Despite the fact that the boys were straight, they were advocates of “queer theory,” which was not only for or about homosexuals but could be applied to all manner of persons and things. The point was to “bend the categories.” I was all for that, of course, and they were an earnest, touching pair. Lenny reminded me of an anarchist from the thirties with his round wire-rims, and Ethan, with his large eyes and dark curly hair, seemed to be hiding a sense of humor somewhere, although I wasn’t sure where. When I first met him, he spoke to me about how my act “embodied disruptions of normativity.” They were disruptions lifted directly from my own life. I played versions of my parents, whom I called Hester and Lester, and I played Letty as Hetty, when she was a wild tot and as her grown-up, serious engineer self who doesn’t approve of the fact that I robbed our family story for the theater, and I played my old-soul, epileptic, little-boy self and Sister Eleanor in the grip of her tongues, but always with comic distance, and I did it in costume, cut in half, black and white, man and woman — but the boys were right: By the end of the show all the neat distinctions between one thing and another had gone queer.
Ethan wanted me to meet his mother: waif saver of the universe. I came preapproved because I was technically homeless and because the Bugle had turned H/Lester into a “theoretical construct,” and this had impressed the rag’s nine readers, one of whom was Harry herself. A few days before I met Ms. Burden for the first time, there had been an uproar at the Red Hook lodge. One of Harry’s waifs, named Linda Lee, whose “art” involved cutting her body and taking photographs of the damage, overcut herself in the hallway of the resident artists’ wing and was rushed to Methodist Hospital, where she was patched up, shipped to a psychiatric ward for a week, and then sent home to her mother in Montclair. Apparently, Harry had not understood that the girl’s artistic impulses involved real blood. Ethan might have had his head in cumulus formations, but, as he put it, his mother’s “charitable impulses had to be curbed before disaster struck twice.” He also told me that “one insane person was enough in the place”—a reference to the Barometer, whom I came to know and tolerate.
In short, that is how I assumed the role of master of ceremonies at the Red Hook lodge. Harry had not been paying attention. I told her that she couldn’t take in any piece of trash that came begging at the door. This wasn’t a crib for impoverished tourists, nutcases, slatterns, and junkies, was it? We needed bona fide artistic types who would stay awhile and do some chores. The Barometer was already dug in, and Harry was stuck on the man, whom she believed to be harmless, which he was, mostly, except that he did not wash. It was Maisie who convinced him that a weekly immersion in the tub with a bar of soap was the price he had to pay for his living quarters. Maisie was a sort of specialist in insane people, and she went on to make a film about him called Body Weather, which won a prize at a film festival. I also discovered that the Medeco key to the front door had been copied by a cabal of lost boys and girls who came and went in the night. I changed the lock.
I took over the excommunicated Linda Lee’s spaces and, after posting a sign that read NO ROOMS AVAILABLE, I started the informal application process for artists in need. I decided there was space for three to live and work in the building besides Harry, and since the Barometer and I were already there, we had room for one more resident. We settled on Eve, a flamboyant character born and raised in Idaho, twenty-five years old and a seamstress of force. She moved in with her Singer and sewed up a circus of artworks that Harry and I both thought were adorable. Eve didn’t stay long. Ulysses, a sculptor in the minimalist tradition, followed, and then came Delia, who worked exclusively in old-shoe installations (my favorite). I created the minimal rules and regulations — no littering on-site; excessive noise after eleven p.m. strictly forbidden; love objects welcome but absolutely no sexual business transacted on site (not a problem anymore, but as a prohibition it gave us some chuckles); presence required once every two months to show and discuss finished work or work in progress. We hired a weekly cleaning team to roar through the two floors of the building, divvied up some domestic jobs, and the lodge was civilized.
But you want to know how it happened, the story between Harry and me. Well, it didn’t happen fast. It crawled up on us. We rented movies on Sunday afternoons, mostly oldies Harry had never seen: Busby Berkeley extravaganzas for their kaleidoscope visuals—Footlight Parade, Gold Diggers, Forty-second Street; some Rogers and Astaire; and the old films for Negro audiences only: Cabin in the Sky and Look-Out Sister, and Harlem Is Heaven with the Jangler — Bojangles, “Everything’s Copacetic,” the “Dark Cloud of Joy,” born Luther-in-Richmond-Virginia-Robinson, who danced up on his toes, precise rhythms, perfect tones — and Stormy Weather with Robinson again, some faux version of his life with Fats Waller, Cab Calloway, Lena Horne, and the oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-how-well-they-can-dance Nicholas Brothers. I started tap lessons at four and could impress Harry with some shuffle-ball changes and skating moves, but I never had the real stuff. Lester does a little soft shoe in my show, and it always goes over pretty well. Harry called the Sunday movie our “cozy time,” and she liked to put on what she called “soft clothes” or “nearly pajamas” for the occasion and make popcorn. Then we’d sprawl and laze in front of the TV. We were not always alone. Other members of the lodge joined us from time to time. Bruno, Eve, or the Barometer, who wandered in and out or brought his sketchpad to the sofa and drew.
Exactly when our project was hatched I can’t remember, but one Saturday I visited Harry’s studio and noticed she had painted SUFFOCATION in huge letters on the wall. “I’m thinking about it,” she said, “as a theme.” Then she changed the subject, or so I thought at the time. I now believe it was the same subject, not a transition, because it was a story about her father. She told me about her first show in New York, when she was in her early thirties. Her parents came to the opening. Her mother was sweet and proud and full of congratulations. Her father was silent, but then right before he left, he said to her, “It doesn’t resemble much else that’s out there, does it?”
I asked her what he had meant. She said she didn’t really know. I asked her how she answered back, and she said, “I didn’t say anything.”
He shut her up.
The man wasn’t some unsophisticated boob; he knew art. He had a hankering for Frank Stella, she told me. I said to Harry: “That’s pretty cold, don’t you think? I mean, it’s a cold thing to say to your own daughter.”
“That’s what Doctor F. says.”
I told her a medical degree wasn’t needed to see cold as cold.