iris 2 (my modeling career)

i lived vicariously through my friend t.s. (hi, sweetie, <3 u!) a model of incomparable beauty (truly), but one year

the carol ware fur salon (at bonwit teller or i. magnin? i can’t remember, but it overlooked the watertower on michigan avenue and was the ne plus ultra of fur salons in the city at the time–197_) put on a runway show in the wicker room of arnie’s restaurant where i was working. so i’m standing there minding my own business, when ms. ware comes up to me and says, “you, what’s your name?” “bobpatrick,” i replied. “come with me,” she said taking me by the hand and into the hall where she promptly pulled a man’s fur coat off the rack and handed it to me, “you’ll wear this,” she purred as she helped me into a nutria-lined trenchcoat, pushing me into the room to walk the makeshift runway that ran between the tables where much of chicago’s beau monde was seated.

so i walked, bitches. i tied  the trench’s belt, i untied it and opened the coat to show off the nutria lining, i walked to the end of the runway and stopped and stared off into space with a look of “let them eat cake” disdain gracing my 20-something mustachioed face…and turned and repeated ‘the walk’ back through the tables.

ms. ware gave me another coat to wear and later, after the event was over, asked me if i wanted to do it again at her shop. which i did and while there, when i thought i knew it all, i suggested to her “what if i put a belt with this mink coat,” she stopped cold, turned her steely gray eyes to me, half-glasses perched at the end of her nose and said, “do not gild a lily.” a lesson i’ve tried to remember throughout the intervening years (unless, of course, i’m in a particularly rococo mood, then everything gets gilded.)

the snail and the leaf, a parable

nothing happened. the snail made its way slowly across the sidewalk, ignoring the leaf i had placed in its way, and leaving behind it its silvery trail of slime. there are times in the late afternoon when the sun is just so in the sky that the sidewalks shimmer with snail’s trails, beautiful silvery ribbons of goo with little breaks every few inches where the snail has pulled up and off the sidewalk in order to move itself forward. at night they congregate in a mosh pit of snail love, all one upon the other; if you’re very still you can hear henry rollins and black flag just before he throws himself shirtless off the stage into the arms of his raving fans [although that may be my memory of seeing them perform at the mud club in chicago in 198_, but whatever. --author]

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speaking as a ___ man (my first fifteen boyfriends and one christopher hitchens quote)

no discussion of the gay liberation movement in the 1970s can be had without talking about the politics of sex.  besides, if as they say, all politics are personal* it would be a fruitless effort; no story would be the same and all stories would be the same one (an orgy of similarities, greased and slippery, rampant and limp.)

there they are, all lined up, posing for this group photo; the short one, the tall, the muscle-bound, barrel-chested, and model-thin, bald, moustachioed, bearded or shaved smooth, the priest, the artist, the chef and the thief (nothing but heartache); some with roadblocks of hair everywhere, slowing you down as you explored their terrain and others so smooth that your hand would slip right off of them as you stroked their haunches driving ever onward, a few so well-schooled that whispering with them, our heads under the covers, breath hot, lips together, was an education, and their opposites–all physical, nothing personal, cool to the touch, hard and uncaring (marble, veined in the black of night, glimmering under the disco light).

lasalle street, high-rise, or three-flat, southside, uptown, burroughs & ginsberg, lachaise (gaston), the boat basin at congress, miller’s pub & the berghoff, henry james, fyodor d. and the romantic poets, libraries and restaurant kitchens, leather, levis, and prep school, drag queen/straight man (men), socks on and socks off, backrooms, the bushes (a bar and a hedgerow), nightlife/afternoons only, red high top all stars, cellos, voyeurs, and drugs; a well-aimed mayonnaise jar that shattered on the street missing its mark not because i wanted it to miss, but because i’m a sissy and throw like a girl (so i was told, it was not my misogyny, but his), tops and bottoms and everything in-between–there is much to be said for the middle ground–role-playing, limits, agreements and a safe ‘word’ that would end it all (if you were lucky enough to have found a master with a heart, many didn’t, bruising ensued).

all of the heterosexual world writ large, in hyper-drive, grandiose illusions of what our sex meant, a carnival mirror reflection of what we decried as bourgeois, missionary, vanilla, and bland.  all the while longing for that one, true love, a partner we could call our own, the picket fence and two cars in the garage (sometimes you may even have had a ‘chicken’ in the pot).  three-ways and group sex, baths and the backrooms, the triumph of climax over being at home alone (either way you may have had a towel wrapped around your waist and your cock–or someone else’s– in your hand.)

of course, you continued to be an object of scrutiny and scientific study by anyone involved in the ‘me’ generation, the hip, the progressive all wanting a little of your fairy dust to sprinkle on their lives just as they imagined that you were able to turn your life into a tale of some kind of triumph; many of them not wanting you to step outside the roles of decorator, ribbon-clerk, hairdresser, dancer, actor (always suspect–there’s all that deep sharing–and the touching–that frightens them the most), making their lives more beautiful, just don’t step outside of those boundaries.  you couldn’t possibly be a tinker tailor soldier spy teacher banker mechanic candlestick-maker (okay, maybe a candlestick-maker), but you know those gay men spent the 70s in the closet, some of whom i dated, some of whom i left for that reason because the lying was too much to bear or to hear (and i quote), “i’m not queer, i just like to fuck men sometimes,” as he dressed in the half-darkness of one late winter afternoon in my chicago apartment on his way to meet his fiancée for dinner–the last we saw of each other.

please understand that i believe all men are equal and as such deserve the same rights afforded to their neighbors, but, and it is a big BUT, our heterodoxy — however you describe it — deserves a place at the table as well.   i want to live a life that’s my own and i believe that gay men and women live life differently than heterosexuals.  so, speaking as a gay man…

*Quoting Christopher Hitchens in “Hitch 22″: As 1968 began to ebb into 1969 however, and as “anticlimax” began to become a real word in my lexicon, another term began to obtrude itself. People began to intone the words “the personal is political”. At the instant I first heard this deadly expression, I knew as one does from the utterance of any sinister bullshit that it was very bad news. From now on, it would be enough to be a member of a sex or gender, or epidermal subdivision, or even erotic “preference”, to qualify as a revolutionary. In order to begin a speech or to ask a question from the floor, all that would be necessary by way of preface would be the words: “Speaking as a…” Then could follow any self-loving description. I will have to say this much for the old “hard” left: We earned our claim to speak and intervene by right of experience and sacrifice and work. There are many ways of dating the moment when the left discarded its moral advantage, but this was the first time that I was to see the sellout conducted so cheaply.

(many) a/some long walk(s) in the fall

for those first few years of living in chicago and making my way on my own (fraught  [yes, i wrote 'fraught', but then i thought better of it, i mean, who says 'fraught' anymore, except snobs putting on airs?] complicated as it was with the vagaries of youth and indecision) i was a student of the long walk.

if you live in chicago, or have lived in chicago, i think you may understand how easily it is to fall under the spell of long walks.  for one thing, it’s nearly impossible to get lost in chicago.  it is one of its great advantages over new york city, i believe.  no matter where you are the numbers are always the same, radiating out from 0 at madison and state, every block going east and west from state st. is numbered the same and every block going south and north from madison is likewise numbered.  that’s why a chicagoan will always give you their exact address, “i live at 1343 wolfram, one block north of diversey,” and you would immediately know that they were just east of southport (1400 west) — and 2900 north — 29 blocks north of madison.  that never happens in new york, does it?  i thought not.

regardless, there are very few times weather-wise in chicago when a long walk is something you’d want to undertake (unless circumstances force you to); in the summer the heat and humidity would do you in by block 3 (or about 8 minutes into it),  winter–well, duh, and although spring may offer you occasional opportunities to hoof it a great distance they are not as frequent (or reliable) as fall is in chicago.

by late september and through october (and if your luck holds into november), there are so many perfect days, cool enough, dry enough, less windy, all-in-all perfect weather to strike out by foot for whatever destination suits your mood.

and then there are fall clothes, which with their corduroy, flannel, cable knit, cashmere, vest, foulard and cap are incredibly suited to a good, long walk.  you know that after a few blocks, you’ll start to warm up and you’ll need to shed a layer or unbutton your jacket, but with the sun to the south, there’s always that cool float of air circulating (an outdoor ceiling fan, if you will) and layers of fall clothes let you adapt and improvise, your scarf loosened or sweater tied around your neck/waist, all of it a bit scratchy and a little too comforting, but you’re on your long walk, and that casualness (disheveled/dishabille) is part of the allure and the attitude of someone with the leisure of taking a long walk.

the long walk is for you on the street, not the person on the #10 or the #22 bus, faced pressed against the window, exhausted at the end of their day and catching a glimpse of you walking, sigh, and they turn a jaundiced eye to your obvious insanity.  the billboard of their face shouts at you, ”what is wrong with you, walking?” there is nothing wrong with me that this long walk won’t cure, you mumble to yourself–it may be that you would say that phrase out loud, not that you need convincing, but because your inner voice sometimes need to be  heard.  obviously, the purpose of the long walk is exactly that, a chance for all of the turmoil and dust clouds of doubt and anxiety that you’ve held back, it is the opportunity to let it out (aloud or silently, it matters not.)

when i am on a long walk (true then, too) i take long strides–i never thought of it as walking fast, quite the contrary, for someone of my imposing height, with the longest of legs balanced by a torso that tends to thinness and arms that swing to and fro,  i always thought i walked at exactly the right pace for who i am, marking time with a good shoe’s leather heel beating a rhythm, i want to stretch out my legs (a racehorse) and lean into the walk (not speed-walking, i’m much too arch for that); it’s a walk that gets me somewhere i want to go with a bit of elegance and economy of movement.

combine with this gait a penchant for observing, the gutter below as well as the cloud above, the man with the flapping trenchcoat and swinging brown leather briefcase ahead of me racing to catch the idling bus (not for me, no i’m walking), the children coming out of l’école français on state street with their berets and mary-janes, cars idling at the curb waiting to drive them around the corner to their greystone on astor street, the view of lincoln park at the end of the street, the red brick of the cardinal’s victorian/gothic residence, the smell of grass, tar, exhaust, and the wind off the lake adding its own watery slap, slap to my time up and out of the near north, the ‘gold coast’ and into lincoln park. (we are, after all, talking about a walk in chicago one nameless fall day in 197_ or maybe even 198_, long enough ago that it doesn’t matter what day it was or how often i repeated it–which was not nearly enough–all that matters is that i did it.)

before i got that far though, i’d have stopped for a moment to speak with h_____, the florist at the corner of elm and state street, who introduced me to sterling silver roses, or crossing the street rang ben k___’s bell to see if he wanted to go out later that night (this before cell phones–how did we manage our social lives?  just fine, thank you very much.  there was a lot of silence which i believe was good for us, perhaps for you too, even now.) it could have been that i did neither, already cocooned in the solitude of this long walk, focused solely on putting one foot ahead of the other as thoughts and dreams flowed freely through my mind; the minor and major irritants (a speck of sand in the oyster) allowed their opportunity in the fresh air and sunshine of a long walk.

i’d pass sandburg village (all townhomes and apartment towers), moody bible school (it’s red brick roundness a stone in the stream of traffic melding around it, the historical society and the break of clark street from lincoln park west, more often than not i’d choose clark street with the a stop at the belden deli with its steam table matzoh ball soup, ordering a liverwurst sandwich on a kaiser roll with a slice of red onion, tomato and lettuce, all wrapped in wax paper–with its kosher pickle–and tucked into a brown paper bag to carry along on the way home, something comforting, a goal that i knew i could achieve.

there’d be the decision at fullerton to cut right and up lakeview past the mies van de rohe apartment tower or stay the course on clark to wrightwood or diversey (depending on the year, of course, whether i lived on pine grove or on wolfram — separated by my years in pilsen) with its storefronts and shops, its traffic (foot or wheeled) or by then i may have thought to drop in at the aspidistra bookstore where i first fell in love with durrell, and where the dust motes and dirty windows, the boston ferns and the table bins with used books stacked all willy-nilly and the owners love for books all conspired to seduce you (you could not refuse such an offer, it would have been like refusing manet’s olympia, you could not imagine the disdain, her look of boredom with your obvious stupidity.)

of course, there were times when i made no stops, considered no diversions, paused only for stoplights and turning traffic, avoiding the exhaust of a cta bus belching its disgust at you–walking, of all things, how could you?–my head and my feet with but one goal in mind, home.  and you know, you know if you’ve done this yourself, that those final steps to your apartment door, perhaps preceded by the whoosh of the elevator (hopefully avoiding your neighbors) or the climb up 4 flights of stairs, again avoiding human contact as best you could, not wanting to sully the virgin snowfall that the long walk had laid down on your life, were often the most important steps you took that day as you closed the door and turned your back on the world.

monday (a flower a day)

“Art—the meaning of the pattern of our common actions in reality. The cloth-of-gold that hides behind the sackcloth of reality, forced out by the pain of human memory.” –Lawrence Durrell, Justine

i discovered lawrence durrell in a dusty old used bookstore on clark street in chicago around 197_.  the title, justine, captivated me for some reason–i know of no justine in my life that might have had some correlation to the feeling i had for that word and its possibility, its shades of meaning.  i flicked through the pages, scanning words, but not the thoughts behind them, that came later, once i’d gotten home with it and sat down by the window in my tower.   i read it.  and then i read it again as soon as i had finished it the first time–fearful that there was much i had missed; i was right.

on a subsequent visit to the same bookstore, i looked for other books by durrell and found balthazar and its inside cover revealed that it was part of a larger work, the alexandria quartet, of which justine was but the first of four novels, characters all interwoven in the dry streets of alexandria, as durrell said, “the sackcloth of reality.”  since then, i’ve read those four books at least three more times, you might say that it’s become a ritual (and you would be right.)

p.s.  i was going to call durrell’s travel writing ‘lighter fare’ but then i remembered sicilian carousel which if you haven’t read it, i highly recommend, both for its whimsy and its scholarship.

p.p.s.  every garden should have at least one yellow rose.

the alley behind 1343 wolfram street, east of southport & north of diversey, chicago, 1980, watercolor, crayon & ink on paper, 11″ x 17″ by robert patrick, s.a.i.c.,recently retrieved from the garage wall where it has been hanging in a ratty old frame for at least 15 years

this apartment’s personality was such that it often made up for what i lacked, although of all the places i lived in chicago over 16 1/2 years, i like to think we were equally matched and that it was as much a personification of me as I was of it.

this was an apartment that was passed from one friend to another as the current tenant’s life took a turn and required their leaving it behind; all that was required was a “i’m moving,” and the word was out that it was available.  it is how i came to live there after my fall (from grace, and as i was reconstructing my life…perhaps even ‘finding myself’ to use the psycho-patois of the day), and was living with t. (who had rescued me from my past).  it was passed lovingly, perhaps a little frayed around the edges (misty with the previous tenants’ memories still lingering at the edges of the rooms), from the friend of a friend into my waiting arms; a bouquet, a child, a gift.

it was an unassuming shingle-sided two-story dark chocolate brown wood frame building with a steep pitched roof on a double lot (in the summer, the yard was a grassy respite complete with roses and pansies and petunias (he said without irony).  the apartment was tucked into the attic with gables for the dining room and kitchen, narrow bedroom and tiny bathroom (painted with gray & pink stars, tiles to match), the whole space couldn’t have been more than 350 square feet.  the ceiling in the ‘living room’ was coved like an airstream trailer and from its window you could see the john hancock center.  it occupied a little less than half the attic, with a set of back stairs (not unlike “upstairs, downstairs”) that led down to the laundry room on the ground floor and the caretaker’s apartment.

the author with roses and petunias outside 1343

it fit me perfectly.  up to where the ceiling began its curve the walls were tiled in blond maple wood squares with hidden doors that slid up into the wall revealing the sofa.  there were print drawers hidden behind another set of doors.  the dining room and kitchen were tiled in hammered copper tiles — with a dining room table on a pipe that allowed you to pull it out from the wall, exposing a banquette upholstered in turquoise naugahyde (exquisite against the burnished copper) for additional guests.  at the end of the table was a large multi-paned metal mullioned crank-out window that looked out onto the yard and the alley behind the building, toward downtown.

fine dining chez moi (more likely, fine drinking)

much of my life during the 5 years i lived there (when m. entered my life, we lived in it for a bit until a larger apartment became available downstairs, but we held onto the attic apartment until we finally moved into a home we had bought elsewhere in the city) was spent sitting at the table with its large window lighting my day time reading, or the view inspiring my painting (often though i would draw and paint on the cork floor tiles–which afforded me more room) or smoking a cigarette and just dreaming (day- or night-).

diligent dilettante maintaining his correspondence

part of the fun of living there was seeing the expression of delight on someone’s face when they first saw the space after clamboring up the three flights of stairs a hand on the wrought iron railing, the echo of footfall your constant companion (and if we weren’t already fumbling with each other’s clothes, mouths locked together, boots being pulled off, etc., i was, after all, only in my 20s.)  what i do remember is how it embraced my friends, everyone comfortable in a chair or at the table or staring out the window, no matter where they may have lit after arriving, it appeared to me that they had always just been there, perhaps in another life, or perhaps this apartment just held people differently, lovingly.  i believe it was a healing space.

a swede bearing gifts

the apartment was furnished in what would now be considered mid-century but then was just a decade or so from new.  the bedroom had an extra long single bed that you could slide under the eve, with bolsters that made it a sofa.  there were built in bookshelves which suited me just fine (besides the ones in the living room) and with a long narrow east window high above the bed that let just the right amount of light in the morning and was perfectly dark at night.  i spent a lot of time in there (do not snigger and besides) reading — this year the russians, gogol, turgenev, dostoyevsky, tolstoy; that year devoted to graves, lawrence, woolf, and durrell (i am passionate about lawrence durrell’s alexandria quartet) and the year after that devoted to mann, james (henry), elliot and hardy, i love you tess.

it was an extraordinary feast.   one made richer by the lack of television watching, this then my lost decade of tv (except for i, claudius on pbs) for i only had a 10″ b & w set that got spotty reception and it seemed such a chore to watch tv when there was so much to do otherwise (read, draw, smoke, go out to bars, work, stare into space without guilt).  a friend took pity on me after i quit my job at the restaurant and treated me to a season of opera-going at the lyric opera of chicago and along with that there was the tending of my friendships (a garden of my own).

did i tell you that i only paid $40.00 a week in rent?  you were sitting down, weren’t you?  of course, that rent was a reflection of the times, but as i found out, it went directly into the pocket of the caretaker, violet linné, and her boy toy (not that that particular handle had been in circulation then, but it is the appropriate term to apply to him), wally, as part of their compensation for maintaining the building and yard/garden.  violet was a wraith of a woman, wispy gray hair a halo around her pale thin face (blue veins just below the surface of her temples; she often tried to pull her hair into the semblance of a bun at the back of her neck with a scarf à la little edie tied loosely around her delicate brain pan, it was the head of a porcelain doll.  she was a sparrow, a little bird) a fluttering, hopping, pecking woman who adored ‘young men’ (her euphemism for gay men) whom she preferred to rent to over young women whom she found, “disturbingly inconsistent, always getting pregnant, so unstable, running off to get married,” — who knew what her experience had been to cause such a statement, but it was delivered often enough to have become the truth to her.

wally, on the other hand, rarely spoke more than a declarative sentence, a big shambling man, whom i remember in coveralls more often than not, although that particular memory may be completely false, the result of finding him lurking in the dark shadows of the laundry area, wiping his hands on a greasy rag–it may have been that he had a workshop back there and found it a quiet space to be in, but nonetheless it always startled me to hear him behind me as i stuffed sheets into the washing machine or pulled towels out of the dryer, with a “hey wally, how’s it going?” issuing from my lips and a grunt his response (which did nothing to dispel his creep factor.)

author with muse 1

how did all of this start?  oh yes, the painting of the alley that ran behind the building:  the stairs up to my apartment (and the two below it), ran up the back of the building in what appeared to be an addition to the structure, a window on each landing and mine the final stop, it with a balcony looking down the entire flight, the place i stored my bike and after buzzing someone in i would wait for them there, listening to their breathing as it deepened the closer they came to the top of the stairs, their eyes lifted up in anticipation of my smile of welcome (usually).

but the alley.  it was my preferred entrance to the block as i walked west on diversey and would slip up lincoln avenue and left down into the alley there.  it’s not surprising to anyone who is a fan of alleys that there is much more information about the building’s inhabitants happening there than on the street where they’ve put their best face forward (or not.)  of course, my most vivid memories of walking down that alley take place in winter (when is it not winter in chicago?) there would be tire tracks to follow through the deeper snow, but for reasons beyond my comprehension at the time — or even consideration — i found it the most quiet, serene part of my day, whether coming home from work, play or going out in the morning or late at night, for i was a habitué of late nights (as were many gay men then, somehow it was safer — there were more of us around at night, trolling for, um, companionship, camaraderie, love.)

author with his constant muse

i am not an artist.  i don’t pretend to be one.  but the painting of the alley behind 1343 wolfram (since demolished) is as i remember it.  there would be dark corners and bright windows, green lawns and the smell of dinner and the sound of a lawn sprinkler and then there would be that heavy blanket of snow and all the colors would leach out, leaving gray, brown, white, taupe (the other painting in my head.)  this one though is filled with nighttime and waning light, the angle of a porch light on the wooden stairs to the garage, and the smell of garbage cans, metallic and cold to the touch.  and there i am, neither coming or going, but here.

to your health!

a miscellany (it happens)

daily, i am reminded that i know nothing.  (nothing, of course, is relative.)  daily, i am reminded that i do know something, but that there is much i do not know. (knowing, of course, is relative.) daily, i am reminded that nothing is knowing.  (both of which are incompatible, because, even the lowliest of us knows something.)  daily, i am reminded that i know something, but there is much left to learn.  (learning, of course, is relative.)  daily, i am reminded that i am learning (much.)

research meditation information procrastination

i’m sorry you missed the sunrise this morning.  it was magnificent.  but instead you chose to mope around the foyer, striking dramatic poses & sighing heavily, “ah me.”

night, michigan avenue looking south from the sheraton hotel, spring 1973

mary (moorhead, minnesota, 1973, silver gelatin print)

sunrise, march 26, 2011 at 6:45 a.m. pdt

i am just a wee bit of a chatty cathy today (just ask m. for confirmation) as i did not sleep well last night & woke up about 3:30 & just laid there, my mind spinning & stopping (topics: minou, my aching lower right jaw — which was why i was awake — the dilaudid that i’d taken for the pain & which most likely was the cause of my wakefulness, work — which i won’t bore you with — writing, posting, blogs, minou again — seriously — facebook, the pain, am i dying — of course i am, we all are kind-of-thoughts,) & i was flopping from the fetal position to flat on my back & back again to the fetal position (lying on my right side only); one pillow over my head & then off again, finally just muttering to myself, “get the fuck up,” downing in quick succession two mugs of coffee, well, i’m sure you get the idea.  so, yeah, my lips are flapping.

was it john cheever or john updike (i get my johns confused sometimes) that said he liked to write about middles, because that’s where the extremes of life meet? after typing that sentence i’m sure it was updike.  but it got me to thinking that starting a book in the middle might be a good idea, if i were in the market for a good idea, that is.  which i may be, but i don’t want to talk about it, because if you put it out there, then there’s some expectation of results & i am not result oriented (i force my nature to be that way in my professional life; those people have expectation that must be met, besides i’m spoiled by the benefits associated with results & by the society that bestows those benefits based on the results one produces.)  la la la la la la la la la (really robert, you shouldn’t sing.)  middles.  yes, i think so.

2 self-portraits (30 years apart)

as it happens, i was digging around in the dark, cobwebby corners of the garage the other day & found a cache of drawings & watercolors that i had created in 1980, including the first of the self-portraits that you’ll see below.  i’ve included a journal entry, also from 1980 so you’ll have an idea of what was going on at approximately the same time as the drawing.  the 2nd drawing is from early last year, almost exactly 30 years after the first one.

november 28, 1979, wednesday–winter has arrived–god, i dread it so much however much my creative juices flow in cold weather there has to be an alternative.  i don’t know how many times i’ve asked myself “what am i to do?” can’t possibly go on doing that.  have had letter from b. & r. in paris–they’re insisting that i go there next year–i guess i’m afraid that if i go there i’ll never return.  europe seems, at times, to be the only alternative–completely different environment–new people, new challenges–i’m so desperately in need of a challenge.

having no discipline to speak of– a change of pace is the only thing that will rouse me.  will i spend my life looking for that challenge–changing everything when i don’t feel like i’m going anywhere, what am i afraid of?  am i not as smart as i’d like to think i am? …it just goes to show that a good act will get you nothing.

after 5 1/2 years at arnie’s [arnie morton's famed restaurant on state st. in chicago]–restaurant work–i’m not sure i can do anything else…i cannot let myself stagnate in such an environment…it’s turned me into such a bitch, such a hard, unbelieving person–i don’t believe anyone anymore–i don’t trust people like i used to.  i know they want to use me–when before i was much more gullible i liked myself better.  i was hurt more often, but i grew from that specific hurt.  i’m working within a lifestyle which is not necessarily suited to my soul, my psyche.  how to break away from it?

june 22, 1980–well, i’ve done it!  februay 19, 1980 i called arnie’s and told them i could no longer work there–a nice clean break–no chance of returning, yeah!  in the intervening months i worked at henrici’s another awful restaurant, but in april l. offered me a job with his company, so i took it–i’m working as an artist’s representative, selling their art to corporate art leasing agencies & exhibiting their work in galleries (hopefully).  it’s exciting, demanding, creative work and i can’t say how happy i am to be out of the restaurant business.

self-portrait 2010.  for the past 30 years i have worked successfully in the art gallery business.  as you’ve read above, i got my start in 1980 working with young, local chicago artists & i have never looked back (not true, obviously, if you’ve read this blog before, i look back a lot, but not to rue those days, but to remember what has gone before so that tomorrow can be greeted with an appreciation of the past.)

the self-portraits are strikingly similar (they should be, i am still me after all,) but in the way that i have chosen to draw my eyes, their startled look staring straight out at toward an unknown horizon (not at the viewer, don’t worry, they won’t follow you.)  the jaw line, the cheek bones, i can’t decide in which one i look older–there is the matter of less hair, the use of ink in the first delineating the darkness of my mustache, the graphite in the second highlighting the lack of hair on my head, perhaps it’s the lines in my forehead in the 2nd that give my age away (along with the nightshirt & the foot–added because someone i know said, “if you want to learn how to draw a foot, take off your shoe, your sock & draw it,” so i did & am proud to say that it looks remarkably like my right foot (not to be turned into a movie.)

words fail me

[page 2]…I had, fortunately, taken my keys out of the bookbag just before turning into the courtyard.  I ran into the building completely shattered.  I called Susan [a mistake, she was unhelpful] and told her what had happened and cried and then realized how absurd it was.  I called the police and they arrived very quickly and the interrogation began.

It wasn’t the mugging that has stuck with me all these years–in fact, without the second journal entry (above) I’d hardly remember it (it was not the last time, either.)  What has survived is the abject loss of the journal.  My first years in Chicago were difficult/exhilarating/frightening/introspective.  That first journal captured daily moods/dreams/conversations/strangers/friends/beauty/death, all word images meant to assist  my acting, my dancing, my life.  It was all about my growth, my maturation, my entry into adult life.

With the second journal (segments of which have been previously published here) I tried to capture that same freedom, but I was crippled by the loss of the first.  Who would want it?  What would they make of it?  What benefit could they possibly find in it?  It was so intimate, such a precise recording of my feelings that its sudden loss has reverberated throughout the intervening years.  I tried to vanquish its loss by telling myself that it got tossed as useless by the thieves.

Words don’t fail me.  It is a rare moment when I don’t have something to say about anything (sometimes piquant, sometimes not.)  But the recording of those words is just now beginning to flow again–in a completely unexpected forum–and I’m feeling the liberation that comes with that expressiveness.

Looking backwards in order to move forward has always been a mantra of mine.  My psychic friends–Freud/Jung/’The New Journalism’/ all insist on it.   A prescient intuition whispers quietly in my ear — “Express yourself.”