced Ms. Morales to Mailer, calling her late one night and putting Mailer on the phone.

“I started to object but then he quoted a beautiful line from Scott Fitzgerald — I wish I could remember it exactly — something about adventure and getting up and going out into the night, and that did it,” she told Peter Manso for his book “Mailer: His Life and Times.”

After the divorce, Mrs. Mailer, who had studied at the Actors Studio, appeared in several Off Broadway productions, including Mailer’s theatrical adaptation of his novel “The Deer Park” in 1967. She also appeared in a small role in his 1970 film “Maidstone.”

She continued to paint in an abstract expressionist style and in later years made box assemblages reminiscent of Joseph Cornell. After their two daughters went to college, payments from her ex-husband were reduced sharply, and she lived precariously in a rent-stabilized one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side.

Besides her daughter Danielle, she is survived by her other daughter, Elizabeth Mailer, and two granddaughters. Norman Mailer died in 2007.

Elizabeth Mailer said of her parents, “She admired him and loved him and enjoyed him, but there were periods when she could only say things that were bitter and angry.”

“After he died,” she said in a telephone interview, “all she could say was, ‘He was a monster.’ ”

On a walk around her neighborhood in 2007 with a writer on assignment for The Times, Mrs. Mailer said, to no one in particular: “This is Norman Mailer’s wife. It’s riches to rags, honey.”
Her daughter Danielle said, “I see her as a tragic figure, but an artist to the core.”

“That was her identity,” she said in a telephone interview. “That is who she was.”

Monday, November 30, 2015

Harriet Sohmers Zwerling: Ex-Nude Model, Lover, Memoirist. The Long-Form Interview, March 10, 2008

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(Barbara Sohmers, Susan Sontag and Harriet Sohmers in Paris, 1950s)

Harriet Sohmers Zwerling was born in New York City in 1928 and raised on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. At the age of 17, she started attending Washington Square College, which is part of New York University. Harriet immersed herself in the bohemian Village, hanging out in the San Remo Café and fending off advances from the famously ugly crime photographer Weegee.

Harriet transferred to the avant-garde Black Mountain College, near Ashville, North Carolina. The faculty included Merce Cunningham and Robert Rauschenberg. She left Black Mountain and drove across the country to Berkeley, California with the husband of her first lesbian lover in a Model A Ford. She enrolled at Berkeley, and while she was working at the school bookstore in 1949, she met and later seduced a 16-year-old Susan Sontag.
In 1950, Harriet moved to Paris, where she lived with a Swedish painter, worked for the International Herald Tribune as a clerk-typist, translated a book by the Marquis de Sade and kept a diary of her prolific sexual adventures with both men and women. Excerpts from Harriet’s frank and scandalous diaries were published in 2014 as Abroad: An Expatriate’s Diaries, 1950 to 1959. Her lovers included Susan Sontag and and the future playwright Irene Fornes.
 (Harriet's Facebook photo)
Harriet returned to New York at the end of 1959. After a sudden brutal break up with Susan Sontag, where Susan left her for Irene, Harriet flew up to Provincetown, Mass., and wound up dating Bill Ward, the editor of the Provincetown Review, where she became an editor.
Back living in New York, Harriet frequented the fabled Cedar Tavern, where she was friends with the painter Larry Rivers, and often got into public fights with Bill Ward and various women.
Bill Ward was close friends with the writer Norman Mailer, who was married through the early 1960’s to the firebrand Adele Morales Mailer. In the summer of 1960 in Provincetown, Adele Mailer attacked Harriet, provoking a legendary fistfight. Several months later, Norman stabbed Adele multiple times in front of horrified partygoers at their apartment on West End Avenue. Norman was not indicted in the stabbing. Norman and Adele divorced shortly after the stabbing.
In the 1960’s, to support herself, Harriet worked as a nude model at Cooper Union and the Art Students League. Very briefly, she also worked as a “Rent-a-Beatnik,” where Beatniks from the Village were sent to parties and paid to perform, read poetry and play the bongos.
In 1962, Harriet met her future husband and merchant seaman Louie Zwerling at the Cedar Tavern, when he tried to pick her up as a hooker, offering to pay for sex, which she laughed off. They had their son Milo in 1963.
For 28 years, Harriet taught elementary school in the Irish and Polish neighborhood of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Years after she retired, she published a collection of autobiographical stories called Notes of a Nude Model, detailing her wild days in Greenwich Village, from being an artist’s model to doing heroin once. The collection brought new attention to Harriet’s life and writing. She has since been featured in documentaries like “Still Doing It,” on older women and sex, was interviewed for the film “Norman Mailer: The American” and was in 2014’s “Regarding Susan Sontag,” where she stole the movie by regaling viewers with stories of her love affair with Sontag.

In 2009, Sontag's early diaries were published, edited by her son David Reiff, who made the decision to refer to Harriet as "H" in the diaries and not by her name. Harriet confronted Reiff on the censorship, and later editions included Harriet's name.
Harriet Sohmers Zwerling and I also have a history. I was introduced to her by Edward Field in 2005, when I interviewed her for “The Last Bohemians” project my photo-and-text exhibit about writers and artists who came up in the 1950’s, which was shown at the Westbeth Gallery in January 2006. With her frank stories of her personal history and opinions (“Being married to a seaman was great for affairs,” and “Kids today, they don’t fuck.”), Harriet became the star of the exhibit. She became the center of a New Yorker “Talk of the Town” piece on the exhibit, referred to by the writer Lauren Collins as a grande horizontale for her many love affairs.
We spoke at Harriet’s orderly apartment on the East Side of Manhattan. Harriet stands almost six feet tall and wears her white-blonde hair long with bangs, a look that Edward Field calls her  “Prince Valiant Haircut.” Over her dining table hangs a nude oil portrait of Harriet, painted by one of the students she modeled for in the 1960’s. On the bookshelf are bound copies of the long-defunct Provincetown Review. This interview took place in March 2008, when Harriet was 80.
 (A recent picture of Harriet Sohmers Zwerling)
Q. How did you know you were sexually free in the 1940s?

A. It started during World War II. I was still in high school when I decided I was free. I can’t tell you where it came from.  It certainly didn’t come from my parents, who were in business, kind of. My father was artistic. He had been a singer in vaudeville.

I had bohemian friends in high school.. We went to French movies. We were too young to go to bars, but we saw ourselves as bohemians. We hung out in the Village in high school. I was so taken by the lifestyle. There was this guy Jimmy Cucciarra, a painter with a limp who was a few years older than I was. He had a place on Cherry Street, an apartment that went for $14 a month. He was living someplace else, so he rented it to me and my sister. That was our hideout. We were both virgins. There were boys, but we weren’t doing anything yet. It lasted a couple of months.

Q. When did you start going to the San Remo?

A. I went to NYU for my first two years of college. The San Remo was where people hung. It was a mix of people. Max Bodenheim was there. Bill Manville was there. Did you ever hear of him? He had a gossip column in the Village Voice. He was slick. He had a girlfriend named Rosemarie Santini. She was Manville’s girl at the time. She writes detective novels now. This was all before I went to Europe.

The Village was a big thing for me. As soon as I started going to Washington Square College, I started hanging out on MacDougal Street. Our campus was Washington Square. It was my dream to be part of the Village, the whole bohemian thing, so I started hanging out in bars. I was too young to drink, but they didn’t care.

It was a great scene. I hung out with artists I knew, like the painter  George Morrison. He was Native American. He died a few years ago. I also hung out with Al Kresch, a very sweet guy.

We went to Provincetown when I was 17 and my sister was 15. My parents, it was dumb of them, but they let us go. No chaperone. My sister was friends with Beryl Oppenheimer. Her family had a house in Provincetown. Her grandparents were artists. She reassured our parents that her grandparents would be watching us. We rented a room at Bryant’s Rooming house. Bryant’s was a famous market. My sister and I got a room there. We ended up having all these hippie guys, like Larry Rivers, hang out with us. They were all junkies. Buddy Wirtschafter, who called himself Jay Worth, was there. He was one of my first lovers. He was a painter, but at the time he was a jazz musician. They were all jazz musicians. There was a guy named Charlie Leeds. He was my special boyfriend. I was still a virgin, but he was the one who would take me out. My mother couldn’t stand him. He was a skinny, blonde bass player He was a junkie, too. My mother know there was something off about the guy and he wasn’t Jewish. She disliked him intensely. We all slept in this one room. Anne Tabachnick. Did you ever hear of her? She was my buddy at Julia Richmond High School. She was an early bohemian. She became a very famous painter. She was a very hot number, a very beautiful girl with great tits. Anne was sleeping with black guys before anyone else. She showed up in Provincetown and knew all these guys who were playing in a club there--Larry, Buddy, Charlie. Larry Rivers played sax. Anne Tabachnick came up. She was fucking everyone. They were sneaking up to the rooming house to sleep in my sister and my room. That’s how I met all these people. I never slept with Larry Rivers, but we were friends. He was great. I saw more of him in Paris. He was AC-DC. He was lovers with Frank O’Hara, then he went straight, married and had kids. I was also AC-DC in those days. He met me in Paris when I was with Susan [Sontag]. Susan and I were living in Stan Wolfenstein’s apartment. He said to me, “Which part of the clock are you on?” He had gone straight by then. I was gay, because I was living with Susan. In Paris, he was still shooting up. They were all junkies and living on the G.I. Bill. We were all back in the Village together. The story that I wrote, “Night Out,” was when I shot heroin and that was with Larry Rivers.

(The cover of Harriet's first book...a 1960's portrait of her.)

Q. Did you know Sheri Martinelli and Anatole Broyard?

A. Sheri was Anatole Broyard’s girl. Everybody knew them as a couple. They were at the Remo. He was gorgeous. I took a writing course with him at NYU. With those looks, he could be whatever he wanted. Of course, everybody knew he was black. He supposedly was passing, but everybody knew it. It was bizarre, especially because he didn’t look very African-American.

My sister wrote a story years ago. It’s about me at the San Remo, when I was having my first lesbian affair with Peggy Tolk-Watkins from Black Mountain. She ended up in San Francisco, famous on the lesbian scene. She was a friend of Lenny Bruce. In my sister’s story, Howard Mitchum was this deaf guy, an artist and brilliant, but he talked really loud. I walked into the San Remo with my sister. Howard was sitting with Marty Bloom, also a painter on the scene. Marty was a friend of mine. When we walked in, Howard said at the top of his lungs, “Hey Mar-ty, is that girl a LES-BIAN?” The whole bar looked at us. It was pretty embarrassing.

I went to Black Mountain for the summer of 1947. I was 19. That’s where I met Peggy. Peggy seduced me. She was a wonderfully exciting person, and very famous. Peggy seduced me by asking if I’d read “Nightwood.” She had a bar in San Francisco called the Tin Angel, a famous jazz bar. She was at Black Mountain. I was 19. She was 26. Peggy was bi. Everybody was mad for her. She married this guy at Black Mountain named Rags Watkins, a very aristocratic Southerner, also bisexual. She was pregnant by Rags. We all decided to go to San Francisco. Peggy had a Model A Ford. She didn’t want to drive because she was pregnant. We didn’t have any money, but Peggy raised money by scamming people and took a plane. Rags and I drove to San Francisco with hardly any money. We had this girl Ginny that we found somewhere. Peggy had probably seduced her. She was a rich girl and she paid for the gas and everything. Ginny sat in the rumble seat. We drove all the way across the country, sleeping in barns. My parents had no idea where I was. I just split. It was my first adventure. We were living together in San Francisco, Peggy, Rags and me. We were living off Blanche Phillips, a painter and former lover of Peggy’s. We all moved in with her. Peggy introduced me to a bunch of dykes and one of them asked me to move in with her. I started going to Berkeley so I could get support from my parents. They started sending me money. I moved to Berkeley, got a room and that’s where I met Susan. I was working in a bookstore and she came in. I was Susan’s first lover. I used the line, “Have you read Nightwood?” That was the same line that Peggy used on me when she seduced me at Black Mountain. Susan and I lasted about six months, then I went to New York for the summer. My sister came down with TB. Instead of going back to Berkeley, I felt I had to stay with her. I took a leave of absence from Berkeley and never went back. Susan came to New York. I worked at the Partisan Review. That’s when I hung out at the Remo more. That was 1949. I was a receptionist and worked on subscriptions. I met Delmore Schwartz and I met his wife Elizabeth. Elizabeth and I took a course at NYU in 1947 with Anatole Broyard. Elizabeth was in my class. I had a big crush on her.

Q. What was the Partisan Review like?

There was a woman there named Eve Gassler. She and I became friends. She was the editorial assistant. There was Phillip Rahv and William Phillips. Delmore was around, but I didn’t really know him. He was psychotic.

I was just the girl at the front desk, but I was able to save up the money to go to Paris. I saved $500, which was a good sum in those days. I bought my boat ticket, which was one way and got to Paris with $200. Susan came to see me before I left. That was it.

Susan got married when she was 18 to her professor, Phillip Reiff. They came to Paris on their honeymoon. I was living with a Swedish painter. We were in Italy. When we got back, I went to get my mail from the old AmEx office in Paris. There was a letter from Susan saying she was coming to Paris on her honeymoon, but she could not see me with her husband’s knowledge, so would I meet her at Notre Dame on August? I didn’t get the letter in time, because I was in Italy at the time. I use the letter in my diary. She then wrote this letter to me, or maybe she said this to me—she was this character from the George Eliot novel Middlemarch, who had married an awful person, a sexless, nasty man.
I came back from Paris to New York because my mother was very ill. I met this young man, Peter, who was my first really great fuck.  The Swedish guy I was living with was not. Do you know who Sam Menasche was? He got an award recently for being the best unknown poet. Edward hates him. He is one of the people I slept with in Paris who ended up being gay. He’s at the San Remo in my sister’s story. Peter, this fellow, I met him at the San Remo.
The bars were all around MacDougal Street. There was the Kettle of Fish. It was a nice little bar then. I hate it now. The Kettle of Fish was a macho bar. That was part of its charm. Alfred Chester used to go there. We went there when he lived on Sullivan Street.
I remember the San Remo because Weegee came on to me there. It was the glamorous place, but I was too young. Weegee was a little, short fat Jewish guy. He asked me if he could take me home and massage me with baby oil. Of course, I was not interested.
The Cedar, that was a great scene.
When I came back in ’59, I was living with Susan on West End Avenue. She went off with Irene Fornes. Irene took her. Irene was my great love in this lesbian thing. She was the only really sexual lesbian affair I had. I had a lot of affairs with women, but I really preferred men sexually. We had a very hot relationship.
I met Irene in New York in 1952. It was madly passionate. She came to live with me in Paris. We were together for about 3 years. She was incapable of being faithful. She was a terrible Don Juan and a flirt. She was adorable and everybody fell in love with her.
 (Irene Fornes and Harriet Sohmers. Irene was one of Harriet's great lovers.)
Susan referred to Irene as that “dumb spic.” Irene never read a book in her life.  Her plays are wonderful, but she’s a primitive. In Paris, she was being a painter.
I came back to New York because my mother was dying, then she wouldn’t die, I had to make two trips, then I went back to Paris. On my first trip to see my mother, that was in 1952, that is when I met Irene. I was living with a man in Paris, but it was mad passion with Irene. I was mostly in love. I went down to Florida to stay with my father. Irene came down to stay with us. He caught us making love in the bedroom. He heard something and we had the door locked. It was a big crisis. He said, “Get that woman out of the house.” It was bad, but we were madly in love. I went back to Europe and I broke up with Sven, this guy I was living with. Then Irene came to live with me, six months later. It must be 1953. We were together until 1956 or ’57. After Irene went to the States, Susan came.

Q. You and Susan resumed your relationship?

A. Yeah.

Q. That’s when the party with Ginsberg took place?

A. Yeah.

[Editor’s Note: Harriet and Susan had had a fistfight the night before they were going to host Allen Ginsberg and other American writers at their apartment in Paris. Susan had a big bruise on her face. Ginsberg said something to Harriet like, “You hit her because she is better looking than you.”]

Q. What happened when you went back to New York?

A. When I came back to New York, I was living with Susan. She took up with Irene and kicked me out of her apartment.  I was working as a temp-typist. I had no money. I was really fucked up and shattered by this thing. I was still in love with Irene. The problem was the betrayal from Irene’s side. That was the rough one. I was never in love with Susan.

A friend of mine lent me $25. I went to Provincetown. It was May when this happened. I had to get away. I had no place to stay in New York. Somebody suggested Provincetown. I had loved Provincetown when I was a kid. Twenty-five dollars was the airfare to Provincetown. I flew to Provincetown, thinking that I could stay with Marty Bloom from the San Remo. I walked with my little duffel bag from the airport into town. Marty was gone. He had broken up with his wife. The wife was a darling. I stayed with her until I met Bill Ward. Bill Ward is the one that took me to the Cedar Tavern. He knew that crowd already. The Cedar was great.

I was with Bill for three years. It wasn’t totally an open relationship. It started falling apart. He started sleeping with other people and I was, too. We started having fistfights. I got very violent at times. I met Lou at the Cedar while I was still dating Bill.

I met Lou in ’61 or ’62, when I was still living with Bill. We went to Europe together. Milo was born in ’63.

Q. Was the Cedar a macho bar?

A. It was those guys. They were the stars…Pollock, the sculptor John Chamberlain, Franz Kline, de Kooning. I talk about the “old ladies,” the girlfriends. Joyce Johnson was Kerouac’s girlfriend.
There was Mira, this black woman, who had an affair with deKooning. Her kid was supposed to be deKooning’s, a beautiful little girl. She and I became very friendly. She’s an addict. I am sure she’s dead by now.
Then there was Ruth Kligman, Jackson Pollock’s girl, the “death car” girl.

Q. What was the sexual vibe at the Cedar?
A. Everyone was fucking everyone. It was very heterosexual. The Cedar was very straight and there was a real sex vibe, a lot of flirtations, and a lot of interesting people. That’s where I met Lou.

The painter Emilio Cruz was a friend from the Provincetown crowd. The Provincetown crowd connected with the Cedar. There were a lot of Provincetown people. Franz Kline went to Provincetown.

Q. Did you sleep with any of the Abstract Expressionists?

A. I don’t think I interested them. I was living with Bill Ward, so I was known as Bill Ward’s girl. We picked up people. There was a famous night when I was with Bill and a group of people at the Cedar. I was seeing Louie Zwerling on the side. Louie was a great lover. Bill was not. There was a blizzard. I struggled over to Lou’s apartment. He stood me up. That night, we all wound up at the Cedar. Louie was living above the 55 Bar on Christopher Street. When the Cedar closed, we were all stoned out of our minds on reefer. (We were all heavily into pot.) We were walking down the street yelling. I snuck off and went to Louie’s apartment.

It was 4 in the morning. I went into Louie’s bedroom and jumped on him. I was wearing a fur coat. He said it was like being attacked by an animal. I leapt on him, cursing him and beating him up.  We had great sex. Soon after, my father died and left me some money. Louie and I went to Europe together. Bill didn’t know about it. I told him I was going alone. Somebody must have told Bill about it. I got a sad letter from Bill at the American Express office in Paris telling me how much he loved me. I was crazy about Louie then. I went back to New York and broke up with Bill.

Q. You had a fight with Adele Mailer?

Adele, oh yeah. The fight was either ’59 or ’60. You know Lenny Green? He’s like that extra single man that people want to have at the party.

Lenny said to me recently, “I remember you as clear as day in  1959, when you arrived in Provincetown.”

I told you about the guy at the Jefferson Market, who came up to me and said, “The Cedar Tavern. Franz Kline. DeKooning.” He looked like a bum but he shops at the Jefferson Market. He must have money. {Editor’s note: The Jefferson Market was on 6th Avenue. It was a West Village institution. It closed for the last time several years ago.]

Q. How did you know Adele and Norman Mailer?

They were in Provincetown and the Upper West Side. They had had a three-way with Irene. In my diaries, there is a nice passage about Norman and Adele coming to Paris. I was living with Irene and hanging out with Alfred Chester. Irene and Alfred had become friends in Ibiza. When Norman and Adele came to Paris, they looked up Irene. They had an affair with Irene before Paris.  She dropped them when she started living with me, which they resented. That, apparently, was the reason for the fistfight. That’s when Adele said to me, “This is for Irene.”

They went to Paris. They knew me from Provincetown. They were staying at this very fancy hotel. They invited us over to watch the fireworks for July 14th, Bastille Day. The fireworks were over the river and beautiful. We watched the fireworks from their room. In my diary, I wrote that “Norman is hostile, I guess because I am twice his height, and Adele is just a dumb fat cow.” I wrote it in my diary…I did not say it to his face. I wrote, “I would have rather been on the quay with the people, watching the fireworks.”

Irene was one of the most seductive people I have ever known. She’s not now, but she is still flirtatious. [After a long career as a playwright, Irene Fornes is at the end stages of Alzheimer’s and is living in a nursing home near Columbia.]

Q. Did you know Susan Sontag’s son David Reiff?

A. I knew him as a child. He probably hates me. I lived with David and Susan when I came back to New York. David was six years old, a very neurotic and very unhappy child. She was a really nasty mother. She came to visit when Milo was a baby. We were very happy. She came up to Provincetown when David was 9 or 10 years old. We went out to the dock. She wanted David to go into the water. He was scared and didn’t want to go. She picked him up and threw him in he water. He was panicked, screaming and terrified. She was mean to him, and of course, he adored her.

Q. What was the Cedar Tavern like?

A. The bar was wonderful. There were these two guys. John was the big Polish bartender. His partner was this nice, bright and charming guy. John was a real blue-collar Polish guy. The atmosphere was very BAR. Everybody was drinking a lot. If you smoked pot, you went to the bathroom. It wasn’t encouraged at all. At the good old 55 on Christopher Street, they encouraged it. The 55 was a great bar. It was a hot scene. David Burnett was the son of Whit Burnett, who had a magazine called Story in the 1930s and 1940s, which was an important journal. David had a magazine called New Story in Paris. That was my first real publication. They published three of my stories. They published Jimmy Baldwin and Alison Lurie in New Story. David Burnett hung out at the 55, and died of an overdose of methadone there in the bathroom.

The 55 was a bar with a lot of black guys and a lot of sex going on. The bathroom was always occupied by more than one person at a time. There were a lot of older white women at the bar and I was one of them. I was in my thirties when I started hanging out there. Milo was a baby. I picked up black guys and had a great time. It is so dead now. It is a jazz bar.

The Cedar died. The building was sold and they moved to 12th Street. It’s lost its cache. I was at the opening night. I threw a glass at someone. Lester was the name of John’s partner.  There was a whole literary crowd there, too. Did you ever hear of a woman named Mary Grant? She was the wife or mistress of Newton Arvin, the critic. A whole lot of the Commentary crowd were hanging at the Cedar at the time. Some of them came to the opening. I was very drunk and threw up on someone, but they never 86ed me. I was one of their pets at the Cedar. I had affairs with the bartenders. It became a food place and it lost its charm. Dillon’s was the place up the street from the old Cedar. That was a much hardier kind of scene, much more working class.

[Editor’s note: The Cedar moved from 8th Street to 12th Street in 1963. It became an upscale hamburger joint, long ago losing the reputation as an artists’ bar. The bar closed after Thanksgiving 2006 for the last time.]

Dan Wolf had an affair with Irene Fornes. Ed Fancher was Adele’s boyfriend. Adele wants to be my friend. She comes to my New Year’s Eve parties. Adele was at Mary [Dearborn’s} party. That’s why Beverly Mailer [another ex-wife} didn’t go. Since Norman died, she’s gone into deep mourning, which is ridiculous because Norman couldn’t stand her.

Norman had a lot of girlfriends. I met Lady Jane. I met her when I was still with Bill Ward then. We were up in Provincetown. Seymour Krim was around. We were very good friends. I slept with Seymour actually. I felt bad about that because he was close friends with Bill Ward.

Seymour was a loveable guy. He published me in Nugget and Swank, two girlie magazines.  He put my “Notes of a Nude Model” in Swank. He was the literary editor of Swank. He was very generous as a writer. He liked me and he liked my writing, and he pushed me. He got my piece about the abortion into an anthology called Bold New Women. He was fired for some reason and the job went to Barbara, Norman Mailer’s sister. She hated me. I’m the one who put the lit cigar down her decollage. That was in Provincetown. I was living with Bill. I was crazy. That was my early incarnation. I was drinking heavily. I was very violent and crazy. I was always getting into fights. Bill fucked her[Barbara]. Alson was her name in those days. That was the name of her first husband. She had this low-cut dress on. For some reason, I was smoking a cigar. She came over and for some reason, I stuffed it down her dress. I was always getting into fights with women. They were throwing beers at me.  I was hitting them.

I don’t think I ever had any fights at the Cedar. I did get into fights with Bill, that ended up at the Cedar. where he’d knock me down, punch me on the chin, on the way to the Cedar or at a party before going to the Cedar.

Bill was shorter than me. Norman and he were good friends When I saw Norman two summers ago [in 2006], when he was already ill, Bill had just died. I saw Norman at a gallery opening and told him about Bill. He said, “Bill Ward had more integrity than any man I ever knew.” It was nice to hear him say it.

Norman had mellowed. He was such a shit when he was young. He hated me. “Cancer hole,” that was his favorite insult. After my fight with Adele, we were both staggering down the hill, weeping profusely with our different entourages. The party was on a hill in the back of town. Norman was shouting at me, “You cancer hole, fuck you, cancer hole.” It was so ironic. Norman was obsessed with cancer. He had this Reichian idea that you get cancer because you don’t have the right orgasms. He was insulting me, when years later his beloved wife Norris came down with ovarian cancer. It sort of came back at him.

Q. I had heard the men were betting. Is that true?

A. No, they weren’t. They were cheering us on. I don’t know about bets. They were encouraging us. In Adele’s book, she refers to me as Angelina or something stupid. She says I’m a lesbian schoolteacher. I wasn’t a lesbian at the time, nor was I  teacher then. Everybody was bombed out of their minds at the time.  Everybody was high or drunk. It was ridiculous. The next day we met at a party. We were all covered in bruises, Adele and I.

You know the story at the party, where he stabbed her? She told me that he made her do that[start the fight.]  She took me into the bathroom. He used it as part of his excuse.

The stabbing was after the summer. The fight was in August. The stabbing was in the fall. He invited Bill to the party because Bill was his pal. I was living with Bill, so I came along. I was so provocative in those days. If I was drunk, I was looking for trouble. Did you ever hear of Richard Olney? There is a quote from his book Reflections, where he talks about his lover Eliot Stein going to orgies with this tall, handsome American girl Harriet Sohmers, who was always looking for trouble.

I don’t know where Olney got that from. I did go to orgies, but not with Eliot Stein. I have a story about an orgy that no one wants to publish. I was la vedette, the star of the orgy. The story’s called “The Gift of Eros.”