The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard: Library of America Special Edition

by Ron Padgett

  I remember once secretly planting some watermelon seeds out in the backyard but nothing happened.

  I remember unpopular dogs that were allowed to roam the neighborhood freely. And—“Don’t forget to close the gate behind you!”

  I remember wondering how turtles “do it.”

  I remember when, walking single file from class to class, getting out of line was pretty serious.

  I remember pencil boxes with a little ruler and a little compass in a little drawer.

  I remember diagramming sentences. And arithmetic cards, more than I remember arithmetic.

  I remember, in bed in the dark, visions of our house catching fire during the night.

  I remember, in the morning, my eyelashes glued together with “sleep.”

  I remember believing that you could get warts by touching frogs enough that I . . . Actually, I was such a big sissy I wouldn’t have touched a frog anyway.

  I remember trying to conjure up visions in my head of a physical god without very much luck other than “very old” and “very white.”

  I remember waiting for a certain piece of mail to arrive with almost total faith that if I really wished hard enough it would come that day.

  I remember, after reading a gay porn novel about a boy who “practiced” with a cucumber so he could learn to enjoy being fucked, trying to casually buy a vibrator at the drugstore: “Two packs of Tareytons, please. And one of those.” And then I remember how long it took me to get batteries for it. And then I remember using it a few times, and how more ridiculous than sexy it all seemed. And so that was pretty much that. (Almost.) Until one night, feeling “far out” (for me) I used it on a friend with a rather rewarding sense of power.

  I remember very wholesome fantasies of being madly in love with a young blond “hippie” boy, and of our living together out in the country, riding around a lot naked on horses, pausing now and then to make love out in the sun, in the middle of the big beautiful fields.

  I remember “being all alone with J. J. Mitchell at a ski lodge out-of-season” fantasies, which worked out just fine.

  I remember, just before coming, fantasy close-up visions of big pink cocks being yanked out of bulging underwear, anxious to be serviced, and spurting hot mountains of white into my mouth, nose deeply buried in wiry masses of dank pubic hairs.

  I remember in the morning (real life) “hickies.”

  I remember much contemplation over what would be the most practical and considerate way to commit suicide, should the occasion happen to arise, with the usual conclusion that to just “disappear” out into the ocean would probably be best: with, however, some frustration over the possibility of getting washed ashore and scaring some poor little kid with a bucket half to death.

  I remember (Oklahoma) boring annual Indian pageants of many feathers, and much stomping.

  I remember the still mysterious to me association of western music with greasy eggs in a diner on a Sunday morning.

  I remember “double dating,” and “going dutch,” and autographing broken leg casts.

  I remember “close dancing,” with arms dangling straight down.

  I remember red rubber coin purses that opened like a pair of lips, with a squeeze.

  I remember a boy who could swig down a Coke in one big gulp, followed by a long loud belch.

  I remember, just outside the city limits, firecracker booths.

  I remember (basketball) total frustration over how to “dribble.”

  I remember finding it very mysterious that ballet dancers didn’t break their toes off, doing what they do that way.

  I remember record stores with glass windowed booths you could play records in before you bought them, or didn’t.

  I remember, in dime stores, “bronze” horses in varying sizes from small to quite large, with keychain-like reins.

  I remember, at the circus, kewpie dolls on sticks smothered in feathers, and how quickly their faces got full of dents.

  I remember “pick-up sticks,” “tiddly-winks,” “fifty-two pickup,” and “war.”

  I remember dangerous BB gun stories about kids losing eyeballs.

  I remember being more than a bit disappointed over all the fluffy gray stuff with tiny red specks I discovered inside an old teddy bear’s stomach once.

  I remember turning around and around real fast until you can’t stand up.

  I remember going on fly swatting sprees, and keeping a very accurate count of how many dead.

  I remember crocheted dress-up gloves with only half fingers.

  I remember “Tupperware” parties.

  I remember traveling salesmen jokes way over my head, which didn’t keep me from finding them funny anyway.

  I remember “knock-knock” jokes. And Polish jokes. And a “What’s for dinner?” cannibal joke with a “Catholic soup!” reply.

  I remember “spin the bottle” and “post office.”

  I remember dashes for dirty words in adult novels.

  I remember, when a fart invades a room, trying to look like I didn’t do it, even if, indeed, I didn’t.

  I remember the way a baby’s hand has of folding itself around your finger, as though forever.

  I remember the different ways people have of not eating their toast crust.

  I remember Dr. Brown fantasies of bright lights and silver instruments, and clinical “explorations” that develop into much hanky-panky on the examination table.

  I remember Christine Keeler and the “Profumo Affair.”

  I remember stories about how L. B. J. got off on holding private conferences while on the john.

  I remember the rumor that James Dean got off on bodily cigarette burns.

  I remember fantasies of what I would say to a certain reviewer who gave me a really mean (to say nothing of stupid) review once, should we happen to meet at say a party or something.

  I remember awkward elevator “moments.”

  I remember when both arms of your theater seat have elbows on them.

  I remember making designs in the dark with a fast-moving lit cigarette.

  I remember (spooky) when all of a sudden someone you know very well becomes momentarily a total stranger.

  I remember (stoned) reaching out for a joint that isn’t really being passed to you yet.

  I remember (stoned) when the most profound thought in the world totally evaporates before you can find a pencil.

  I remember (night) desperate (to say nothing of fruitless) flips through my address book.

  I remember how silly it all seems in the morning (again).

  I remember getting up at a certain hour every morning to walk down the street to pass a certain boy on his way to work. One morning I finally said hello to him and from then on we always said hello to each other. But that was as far as it went.

  I remember taking communion and how hard it was not to smile.

  I remember smiling at bad news. (I still do sometimes.) I can’t help it. It just comes.

  I remember that our church believed that when the Bible said wine it really meant grape juice. So at communion we had grape juice. And round paper-thin white wafers that tasted very good. Like paper. Once I found a whole jar full of them in a filing cabinet in the choir room and I ate a lot. Eating a lot was not as good as eating just one.

  I remember the exact moment, during communion, that was the hardest to keep from smiling. It was when you had to stick out your tongue and the minister laid the white wafer on it.

  I remember that one way to keep from smiling during communion was to think real hard about something very boring. Like how airplane engines work. Or tree trunks.

  I remember movies in school about kids that drink and take drugs and then they have a car wreck and one girl gets killed.

  I remember one day in psychology class the teacher asked everyone who had regular bowel movements to raise their hand. I don’t remember if I had regular bowel movements or not but I do remember that I raised my hand.

  I remember ch
anging my name to Bo Jainard for about one week.

  I remember not being able to pronounce “mirror.”

  I remember wanting to change my name to Jacques Bernard.

  I remember when I used to sign my paintings “By Joe.”

  I remember a dream of meeting a man made out of a very soft yellow cheese and when I went to shake his hand I just pulled his whole arm off.

  Self-Portrait

  Self-Portrait on Christmas Night

  Year 1961 age 19 almost 20;

  Homage to George

  It’s Christmas night, how I want to paint, to say so much. I can’t, why? Would like to cry, beat off, or go to the movies. But won’t do any of these. Can’t make contact with myself. Took two pills earlier. Can’t find peace. Am nervous and just can’t understand anything. My brains and my hands won’t co-ordinate. Listening to classical music. How music makes me cry, so beautiful. At times like this I really know, though I rarely admit it to myself, I and the world are great and so fucked. I’ll never be happy or satisfied, I’ll always be like this, so fucked. Yet so excited by everything. I’ll always know, yet will never really know. Will do great paintings, but will never do what I want. Will learn to understand and accept life, but will never know why. Will love and make love, but will know it could be greater. Will be smart, but will always know there’s so much more to learn. I’m damned, but can’t change. Ted’s damned. I know beauty; which is really just truth. (So is both ugly and fine, damned and holy, Sutherland and Elvis, the Bowery and Central Park, my aunt and Picasso, love and hate, and myself and myself.) But though I know beauty, I can’t express it until I’ve undressed. Have so much undressing to do. Ted is much the same; only he has re-dressed himself in the process of undressing in false ways of appearing undressed. Must be careful not to do this. But mostly interested in myself, but why? Again, I will undress, but never know why. I no longer want success: I know once I have it it’ll be nothing. Nothing at all. When I do a painting, the next one is what concerns me. Am crying, but don’t know why. Partly because it’s Christmas, but why should I feel sad on Christmas? Music is so great; at moment listening to Gregorian chants. Anne and I were together New Year’s Eve; she is so beautiful. We each silently choose to be alone Christmas Day. Poor Anne; though she must be a damned good musician I know she doesn’t know life, herself, and the relationship. I sincerely hope she never will. False of me I guess (and a little ashamed), but I like her too much. If she ever understands like I know she wants to, I know it will be the saddest of disappointments. I don’t think she can take it. If she finds out the world is using her for its own enjoyment and love, but will never accept her, she won’t understand. Anne thinks she plays music for herself and is expecting benefits. We are using her like she is using her flute. It’s a game, and she can’t be the winner. And no prizes. Why do I paint then? God only knows; and how I wish there were a God. I am the closest thing (for myself) to a God; but what a thing to put faith in. Oh I believe in myself alright, but again I don’t know why. (Now listening to lute music.) It’s funny that I should be writing rather than painting. I feel like saying everything, but with no special outlet in mind. Why did I decide to write? Tried to do some drawings, but couldn’t. So sad to try to work in the way you know you must, and yet at the moment can’t. I feel like now should be the time to say, “But I know I’m a painter; I must paint.” I’ve said this before, and I really want to believe it. I can hear Ted saying the same thing about himself and writing. I wonder if he is so sure. I’m not. I know I’ve got to use my mind and hands. And I think I must be a painter, and I know I must be an artist. Now listening to Joan Sutherland’s operatic arias. Her voice is so fine I find it hard to believe. Just realized that though I’m writing this for myself and for the sake of writing, Ted will read it (and I want him to). Therefore will discuss a point which I know will be in his mind after reading this far. We have both expected (at least outwardly) that the reward for an artist is the act of creating. This is a beautiful theory and how I wish I could believe in it. But I seldom “enjoy” the process of painting. It’s hard work. And so often what I want to say is painful; so often I don’t want to admit it. In fact I usually do it subconsciously. And when it’s finished it’s not what I wanted. It’s never completely honest. Here again I need to undress. (Pardon abstraction in terms, Ted.) I know why Ted takes so many pills, and I know if I always had them I would too. But I nevertheless think they are basically evil; the effect they have on us is not “the way things are” but “the way we’d like them to be.” It would be so easy if I always took them, and don’t know why I don’t want an escape. I don’t owe myself or the world an honest memento of life. God only knows most people don’t give it. In fact those of us who occasionally do are resented. We know too much. People of a certain race, not so different really, we tell too many secrets which we share with our fellow companions who are not so free. And we hurt too much but we are artists; we know form and order, color and movement, this alone can almost stand and is widely appreciated. We become symbols of our work, like Washington to Americans. We barely have the honor of being human. They, the public (including myself) are waiting to accept our product; but the force behind it? Being an artist is not the complete story; first of all we are men (and occasionally women; but rarely) though it’s usually considered the reverse. We are the realistic ones; women can’t really give, they must take. They are selfish. A woman rarely (if ever) gives herself to the world or a man without expecting something in return. (Which is not what I ((and I think Ted)) expect.) Perhaps she is the smart one and we the stupid. But stupid or smart it’s the way things are, and it takes a man to see it and have the power to do it. Or perhaps she has the power to refuse and rebel we men don’t. Here again, per usual, terms confuse me. That is, I can’t make myself say will power is good and lack of it is bad; or beauty is beautiful and ugliness is ugly. These things are simply present; must I classify them? Won’t I miss out on a lot if I do? At times I enjoy pain; hunger (when you really think about it) is not a pleasant nor a painful experience. It is simply an experience. Usually when I receive pleasure from creating I am using it as an escape; which is its function for most artists. And many are considered great too. Is art partly an escape? I say no. But when you consider who more or less decides who’s great and not great, how can you put much faith into it? The term great men applies to men who people think are great. Then how can I value this so deeply? (Like I’ve always done; and I think Ted still does.) Is greatness so great? Some men whom I consider great: Rembrandt, Giotto, Michelangelo, myself, Ray Charles, Elvis Presley, Van Gogh, Stravinsky (if only for The Rite of Spring), Jesus, Dylan Thomas (known to me only through his reading records), de Kooning, perhaps Kline, Ted Berrigan, Dave Bearden, etc. (But these 2 last and myself, at the moment, only as men, and not as artists.) These of course must be combined to form greatness. But to most of these artists (the ones I know enough about) I would have to attach, since I live in a world of words with meanings, both good and bad characteristics and elements. For instance, Elvis Presley has recently “crapped out”; Michelangelo was a homosexual; Jesus didn’t love himself enough; Van Gogh was over-sentimental and insane; Kline lacks imagination and a sense of continual development, he seems too satisfied; Owen is an escapist; Ted is also an escapist and doesn’t trust himself enough, he must play games in order to do work and do whatever he wants. Yet must I classify these things as bad? Or should I accept them as simply being representative of just a part of the person? As much as I hate to admit it, I’m afraid I must attach titles. Though I usually think more abstractly, I must be able to translate my thoughts in ways that can be communicative. It’s sad, for I’m forced to say things I mean, yet don’t really mean. Ted’s constantly accusing me of being inarticulate. I am; because I don’t really think in words, but impressions. Saying something in words is so harsh; too general. It’s never enough. I must say “but,” “however,” and “But not really, I mean really.” Ted is the only person t
hat I think has learned something from me, and used me. Perhaps this is why I feel close to him. So many people whom I admire and have wanted to learn something from and give something to (Johnny Arthur, David Bearden, Owen, Bartholic, Duayne Hatchett, Margie Kepler, Anne Kepler, and others) have shut me out; they have taken me for face value. They were and are not perceptive enough to understand; to understand I was and am young; to understand that because of my background I had (and still have too many) false and phony ideas and outward habits. They don’t take the trouble to understand and analyze; they accept at face value, draw their conclusions, then it’s dismissed. But I must take most of the blame; I was stupid, I was shallow, and for them I wore a “don’t touch” sign. Most of these people I haven’t seen for a little under or over a year; God how much I’ve changed in that little length of time, which seems like years. But most of these false or outdated opinions of me will make them avoid contact and have, permanently and some I hope temporarily, closed minds towards me. So they are lost. How sad that is. A whole organic complex interesting exciting and rewarding person out of reach. It’s so hard to find people worth your time. People who know and are capable of giving and know they are capable of giving; people who are willing to have real contact; people who you can learn from; people who are people; people who are not embarrassed to vomit or go to the bathroom; people who know and accept the animalness of sex; people who burp, laugh, cry, and steal ashtrays from restaurants; those who don’t feel obligated to tip, be friendly, give gifts at Christmas, and kiss your butt (now writing to and listening to Toscanini and the Philharmonic creating Beethoven’s 7th Symphony); people who know what they know and want to know more; people who appreciate the shape and purity of an egg (plus its organic satisfaction); people who love red, dance to Elvis Presley, offer you a cigarette, listen for hours to Don Giovanni, people who need you; who play in the snow and are excited by the sensation of their frozen toes, hands, and ears; people who (like myself) like long hair or just feel they must let it grow absurdly for the sake of being absurd; people who realize the actual value of a rectangle with a sterile portrait of George Washington, and all kinds of frills, and detailed ornaments so it will be hard to counterfeit; people who know it’s a piece of paper and if they hurry some fool will give them a book, a tube of oil paint, great food, or a taxi cab ride in exchange. But we are the ones that don’t really labor away time and energy for our money; we sell blood occasionally, borrow here and there, paint signs on some guy’s truck which logic tells us is O.K. but that we know is, if nothing else, a symbol of decline and defeat and that we must keep up the phony guard until it’s no longer phony; we sponge off friends who know why you are sponging, and understand and even some that don’t and are resentful. We are takers, but we also know the value of giving. We work in antique shops at night where we can read (especially when we unfortunately no longer have electricity because “Old George” came in too handy to trade for Spenser’s Faerie Queene in two volumes bound in dirty dark blue with plain faded gold lettering giving the general effect of a library book not checked out since 1944, and it was marked down half price). (A gift to Ted for Christmas.) And canvas wow!, to think that it can be bought for a few wadded pieces of paper which smell like sweaty hands and always remind one of the poor slobby has-been, but grandly honored, artist laboring with designing this item which will represent America (which I honestly really love, America that is); and be handled and cherished by millions, borrowing here and there an ornament from France and God only knows where, then suffering and laboring days only to catch a Rockwell popular likeness of that great man (unfortunately not on my list) who is similar in stature and holiness to Santa Claus. Would rather give him the honor of being on my great list than Washington. At least some small beautiful creatures really believe in him. Washington is a symbol, and like the dollar bill, is nothing in itself, will say nothing of $5 and $10’s for they are rare and sacred, since they provide a roof over my curly hair to protect it from rain, they give me a warm place to sleep (except in the very early morning when my “out-of-it” super, like all supers and landlords, turns off the heat so that perhaps within a week he’ll have saved another fine line drawing of Washington to add to his collection whose benefits he will never enjoy but is nevertheless excited by the American idea of security and he like most “working men” finds value in the material object of the dollar in itself; he enjoys counting and holding the bills. Money is simply a symbol and he, like Catholics, finds this satisfying. It is greed. It is sex. It is false. It is hungry. It is American. It is human. And this will all go towards financing a box tastefully decorated (when the time comes) as much as possible so as to hide its real reason and content. For these more popular bills I also receive (just a few lousy pieces of paper!; will never stop being amazed and excited by such a transaction) a toilet inside a little room which was obviously designed and built for that purpose; to hold one small toilet and nothing else. But in this small and delightfully compact secure box-like room in which I must bend my legs at an obscure angle in order to sit on that white enamel cold and sterile object which disposes of personal items said to have no further value other than for fertilization, which few of us feel is worth bothering about since the exchange value is so low. Besides most of us would find it embarrassing and distasteful. I’ve managed to hang (just in front of the squatted viewer) a lithograph of a cat in a chair very finely and elegantly done by Bob Bartholic. (Whose name appeared on my “would like to learn from, to get to really know and understand, and give and share myself with, but has hard preconceived notions of how and what I’m about, so can’t really communicate, but must show them” list.) But must defend him, for the elegance and decorativeness for which he is often criticized by younger persons like myself (though he is only 33 or 35), is only a minor element in his work. And at times, though rarely, he achieves a fineness of form which seems unearthly and spiritual much like the pure effect of the Gregorian chants. So peaceful and knowing that you feel that, like the Gregorian chants, it has taken centuries to develop and has reached a peak of perfection that is complete, untouchable, and alone. Though, Bob has only hinted at this state of beauty (which for me, as a painter, is unforbidden fruit, I can not see this way; my world is too big. I must scribble obscenities on subway lavatory walls as well as go to Mass on Christmas Eve). Fantasy, spiritual, and decorative painting (don’t take these words to be absolute, but titles for a certain style of art) are dead for me. For my generation they can only be used by prostitutes who can’t face facts, by escapists, those looking for easy “outs”; those who have nothing to say so must create from imagination and dig up the past. The imagination is fantastic and so great, but it must have a foundation of knowing and it must be constructive. From my world, and judging from works of other young (so great to be young, but also appreciate the beauty of age, knowledge, and experience) painters and writers, we are realists, but have the advantage of, and must accept and use freedom, and abstract form and thought. Must speak only for myself; as a painter, and as a result, an unpublished philosopher, a man who must, one who is open and ready, one who looks and digs (isn’t content with what is offered), a man who finds children irresistable and sentimental (and is not ashamed) (and reads Tarzan comics), and a man of knowing. I must see, know, express clearly and realistically, not necessarily technically realistic as we know it from the past, but with a realistic concept. I want to be true. I want to be real and do real things; whether I’m blowing my nose (which I rarely find necessary) or painting an arrangement of modern Americanized bottled, wrapped, or boxed items especially prepared for our sterile and functional sense of the sanitarily proper: 7-Up bottle, Pioneer instant coffee, and a Tareyton Dual Filter cigarette. Such items I use often in my paintings, for they are present, they are the ways of my country, they are familiar, they are us, the way we dress and the expression we are forced to plaster on our faces. They are American. Am now listening to and again writing to Hayden’s Concerto in D Minor for harpsichord a
nd orchestra with Sylvia Marlowe at the harpsichord and conducting the Concert Arts Chamber Orchestra distributed by Capitol label (Reg. U.S. Pat. Off) in F.D.S. (full dimensional sound) in “incomparable” (compliments of the record cover) high fidelity on a deluxe STEELMAN expensive 4-speed automatic record player which belongs to Ron Padgett at their N.Y. village apt. (Ted, Pat, and Ron’s) and they are out of town, out of New York for Christmas, Ted and Pat have left along with Richard Gallup, a friend of Ted’s whom I find hard to accept like and understand and is a student at Tulane University who also takes pills when he gets them and wears great cowboy boots, to visit Ted’s mother, sister, grandma, and family in Providence, Rhode Island where Ted is originally from though I met him in Tulsa, Okla. Ron went in the other direction to Tulsa 4, where I’ve lived most of my life (only zone 10 not 4) where my family still lives and where nobody really knows me but where everyone thinks they have my spirit in a bottle and a mathematical equation explaining my art and life, and not art and not life. Ron (who also has great cowboy boots but rarely wears them) will be nice to his mother and feel guilty for not loving her more (like myself) and his father who is an ex-bootlegger and a second John Wayne will clown with Ron, holding in his stomach, showing him tricks with his muscles, smiling to display his white teeth and being careful not to understand his son too well. For fear of expressing emotional sympathy in terms of “un-fatherly” tears and embarrassment. Somewhat like all fathers who feel that first of all they must remain a father image in their son’s eyes; not a human. Ron, if he has the desire which I doubt, will distantly visit with my parents, older brother, and young sister and again brother (young). Telling them everything is O.K. with me and not to worry. And they will not worry because they can’t, they are afraid and so dismiss almost everything in life I stand for. They are neither capable of nor really need to understand what I’m trying and must do. They, like most people, simplify life for their own comfort by believing in “things.” They are Methodists; through their religion the world and its mysteries are explained and this makes things easy. They have a sturdy reason for being. My display of desire to not work but only paint, to see the world, to be big for myself, to do everything, to love and be loved freely, to know beyond the practical and “safe,” to paint honestly therefore to them uglily, to spend what little money I have foolishly, and to not prepare for the future, is to them a phase. A phase, just a phase; like when I used to wet my pants, when I liked school, and when I didn’t like school, when I was in junior high, underdeveloped awkward and self-conscious, when I wanted to be a cowboy, a period when I liked math, when I wanted to be a fashion designer and illustrator, when I like all other developing boys felt attracted toward my own sex and thought myself evil and deranged, when I started smoking to feel big and secure, and when I began “seriously” painting because the romance of it all was overwhelming, it was too good, approval and praise at my fingertips. Time for childhood phases to end? I hope not. Must develop and learn more, must understand myself so we can produce together with sureness, confidence, and beauty, must find peace so I can really work, really labor, and truly be a master of my art and even perhaps for a reason. I’m 19 years old turning 20 the 11th of March. And I, just like George Washington, am only a “thing” to the world, but a god to myself.