Gathering Inspiration From the East Village Art Scene
Reading a David Wojnarowicz biography while laid up in bed.
THE WRITER is having a subscription special! Join for nearly half-off of a yearly subscription, and support me (Jan) and the newsletter!
I’ve been laid up in bed for over two weeks now. It sucks. Funny, because I have dreamed many a time of spending days in bed reading. Just goes to show that when I am forced to do something (and in pain), I am not receptive.
Working from bed is hard because my body can only occupy a variation of one position. I am supposed to be revising my book— I haven’t started. Mostly because it feels overwhelming to do so when I cannot move around freely.
There is one good thing: books. I have a lot of them. And when I am not working, and because I cannot do much else, I read. I’m currently reading Fire in the Belly, by Cynthia Carr. It’s a deeply researched (and lived) biography of David Wojnarowicz. Wojnarowicz is someone I have always felt attracted to, though he was gone from this world by the time I was eleven. You know those public figures to whom we feel we are kindred? He’s that for me. I read Close the the Knives, his memoir, when I was in my MFA program. Although we studied writing in our program, many of my peers and teachers didn’t know who Wojnarowicz was, and when I read a passage of his memoir at a social event, they seemed blown away by its potency.
Something I’ve always been fascinated by are the worlds within our worlds. The whole swathes of writers and artists and humans that slip through the cracks of history, and the ones that get picked up and kept in our pockets. As I read Fire in the Belly I am struck by how many names I don’t recognize, and also by the many names I do recognize, and how those people seem to have disappeared, too.
In this world in particular, the world of art and music and writing that was the Lower East Side in the eighties and early nineties, many of those names are gone because the people themselves are gone, and many of the people are gay men who died due to HIV/AIDS. So, I am going to share some of them with you. In case you’re interested in knowing more about them.
“The feeling of new art is fugitive, like the fun; here for a moment, gone forever. It’s only truly valuable before it’s surrounded by the mystique of money, while it’s still owned by the culture, before it becomes booty.” -Rene Ricard.
Klaus Nomi
I first came across Nomi’s music when I was much younger, but didn’t dive in until about six years ago. Klaus Nomi, if he had not died from complications due to HIV (before anyone knew what it was), may have been more of a cultural icon. He deserved it, as his music and his art were transgressive, inventive, and individual. Just take a listen to the above song. Many artists should be crediting Nomi as their inspiration, yet many have never even heard of him. I have often thought of what Nomi would have done had his life been fully lived, but he left us with so much as it is, and deserves to be recognized for that.
Read this incredible piece on Klaus Nomi by Kathy Iandoli.
This was a last performance by Nomi, who was already sick when he performed it.
Peter Hujar
Peter Hujar’s photography is striking, beautiful, and subversive— yet he didn’t receive wide recognition or acceptance until after his death. He lived in poverty for most of his life in order to be able to shoot as many pictures as he could, and have control over the pictures he made.
Sur Rodney Sur
Sur Rodney is still here. Read about him, and hear what he has to say about the East Village art scene.
Kiki Smith
Kiki Smith is still making art. Read an interview with her over at BOMB Magazine.
Keith Haring
Haring and Wojnarowicz weren’t friends. In fact, after Haring reached a certain height of popularity, Wojnarowicz expressed bitterness at how unfriendly Haring had been to him when they both worked at the same bar. Haring was mainstream where Wojnarowicz was subversive, pushing the boundaries of his art and the art world in general, and yet even that assessment is wrong, as Haring’s art was subversive in its own way.
Many people know Haring’s name and recognize his art. The way I see it, they both deserve to be remembered in their own right, and neither was superior to the other.
Scarcity in the art world, or a perceived scarcity, does terrible things to us.
I love learning about old worlds, worlds that are gone but never gone, because the people who made them are still here— still alive or still remaining in the art they left behind. Thinking of these connections inspires me.
Which worlds have you been immersed in lately?