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LESLIE/LOHMAN ARCHIVE NO. 23
BEING THERE
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There is the Leslie/Lohman Gay Art Foundation. A member for several years, I attend as many events as I can: living in East Hampton, this takes planning. But don’t we all put ourselves out one way or another for pleasure? Last autumn, I attended the exhibition of works by Duncan Grant, Bruce Nugent, Celso Castro, and Eric Rhein with a range of visual interest. I stood before a, photo collage of a Colombian standing nude by Castro, thinking surely someone would notice my jaw dropping with awe and desire. But then I tend to be invisible and realized others wouldn't notice my “aesthetic” pose. I say “invisible” not as a putdown but a wry observation of myself observing art and men. On Nov. 28 I attended the exhibition and book signing by Joe Oppedisano for his Testosteron. Joe was photographing a Falcon model posed in leather for those of us whose testosterone was pumping. While polite conversation filtered through the gallery, I was once again agog while adroitly holding my drink. Years earlier Oppedisano had been a male stripper at Eros, a gay theater on 8th Ave., which I visited along with the nearby Gaiety when both were open. Perhaps I’d seen Joe. Had he approached me in the darkened theater? The Duncan Grant paintings in the exhibit are owned by Douglas Blair Turnbaugh. In 1987, after reading Turnbaugh’s biography of Duncan Grant, Duncan Grant and the Bloomsbury Group—a watershed event for me, I wrote to Turnbaugh in care of the publisher, and within a week I heard back. He invited me to his loft on Grand St. A friendship developed immediately. A year later, having seen the work of Patrick Angus in Christopher Street magazine, I got in touch with Angus who lived on W. 88th St. and was swept away by his paintings, especially those of the Gaiety dancers and their patrons. (I have written of Angus in The Archive, Number 11, 2003.) I called Turnbaugh and arranged for him to meet Angus, and the rest is history. Turnbaugh was instrumental in arranging exhibitions of Angus’s work at Leslie/Lohman, Ganymede Gallery, and U.C. Santa Barbara before and after Angus’s death in 1992. Visiting Angus in 1988 and thereafter, I purchased and commissioned paintings but did not purchase any of his large Gaiety paintings. Silly me. Happily, I have a number of his works including two portraits of myself, clothed, and nude, and a double portrait of myself and my son. The point is that through my meeting with Turnbaugh, and my discovery of Angus and my introduction of Angus to Turnbaugh—well, you get the picture. It all ends up at Leslie/Lohman. At the gallery fundraising auction in October, I won the bids for two works of art, one a drawing of a lovely Russian youth, Nikolay, by Todd Yeager, and a photograph of three naked men on crosses by photographer, Neil Polen. The photograph was donated to the auction by Sur Rodney Sur, one of the men on the crosses. I have a particular interest in things religious and sexual and their harmony or disharmony and found that photograph suggestive of their harmony (though others might not think so). I met Todd Yeager at the auction and told him I had one of his small drawings from the Leslie/Lohman erotic drawing workshops. Not being an artist I am not part of the Leslie/Lohman erotic drawing workshop, but Harvey Redding, one of the workshop coordinators, suggested I come and draw. Anyone can draw something, right? Maybe… I bought colored pencils and a sketchbook and practiced drawing nudes from magazines at home and thought I can do that. One summer day, I packed pencils and sketchbook into a backpack slung over my shoulder and headed for the workshop. But it was not to be. It was Aug. 14, 2003—the Northeast blackout—the moment had passed. I saw a reference to William Crist, a workshop artist, on Leslie/ Lohman’s website in connection with the Tom of Finland art fairs. I remembered Crist’s stunning 1983 exhibition of male nudes in East Hampton. I was bowled over by his portraits which reminded me of the work of Alice Neel. The full frontal male nudes tripped the “morality” wire of East Hampton’s Ladies Village Improvement Society. The police were called, looked around, “Nothing wrong here,” they said and left. The exhibit remained open. Seeing the reference to Crist 23 years later, I got in touch with him—he lives in Manhattan with a studio in Brooklyn. I purchased one of his male nude drawings. Being there... the gay art scene... Leslie/Lohman connections. I put Alvin Novak, a friend of mine, in touch with the Foundation. He had a John Button painting he wanted to donate, so I put him in touch with Rob Hugh Rosen. The painting, Scott as Ganymede, is reproduced and annotated in the lush Male Desire by Jonathan Weinberg. Being there at the Oppedisano book signing, I revisited the Castro photographs and sighed. I viewed again the erotic energy in the Grant paintings in which I see white boys’ insouciant couplings with knowing black men. Charles Leslie, the gracious host, walked me through the crowd. I chatted with Wayne, Harvey, Rob, Scott, and Tom, waved to Roberto. Then again the Leslie/Lohman connection—two friends from the Hamptons—a New York professor, and a writer from my Ashawagh Hall Writers Workshop. Suddenly there. I have written a memoir. Doesn't everyone? In it I have woven the threads of religion and sex, spirituality and sexuality. I am Presbyterian clergy now retired, and I have been working out the relation between religious faith and sexuality for a lifetime, beginning with sexual repression. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a long stem rose, but to use the analogy I have been a long time opening. Opening, yes. I have pitched my memoir to editors and publishers but to no avail. The trouble is, while my story may be interesting, it is not sensational. No scandal. No abuse. Just the steady growth in a life of self-discovery—a married clergyman, a single parent with a gay son who lives with a partner of thirteen years. I retired at 64 with a sense of personal and professional fulfillment. A memoir, like an article in The Archive, is never the final word. In the ongoingness of life I enjoy my forays to Leslie/Lohman. I am “there.” There at the gallery, there with myself, there with friends. Let the soiree begin. I left the November party early, as though possessed of a fear I might turn into the pumpkin. I dashed off into the darkness, to the subway, the jitney, home. My Testosterone was with me, certainly. Until next time—at Leslie/Lohman. |
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