Gay Literature – Brian Ferrari's Blog

Maybe.

Part I – The Early 1970’s

*With my* Susan Sings Sesame Street LP (1971)

When I was two years old, my mother wrote in my baby book that I liked to listen to records. That’s how far back that goes. Among my Disneyland and Sesame Street records were all of my parents’ discarded 45s from their formative years. This was now the 1970’s and albums were what they were purchasing.

Even before I could read, I could tell by looking at the record label which songs I liked. The blue ones with the map on them were good (it was Motown). The ones with the orange and yellow swirl were The Beatles and The Beach Boys. (Capitol records – fun to watch spin on the turntable). My favorite record, though, was the only one with little doggies on the label: “Maybe” by the Chantels, on End records.

“Candy” – my mother’s name – was written on the label in neat pre-teen cursive. She told me many times that she used to listen to this record every day when she came home from school.

By this time, she was no longer quite so fond if it. She didn’t care for any of the old records, really. Not anymore. There wasn’t a lot of nostalgia in our house. The old-fashioned “ba-da-dum-dum dum” piano intro of “Maybe” would start and she’d roll her eyes, asking why I insisted on playing those old songs. But sometimes while doing housework, she would loudly sing along, complete with dramatic gestures that made me laugh.

Part II: 1979

My mom, her boyfriend, and I are sitting around listening to music. They met working at the Pizza Hut. He’s 20 years old and listens to Kiss and Foghat. She’s 33, divorced with three kids and likes Billy Joel and the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.

I don’t recall how “Maybe” came up, but I went and fished it out of my pile of 45s. Like me, he wasn’t born yet when this record came out. The song intro starts, and he jumps on it. “What the hell is that?” It is decades away from current popular music, and he’s making fun of it. Poking fun at her, really. Not in a mean way. Everyone is laughing.

He keeps starting the record over – playing that creaky piano intro over and over again until she’s laughing so hard, she has tears in her eyes.

Part III: July, 2011

July 30, 2011, I’m at Lincoln Center’s Damrosch Park for She’s Got The Power! A Girl Group Extravaganza. This is an all-day concert celebrating the girl groups of the 1950’s and 60’s. Former Chantels lead singer Arlene Smith is one of the performers.

By this point, “Maybe” is considered to be one of the greatest records of the 1950’s, paving the way for the girl group era and making a place at the table for female R&B vocal groups. Singers like Darlene Love and The Supremes cite the recording as an early influence.

Arlene Smith takes to the stage draped in glittery fabric, seated in an electric wheelchair that she expertly maneuvers around the stage as she sings the song. 54 years have passed since she recorded this, but her voice is still strong. I decide to call my mother, tell her where I am and hold up the phone for her to hear.

“Oh my god. I haven’t heard that song in years!” she says. She gets a little choked up, and I tell her I’ll call her later when I get home.

In the documentary Girl Groups – Story Of A Sound, Arlene Smith recalled that she had just turned 16 years old when the Chantels recorded “Maybe.” “I was singing about the kind of love that I didn’t know… I loved my parents.”

Part IV: July, 2026

We are enjoying a summer evening in my sister’s back yard, as best we can. A year and a half of cancer treatments has reduced my mother to 90 lbs, but it’s the Alzheimer’s that has now taken the lead in this battle. Earlier in the afternoon, we had her try to draw a clock – a cognitive test used to detect the disease. She couldn’t do it, although she can still tell the time on her watch. It’s a tricky thing to navigate.

I suddenly have an idea. I pick up my sister’s phone and hijack her Summer BBQ Spotify playlist. I tell my mother I want her to listen to something and see if she remembers it.

The piano begins “ba-da-dum-dum dum” …” Her brow is slightly furrowed. When the vocals start, she mouths the words, but she doesn’t sing. I don’t remember the last time I heard her sing.

My stepfather is dozing next to her. Without opening his eyes, he says “What year was that?”

“1958. Do you remember this song?,” I ask.

“Sounds familiar,” he says.

I tell my mother; “This was your favorite record when you were a kid. You said you used to listen to it every day when you came home from school.”

She nods and softly says, “I was heartbroken.”

“Over who?”

“I don’t remember.”

She may not have remembered, but later that night, I did. His name was Jackie. I grew up in the same house that my mother did and sometimes I would find little hearts drawn in hidden places: on the wall inside the linen closet, on the underside of the coffee table. In these hearts she had written “Candy loves Jackie.” I remember asking her about him back then. She told me about the first boy she was in love with, and how crushed she was when it didn’t work out.

Would I have mentioned his name if I had thought of it in the back yard? Are painful memories better left forgotten? Or is it important to keep trying to remember simply as a brain exercise?

Maybe if I play this record for her next weekend, it will trigger a different memory. Maybe she will remember singing around the house, or the Pizza Hut guy. Maybe the memory of my phone call from Lincoln Center will come back to her. Or maybe next time, the song won’t sound familiar to her at all.

The record fades out as Arlene repeatedly pleads “Maybe…” Her fellow teenage Chantels, forever frozen in time, sing back to her; “Maybe maybe maybe…”

Heated Rivalry’s Scott and Kip: A Game Changer Epilogue

I have a confession to make: I am a loon.

This is the term used to describe fans of the Heated Rivalry television show and Rachel Reid’s book series that it is based on.

The first book of the series, Game Changer (2019) focused on NHL captain Scott Hunter and barista Kip Grady. Their story is the subject of episode 3 of the Heated Rivalry television show. Because the whole book was condensed into a single episode, there is little about Kip’s home life in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. His mother and sister are not mentioned in the show, although his father, as played by Matt Gordon, is one of my favorite peripheral characters in the series.

*Kip & his dad as played by Robbie G.K. & Matt Gordon.*

Author Rachel Reid has always been very connected with her audience and generous about posting additional content online for free: sharing scenes and chapters trimmed from the books as well as short stories not featured elsewhere. You can find these on her website.

One piece that is a little harder to find is an epilogue to Game Changer that was posted as an epub file. I’m posting it below for those who want to easily read it online, or as a downloadable .pdf.

Truman Capote’s Christmas Memory

“It’s fruitcake weather…”

A recent rerun of This American Life featured Truman Capote reading an edited version of his short story A Christmas Memory. Originally published in Mademoiselle magazine in December 1956, Capote’s reading was released on a 1959 LP:

The largely autobiographical story is set in early 1930’s Monroeville, Alabama and describes a holiday season in the lives of the seven-year-old narrator and an elderly woman who is his distant cousin and best friend. This classic holiday story has been broadcast, recorded, filmed, and staged multiple times.

You can find the entire text here.

A 1966 television version won the Peabody Award as well as Emmy awards for the teleplay and lead actress Geraldine Page. You can watch the entire 48 minute film on YouTube:

Biopics and the recent television series Feud: Capote vs. The Swans have focused on Capote’s later life and the mess that he became. It’s nice to revisit one of his finest early pieces of writing and remember what a brilliant talent he was.

*The infamous book jacket photo of Truman Capote from* Other Voices, Other Rooms. One critic commented, “He looks as if he were dreamily contemplating some outrage against conventional morality.” (1948)

Artist’s Muse: Donald Windham & Sandy Campbell

I recently wrote a piece for the Fire Island Pines Historical Preservation Society titled “The Fire Island Muses of George Platt Lynes & The PaJaMa Collective.” It focuses on the subjects of the artwork they created during their time on Fire Island. This is an expansion on two of those profiled: Donald Windham and Sandy Campbell.

Windham & Campbell in Italy, ca 1950

In 1939, 19-year-old Donald Windham moved to New York from Atlanta with his boyfriend, graphic artist/photographer Fred “Butch” Melton. They were welcomed into the New York circle of artistic types that included George Platt Lynes, Tennessee Williams, Paul Cadmus, Jared and Margaret French.

Donald Windham & Fred “Butch” Melton photographed by Jared French at his 5 St. Luke’s Place studio (ca 1941)

In 1942, Butch ended his relationship with Windham, opting for a more conventional lifestyle by getting married, fathering two sons and moving to Macon, Georgia. This didn’t last long: Butch met and fell in love with local artist Wilbur “Billy” Pippin. In early 1948, he left his young family and returned to New York with Billy. But that’s another story…

Donald Windham with Jared French & Paul Cadmus on Fire Island, ca 1940

In 1942, the newly single Windham supported himself by working at Lincoln Kirstein’s Dance Index magazine. He lived in the Cadmus/French studios at 5 St. Luke’s Place while they spent time at their rental on Fire Island. He would frequently visit there as well. The lithe young man with the striking profile became the subject of many PaJaMa photos and sketches.

Windham posed as a reference for Jared French’s Homesickness (1942)

Paul Cadmus met 21-year-old Princeton theater student Sandy Campbell at a party in 1943. The young man asked the artist to do a pencil portrait that he could give to his mother, as he suspected that he would soon be drafted. Cadmus was instantly smitten with the handsome young man. He went on to draw, paint and photograph him frequently throughout the following year.

Campbell is the central figure of Cadmus’s 1944 painting Reflection. Donald Windham was the original model for the figure laying on the floor. Before the painting was completed, however, the two models fell in love. Cadmus was not happy with this turn of events, and Windham’s likeness disappeared from the finished painting, with the figure’s head turned slightly away.

Donald Windham & Sandy Campbell photographed by George Platt Lynes (ca 1943)

Photographer George Platt Lynes photographed both Campbell and Windham several times in separate studio settings. In 1945, he shot Windham again with his friend and writing collaborator, Tennessee Williams.

*Donald Windham, Tennessee Williams & Edmund Gwen photographed by George Platt Lynes (1945)*

Windham and Williams co-wrote the play You Touched Me!, a romantic comedy based on a short story by D.H. Lawrence. It opened on Broadway starring Edmund Gwen and Montgomery Clift in late 1945. Unfortunately, reviews were mixed and it closed 4 months later.

Around the same time, Campbell was cast in a string of minor Broadway and film roles that would span the next 10 years. He then decided to give up acting and focus on editing and publishing Windham’s work.

Donald Windham’s literary output (1950-1998)

*Windham & Campbell photographed by Carl Van Vechten (1955)*

Windham’s 1972 novel Tanaquil is a fictionalization of his time among the George Platt Lynes / PaJaMa circle of friends. His later work focused on correspondence and reflections on his famous literary friends, including E.M. Forster, Tennessee Williams, Alice B. Toklas and Truman Capote.

Campbell & Windham with Capote

Windham & Campbell, ca 1987

Windham and Campbell remained a couple for the rest of their lives. Besides their New York City apartment on Central Park South, they also had a Fire Island house on Ocean Walk in The Pines, where Campbell died suddenly of a heart attack on June 26, 1988. Windham outlived his younger partner by 22 years, passing in May, 2010 at the age of 89. Their combined estates fund the annual Windham-Campbell Literary Prizes, established at Yale University in 2012.

Jack Parlett’s 2022 book Fire Island devotes almost an entire chapter to Donald Windham’s 70-year span visiting the island. Parlett writes; “(Windham) was part of the very first generation to discover its potential as an enclave; first as a young man, visiting Saltaire with some of the earliest queer artists to incorporate the island into their practice; and later as a man in his fifties, happily coupled with the love of his life, who made in the Pines an enclave within an enclave, a restful home for two people, even amid the loudness of the community’s sexual and cultural boom in the 1970’s.”

Kurt Bieber: From Little Me to Colt Model

You may already know this, but anyone with an affinity for self-indulgent grande dame memoirs and/or the camp humor of Auntie Mame needs to seek out the 1961 book Little Me, The Intimate Memoirs of That Great Star of Stage, Screen & Television Belle Poitrine, as told to Patrick Dennis. The book spawned a Broadway musical starring Sid Caesar in 1962, which was revived with Martin Short in 1998. However, the book is whole different animal. The 2002 reprint with a new foreword by Charles Busch may be out of print, but affordable copies are easily found online.

The whole thing is a parody – a camp fiction classic created by the Auntie Mame author with over 150 photographs by Cris Alexander, an actor who appeared in both the stage and film versions of Auntie Mame. Alexander had transitioned into his second career as a photographer.

Actress Jeri Archer embodied Belle Poitrine in the photographs with a cast of characters playing her co-horts. Among the familiar faces in the company are character actresses Dodie Goodman and Alice Pearce, author Patrick Dennis (as Cedric Roulstone-Farjeon) and his wife Louise (as Pixie Portnoy). Cris Alexander also appears in various roles alongside his lifelong partner, ballet dancer Shaun O’Brien (as Mr. Musgrove). Miss Rosalind Russell makes an appearance as well.

The role of Letch Feeley, Belle’s hunky paramour and costar, was played by Kurt Bieber. After the publication of Little Me, Cris Alexander wrote, “Shaun and Kurt generated an unprecedented amount of fan mail, all sent to the publisher’s office.”

Letch Feeley & Belle Poitrine, aka Kurt Bieber & Jeri Archer in Little Me

Kermit Henry Bieber was born on January 5, 1929 in Allentown, Pennsylvania. A 1946 graduate of Emmaus High School, Bieber worked at the local Sears before serving in the Army during the Korean War.

After his discharge, he headed to New York, where he studied drama, dance and voice at The American Theatre Wing. Roles in summer stock soon followed, with ensemble work in Can-Can, Happy Hunting, Oklahoma! and Wonderful Town.

The Morning Call, *Allentown, PA (6/21/1960)*

It was his work in a regional production of On the Town that took his career to the next level. Cris Alexander later wrote, “Ross Hunter may have discovered Rock Hudson, but I discovered Kurt Bieber during a summer package of On The Town (Pittsburgh ’58).” By October of that year, Bieber was back in New York playing a sailor alongside William Shatner in the original Broadway production of The World of Suzie Wong.

More regional work followed, including a stint in the play Teahouse of The August Moon with Red Buttons. It was around this time that Cris Alexander began to shoot the photos for Little Me, casting Bieber in the role for which he is best remembered.

In Uncle Mame: The Life of Patrick Dennis, author Eric Myers writes “Most memorable to a certain contingent of the book’s audience was actor Kurt Bieber, who… displayed plenty of muscular flesh in nearly all of his photos.”

“I loved doing Little Me. People would stop me in the street and say ‘Aren’t you Letch Feeley?'” Kurt fondly remembered. “It was a first. No one had ever done a book like that… it was such a different atmosphere then. The photos were really a breakthrough.”

*“Kurt Bieber is a* poseur *extraordinaire. The grace and symmetry of the youthful physique is captured in this study by* Male Today.”

Following the success of Little Me, Bieber continued acting as well as modeling. He found work as a “posing strap” model for Male Today and other physique magazines. He was an early subject for Jim French, a photographer who was starting up a photo studio under the name Rip Colt. An early Colt film loop lists Bieber as one of the performers – a softcore scene with three muscular models lathering each other up in a shower – but none of the models appear to be him.

In 1969, Bieber had a bit part as a Times Square street hustler in Midnight Cowboy:

At the dawn of the 1970’s, 40-year-old Bieber – no longer a young chorus boy – opted for a new look. He transformed himself into the quintessential gay clone: an urban cowboy/mustache and Levi’s/hanky-code persona that would characterize the gay scene for the next decade. His photos for Colt studios now typify that era of gay erotica.

He was quoted as saying “I loved being photographed in the nude. I’ve always been an exhibitionist. To be an actor, you have to be. Besides, I got to choose the models. I chose hot men that I could get off on. That’s why they gave me (Colt superstar) Dakota.”

*Colt Studios photo of Kurt Bieber with Dakota*

*Kurt Bieber (in a Colt t-shirt) outside Badlands in the West Village, NYC (1979)*

While major film roles never materialized, Bieber appeared in several commercials and continued to garner background work in films like Last Summer and Chapter Two. He can be seen offering poppers to a cohort at The Eagle in the controversial Al Pacino film Cruising (1980):

His appearance in Cruising landed Bieber on the cover of the February 1980 issue of Mandate Magazine. In his interview, Bieber mentions that he played Letch Feeley among other acting roles. He differentiates himself from the other Cruising extras, some of whom were cast off the street. “I want to stress that I did it as a professional… It’s just a job.”

As for those rumored to be having sex on camera in the leather bar scenes; “On the set, some people were having sex for real, but (director William) Friedkin didn’t ask anybody to. No way I would suck cock in front of a camera,” he says.

Although Bieber doesn’t mention his work with Colt Studios in this article, four months later Mandate ran a 10-page spread titled “Whatever Happened To Letch Feeley?” This feature tracked Bieber from his Little Me photos through his work with Colt Studios.

When asked to sum himself up at the close of the article, Bieber said with a smile; “I’ve done a little bit of everything and I’ve loved every minute of it.”

Later in 1980, Bieber was done in by a poison dart in Times Square during the opening sequence of Eaten Alive, an Italian cannibal movie:

The epilogue of Uncle Mame: The Life of Patrick Dennis (2000) notes that Bieber “has been an extra in almost every movie ever filmed in New York City. Kurt says he is ‘still around and still cruising Christopher Street.'”

*Kurt Bieber behind Whoopi Goldberg and Patrick Swayze in a scene from* Ghost (1990)

Decades later, Little Me fans still recognized him. “Even today, I’ll sometimes walk into a store and someone will say ‘Wow! Letch Feeley!’ How they recognize me after all these years, with my white hair, I’ll never know.”

Kurt Bieber passed away at age 86 on December 31, 2015 in New York City.

Truman Capote in Mandate (1985)

Truman Capote is the subject of this article from the February, 1986 Mandate magazine. The piece was written by Boze Hadleigh just over a year after Capote's death.

Continuing with our theme from the last post, Truman Capote is the subject of this article from the February, 1985 issue of Mandate magazine. The piece was written by Boze Hadleigh just 6 months after Capote’s death.

The infamous book jacket photo of Truman Capote from Other Voices, Other Rooms. One critic commented, “He looks as if he were dreamily contemplating some outrage against conventional morality.” (1948)

Donald Windham on Truman Capote: Christopher Street (1988)

Donald Windham and his partner Sandy Campbell were two of the subjects of my recent collaboration with the Fire Island Pines Historical Preservation Society. The Fire Island Muses of George Platt Lynes and The PaJaMa Collective focused on the subjects of their photography and artwork, specifically during summers spent on Fire Island.

Donald Windham (with Paul Cadmus) & Sandy Campbell in PaJaMa photos of the early 1940’s.

I recently rediscovered this piece written by Windham for a 1988 issue of Christopher Street. I bought the magazine at a West Village newsstand back in the day, and it has remained in my possession all these years, proving yet again why I never throw anything away. Because you never know…

Back in 1987, Donald Windham had published Lost Friendships: A Memoir of Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, and Others. This article was written the following year in response to the publication of Gerald Clarke’s 600+ page biography Capote, which Windham describes as “misguided.” Clarke’s book would later be adapted into the 2005 film, with Phillip Seymour Hoffman winning an Oscar for his portrayal of troubled Truman.

Note that the photos accompanying the article are credited to Sandy Campbell.

*This photo appears in several places on the internet misidentifying Capote as Sandy Campbell with Donald Windham, Piazza San Marco (1948)*

*Capote with Sandy Campbell at the Kansas border, October 1964*

Zombie Divas

Marlene Dietrich is slumped in a wing back chair chain smoking in the corner of our living room. She is clad in her trademark top hat and tuxedo, although the ensemble is far from crisp and clean. I am on the leather settee across the room, drinking my second cup of coffee while reading the Sunday New York Times. I embraced technology and began to read the newspaper on my iPad last year, but recently I had to switch back to the hard copy. Marlene is strangely drawn to the light of the iPad. As soon as I open it, she starts hovering around, trying to paw at it. She got her hands on it once when my partner Tim carelessly left it open on the credenza. This resulted in considerable damage, which of course I had to pay for. Now I keep it locked in my briefcase and only use it for work purposes.

Sometimes Tim and I talk to Marlene, but she rarely responds. When she does, it is with incoherent mumbles shrouded in a thick German accent. Most of the time she just sits there, staring off into space with a look that might be described as profound sorrow or excruciating boredom. It’s open to interpretation. What is certain is that she is constantly smoking cigarettes. She smokes like a … well, like a fiend. There’s no other way to put it.

The constant smoke is pretty offensive, even if it does simulate that hazy effect in which she was photographed for her films. When Tim and I realized that the acrid smoke was masking a more ghastly smell of decay, we stopped complaining about it. Tim always liked to burn incense and scented candles anyway; now he has gone full-throttle with air fresheners, perfume oils and room deodorizers. There is an apothecary on Lafayette Street that sells $150 cheesecloth bags of a special potpourri blend created specifically to eradicate the stench of the divas. Tim visits there pretty much every week, although I can’t help but think that Emiliano, the part-time model behind the register might also have something to do with the frequency as well.

I tried to explain to Tim that we can’t afford this extravagance – the nightly news suggests that a simple $1.49 box of baking soda would do the trick. But as with all matters financial, he doesn’t like to talk about it. He seems to think that as long as our credit cards are not declined, then we have the money to pay for anything.

I go to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup. Tim is standing at the stove, scrambling eggs. His shoulders are tensed halfway to his ears, his mouth a taught crimson bowtie as he shuffles the eggs around the pan, shaking his head slightly.

“She drank the rest of the gin.” he says curtly.

“How do you know it was her?” I ask. I turn to the sink and begin to nonchalantly rinse out the crystal goblet which I had used for the previous evening’s nightcap.

“Just look at her.” He nods towards the corner by the garbage can, where Edith Piaf is rocking back and forth on her feet, twisting a tortured handkerchief in her fists. The empty bottle of gin is lying in the recycle bin next to her, right where I left it the night before. She will burst into song shortly, most likely “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rein.” It was quite jarring at first, but now we see the signs: first the rocking starts, followed by the handkerchief twisting, then the low, guttural moans begin and eventually form the familiar tune that used to flood through our home on many a Sunday afternoon. I have grown accustomed to it. Tim, however, has not. “Fucking lush,” he mutters.

From the living room, I can hear the sounds of Marlene on the move: Every day, like clockwork, she heads out on a quest for cigarettes – dragging her filthy shoes across the antique Persian rug. Tim and I used to be fanatic about trying to maintain all of the fine furnishings we had purchased when we moved into this apartment together. Here, we had created our dream dwelling: a chic little paradise with an art deco design scheme. We were setting the stage for an endless series of sophisticated cocktail and dinner parties that never materialized: these are different times. Besides, we were working too hard to even think about entertaining. And then the divas showed up. Now there are stains and cigarette burns and everything is hopelessly caked with mud and ashes and god knows what else. Our broken Dyson vacuum lies in a heap underneath the baby grand piano.

“Why doesn’t THAT reanimate?” Tim cracked. I thought it was funny but I didn’t laugh. I wasn’t in the mood.

I return to my newspaper with a fresh cup of coffee. “See you later Marlene,” I say with faux exuberance. She flicks her hand over her shoulder as a sign of vague acknowledgement. At the front door, she softly begins warbling “Fawwing in wuv again… nevuh wanted tooooo….”

Theories abound as to the cause of this phenomena – 24 hour news channels devote considerable programming to speculative hypothesis involving a century of electronic sound, radio, and television waves intersecting with static electricity and wifi hot spots or possibly some other random factors that resulted in these reanimated corpses taking on the forms of our dear departed divas.

The idea that the subject has to be deceased is cause for even more speculation. There are no reports of Madonna, Britney or Cher zombies. It’s those that have been mourned and continue to be revered. Conspiracy theorists are having a field day.

I should also explain that these are not your garden variety “shoot ‘em in the head to kill ‘em” movie type of zombies. Go ahead and destroy your Lena Horne – by dawn the next day, another one will be back in a glittering pantsuit, angrily shout-singing “Stormy Weather” around the apartment.

There’s no point in maiming them, either – our friends Thomas and Ed had a Dusty Springfield that kept gesticulating wildly, smashing knickknacks and bric-a-brac with every dramatic swoop. They accidentally tore off her arms while trying to restrain her before she destroyed every last piece of their precious mercury glass collection. The next morning they awoke to a ghostly rendition of “You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me” as a fully intact Dusty zombie hurled, one by one, the remaining contents of their china cabinet down the hall towards their bedroom.

Our Judy is perched on top of the dresser in the corner of the master bedroom – she wears a fedora, black tights and a dress jacket…. eternally snapping her fingers to the intro of “Come On Get Happy.” She rarely ever sings, but ya gotta give credit to that corpse: she’s got rhythm. Even as the flesh wears away on her fingers and falls onto the floor, she keeps steady time.

It’s not really them – we have to remind ourselves that. And some of these zombies are cast wildly against type for the roles they are now inhabiting. I saw a TikTok of a little old Asian Mama Cass that really had the moves down. But it’s not the same.

Our divas disappeared – often prematurely, tragically, suddenly. What we were left to comfort ourselves with were their images, movies and recordings – these are the trappings that most likely brought them forth in their most stereotypical and obvious incarnations. Now that they have been among us, even in these imperfect decaying forms, we can’t go back to having them at arm’s length. Not anymore.

Provincetown PaJaMa Party

During vacations from the 1930’s through the mid-1950’s, artists Paul Cadmus, Jared French and his wife Margaret Hoening French photographed each other on the beaches of New York’s Fire Island as well as Nantucket and Cape Cod, Massachusettes.

Last summer we focused on their early years on Fire Island. The photos in this post are primarily from Nantucket, Provincetown and other locations on Cape Cod during the summer months of 1946-1948.

Usually nude or donning simple costumes, the artists also used found objects as props to create stark, surreal and/or erotic images. They passed Margaret’s Leica camera around, taking turns as subject and auteur. This collaborative authorship was reflected in the umbrella name they chose for this work, utilizing the first two letters of their first names: PaJaMa.

Years later Cadmus explained, “After we’d been working most of the day, we’d go out late afternoons and take photographs when the light was best. They were just playthings. We would hand out these little photographs when we went to dinner parties, like playing cards.”

The dynamic amongst the trio was complicated: Jared French and Paul Cadmus were lovers – a relationship that continued during his marriage to Margaret. All three lived and worked in a townhouse at 5 St. Lukes Place in Greenwich Village.

The PaJaMa collective expanded in 1945 with the inclusion of Cadmus’ boyfriend, George Tooker, an artist 16 years his junior. Cadmus would later explain “I had Jerry (Jared) in the daytime and George at night.” Although his name was not added to the PaJaMa moniker, Tooker was an active participant in the collective from 1944-49.

George Tooker with Paul Cadmus in Nantucket and Provincetown PaJaMa photos, (1946-48)

A 2015 New York Times review of a PaJaMa exhibition noted that their photos “breathed eroticism.” While some of the hundreds of photos are masterpieces of magical realism, others appear to be figure studies for their painting.

*Tooker, Cadmus & French, Wauwinet, Nantucket (1946)*

As when they vacationed on Fire Island, the collective were joined on Cape Cod by various friends and lovers, fellow artists and writers that were part of their New York social circle.

Dancer/choreographer Todd Bolender was the subject of a series of PaJaMa photos taken in Provincetown (1947)

Museum curator/publisher Monroe Wheeler is seen in 1947 Provincetown photos with French, Tooker & Cadmus. His lifelong partner Glenway Wescott was more prominent in the Fire Island PaJaMa photos of the early 1940’s.

Writer Christopher Isherwood with his then-boyfriend, photographer Bill Caskey, Provincetown (1947)

*Photographer George Platt Lynes (left, wi/ Monroe Wheeler) joined them on Fire Island and later in Provincetown with his own camera.*

*PaJaMa photos are part of this tribute to playwright Tennessee Williams, displayed at Provincetown’s Atlantic House, one of the oldest gay bars in the U.S.*

*Provincetown, 1947 (l-r): George Platt Lynes, Monroe Wheeler, Paul Cadmus and George Tooker*

On Cape Cod, the collective occasionally experimented with color film, which gave their work a different texture.

The quartet toured Europe in 1949 and by the end of the trip, Tooker had split from Cadmus. He later said “I was looking for a relationship and my relationship with Paul always included Jared and Margaret French.” Tooker would soon find a partner in painter Bill Christopher, with whom he remained until Christopher’s death in 1973.

Back to a trio, the PaJaMa collective would return to Fire Island for their summer getaway in 1950.

*Paul Cadmus & Margaret French, Jenny Lind Tower, North Truro* (1947)

As with George Platt Lynes’ male nude photographs, the PaJaMa photographs did not receive much notice or recognition until the 1990’s. They are now frequently exhibited in galleries and selections are a part of the MOMA collection.

Introducing Bindle #1! Summer 2023

Back in January of 2022, I posted about “Circle,” a poem that I contributed to Jonathan Russell’s quarterly Monkeyshines zine. My partner Toby Hobbes was also a frequent contributor of mixed media to the publication. Since that time, Toby and I got hitched and he has officially changed his name to Tobias Fox Ferrari.

Meanwhile, Monkeyshines has also undergone a name change and is now Bindle Zine. Tobias and I are both happy to be included in the brand-spankin’-new Summer issue, which you can find here. Toby’s artwork “Holding My Tongue” is the centerfold, while my contribution is the essay “100 Centre Street, Part 79.”

100 Centre Street, Part 79

The industrial clock groans through the afternoon in its 46th year on the wall of Part 79.

The Judge plods through a mandatory speech entitled “Jury Selection As Public Service.” His arms make sparing gestures beneath billowing robes. The sound of his own voice still arouses him.

The microphone buzzes through each pregnant pause.

The court stenographer faces the gallery, swiveling slightly in her chair, crossed legs protruding from a skirt cut above the knee. Off to the side, her fingers type furiously as her expressionless gaze floats off high in the air.

Bailiff #1 casually checks his watch and shifts his weight on aching feet. A trickle of sweat snakes down the center of his back, beneath a damp bulletproof vest.

Bailiff #2 flexes a hand to examine chipped blue nail polish. The sleeve of her uniform creeps back to reveal a wrist tattooed with vines and flowers.

Fingers of dust wave frantically from the cooling vent behind the jury box.

Juror #1 stares at the judge with an expression of rapt attention as he contemplates evening plans with his girlfriend.

Juror #5 fights off sleep after a heavy lunch and two draughts. His belt pinches against his protruding flesh.

Juror #6 makes sideways glances at Juror #5, whose aroma she finds most offensive.

Juror #9 slowly, carefully slides his phone out of his pocket in an attempt to check his email.

Juror #11 is awaiting test results and trying not to think about it.

Their bags and briefcases are gathered around their feet, containing both crucial and inconsequential pieces of their real lives, all impatiently waiting to be addressed.

The prosecuting attorney sits in front of a stack of documents and folders, one of which contains graphic crime scene photos that will visibly upset Jurors #2, 6 & 11.

Ziplocked bags labeled “Forensic Evidence” wait inside a cardboard box marked “Case #26294.”

The defense attorney holds up a folder to obstruct the view as he leans in to quietly talk to his client.

The defendant rocks slowly in his chair, the angry voices now muddled by medication.

His brother sits behind him in the gallery. His jaw aches through clenched teeth.

A woman in the gallery clutches a wrinkled picture of her deceased daughter. There is a tissue balled up tightly in her fist. Her husband, in a freshly pressed suit, keeps his arm around her shoulder.

I wrote “100 Centre Street, Part 79” back in 2013 when I was just finishing up a class at The Writer’s Studio. I was summoned for jury duty and ultimately chosen to participate in a six week murder trial that ended in a hung jury. I hadn’t thought about this piece until this Spring, when I received another jury summons – let me tell ya, that 10 years went by fast. This time around I was dismissed on day one, which gave me conflicting feelings about not being picked and wondering why I wasn’t. Was I giving Liz Lemon vibes without even trying?

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Category: Gay Literature