They both laugh. The friend goes to the bathroom. Robert sits there.
The noise of the restaurant.
The rain falling in the street.
The creak of leather.
He plays with his French fries.
The friend returns.
I’m tired, Robert says.
Can’t do it any more.
He’s just teasing.
Look at the smile cut across his face.
Robert’s collection includes: Lisa wearing a white veil, ghost. Finger pointing. Reclining. See the crease on her leg from her stockings – here she is wearing a bikini. Her arms, hands and feet are large. Stockings, gloves, garter belt. Her panties are pulled down. Stretch marks across her buttocks. Lisa looks in the mirror. Her left nipple is showing. In a plastic dress, astride a shaggy horse. Nike sneakers, workout girl, bent at the waist, angle of the sun against the wall. In Paris, on a balcony, Eiffel Tower in the distance. She wears a bathrobe. Standing against a white wall, in straw hat and bikini thong, elbow masking her breast, the shadow is caught on the wall. Astride a motorcycle, dressed in Tom of Finland leather. Her anus. Painted gold, she strikes a pose with her arms covering her face.
The portraits of Patti Smith include: Patti sitting wrapped in white muslin, lightning-strike tattoo on her knee, long dark hairs growing on her legs, dazed, dazzled. Bells around her ankle. Patti is listening to the statue, cupping her hand around her ear and leaning forward. Her hand against the white wall, looking back. First Patti holds the doves to her. Then she pushes them away. Patti with long, crimped hair and a wistful expression. The Patti Smith Group, and the doves are caged. Patti waves Robert away, she is laughing, smiling, the same dress as the shot with the doves. The photograph for Patti’s album, Horses, white background, chain has come round to the centre, tie. Monogrammed shirt. The shirt is loose. Creases. Knots in her hair. Button undone. Patti sitting before a radiator, off-centre. The lines of the wooden floor and the radiators and the windows. The creases of her belly. The smooth line of her shoulders.
In 1988 Robert tells the interviewer that he couldn’t do the leather pictures now. It wouldn’t be right to do them now. No, he doesn’t think about the future or the past. He thinks only of the present moment. In the present moment he is photographing classical statues and still-lives. He is coming back to inanimate form, light, shadow and physical structure. It’s not about investigation any more, although he is still learning. He only photographs things that he wants to learn more about. He would like to get into film, he says. He would like to know more about that. He doesn’t know what he will do next.
Mapplethorpe’s flowers: A Cactus Blossom, tall, straight. Tall roses. Babies’ Breath. White flowers lit from behind. Bird of Paradise. Giant daisies in a vase. Chrysanthemum in a vase, 1984, a flower placed in a vase. The vase is consuming the flower. Jack in the Pulpit, Morgan’s Hotel, 1984, lily-looking, very straight.
In 1986 Robert takes a trip to East Hampton. He finds a secluded spot on the beach. He lies down in the sand and closes his eyes. It’s not like the days of the golden bikinis or the royal portraits. Couples are walking their dogs on the beach. He listens to the ocean as he falls asleep. The sun is beating down on him as he lies still. As he is dreaming he has that feeling you get when you know. He knows something is terribly wrong. Something is happening to his body. Robert no longer has any defences. His camera has always been his protection. He would rather live the experience than photograph it. His camera was how he stayed safe. He wakes up. He has burnt himself head to toe in the sun. This is so easily done these days.
The sicker he gets, the harder he works. Reproductions of classical statues have been moved into Robert’s studio. They stand against the wall staring with blank eyes into the room. Being reproductions, they possess no marks of age. They are perfectly white and clear. Robert dresses some in vest tops and scarves, the whiteness of their bodies, bright, illuminated by the studio lamps. He photographs some of them nude, moving slowly around the figures as he used to his live subjects. He cannot move as fast as he once did. He no longer looks out of the window. There is no time to look at anything that is not art.
Robert sits quietly in his rocking chair wearing his dressing gown and slippers. He chain-smokes, gazing into the middle distance. Everywhere, people are watching him, his assistants and secretaries. No one knows what’s going on inside his head. He breathes in, he breathes out.
Robert’s mother sends a priest to his apartment. She says Robert must prepare himself for the presence of God. He must ask forgiveness for all his sins. Robert invites the priest into his apartment. They sit surrounded by Robert’s ornaments, his collection of glass and antiquities, the many objects that depict the devil, his photographs. Robert says he likes to arrange things as all good Catholics do but he does not seek religious comfort. There is no comfort for him now. Robert will not confess his sins. These sins mean that he was once alive.
42
Edmund looks into the window of the Museum of Sex. Two seats have been positioned beside the store’s counter. The mic is bent low so that he can sit as he reads. There is a table, a glass, a pitcher of water. A cardboard cut-out of the Manhattan skyline has been placed behind the seats. A man is arranging chairs for the audience. Edmund enters the museum and approaches the counter.
I’m here to see the curator, he says.
Excuse me a moment, the young woman says. She picks up the telephone and dials a number.
She’ll be down in a moment, she says.
There are a variety of objects for sale on the shelves. Pornographic playing cards, designer dildos, saucy lingerie, vintage pornography, lubricant, poppers, sexy aprons. He picks up a book about Japanese Shunga and flicks through the pages. He puts it down.
Mr White?
The curator is reaching for his hand.
Would you like a drink before we start? she says.
She shows him down a set of narrow stairs to a dark underground basement bar.
They approach the empty bar. A table along the back wall is filled with copies of Edmund’s books. City Boy is the most prominent amongst them, the book he wrote about New York. He is young in the cover photograph, his face in his hand.
What would you like? the curator asks.
Just water, thank you.
Have you been here before?
No, he says. I wonder how you can have a museum about sex. Is it already dead?
The curator laughs. Far from it, she says.
She hands him a menu from the bar, a list of aphrodisiac cocktails and a schedule for sex workshops, classes on how to give the perfect blow job, stripping classes, discussion forums.
It’s about education, she says.
I wrote The Joy of Gay Sex, he says.
Yes. You’re a pioneer.
Am I?
She leads him into the museum.
On the second floor there is an exhibition about sex in the digital age.
Have a look around, she says. Enjoy yourself.
A wall is filled with pictures, a full list of fetishes: shoes, grannies, baby dress-up, leather, food, role-play, bi, tri, watersports, instruments, outdoors, cars, enclosed spaces. A screen shows couples fucking on CCTV: in an office, in a staff room, in an elevator, in a hospital, in a telephone booth. This is what it means to be a voyeur, to be looking from above. Edmund has seen his fair share of this. He has seen it in the flesh. He has lived it.
Many people don’t understand sex, the curator says. Even in this country, people are afraid to ask. We at the museum want it to be transparent. We want people to know as much as possible. We have tried to make the museum as open as we can. For a long time the entrance was on 27th Street. We moved the entrance to Fifth Avenue and put in large windows so that people could see what we were doing. We’re renovating the upper floors so that we can display more of our permanent collection. We’re renovating the bar to attract a larger custom. Because we are not funded with public money we can pretty much do w
hatever we like, but it also means that we have to fund ourselves, and so the bar and the store are important. We also run courses, which you have seen.
Edmund is watching a video on a loop. A man mounts a woman who is lying back on a small sofa in an office. Her legs kick as the man thrusts. The video loops. Edmund sips his water.
Edmund listens to his summarized life. He doesn’t want to hear it now.
It is an honour to be here, he says.
Piers.
High Line.
Bryant Park.
Times Square.
Tonight, I will read a passage from my new book.
He describes his entrance to the city, his temporary apartment, all the places he has seen. He describes himself.
I came here following the man I loved and ended up falling in love with the city, he reads.
But he feels the awkwardness of now. None of this is sitting correctly. The faces in the audience are very young. These people are from another world. They want to live in this city even though it is so difficult. They believe they are a part of a story that really ended long ago. Look, they are smiling, they are happy about it. But they must return to the outer boroughs when this night has ended because they can’t afford to live in Manhattan. The whole time they are looking from the outside towards the centre, from Brooklyn, Queens and New Jersey. They believe the city needs their presence. Edmund knows this isn’t true. They have travelled here for the sake of old dreams. The people who dreamed them have already left.
A young boy is peering through the museum window. This boy is not allowed inside because the subject of the museum is inappropriate for children. Life has not begun for him yet. For the moment, he is spared the anguish of physical love. He looks through the glass at Edmund White. Edmund doesn’t know what he sees. Perhaps he is looking at the cardboard backdrop of New York City propped behind Edmund. It is the past, a movie set. It is a panel from a comic book. The boy is standing in the city but he doesn’t know that yet. The city is out there, behind him, not in here with Edmund.
After the reading, Edmund signs many books. He asks his audience to spell their names. He writes their names in the books, crossing out his own printed name to sign instead.
43
Jane is walking up to a tenth-floor apartment in 1959. A woman is waiting for her at the top of the stairs. She is smiling, recognizing the extent of the climb. She welcomes Jane in and asks her to sit.
I wanted a new kitchen and a view of the city, she says. When they told me I was being moved I thought, finally, somewhere clean. I thought about the people uptown in the Plaza and the sights they must see through their windows. Now I can see the city, but I can’t see my kids. I miss my old tenement, Mrs Jacobs. The windows were left open in the summer. I knew all my neighbours. I don’t any more. The gangs that hang around down there are dangerous. No one comes to repair the lights. I used to have a friend in the next tower block. Look, Mrs Jacobs, in that window, the second floor down from the top and three windows across from the left, that’s where my friend used to hang a red handkerchief to signal when she wanted me to come up for coffee. If it was up then I went out, down the stairs and across the grass. I walked up the stairs because the elevator was always broken. I knocked three times on her door so that she knew it was me. She’s moved away now. I don’t know where. I went over one day and she had gone. She didn’t tell anybody where she went. Now I live here alone with my kids. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in the suburbs in a white detached house with a wrap-around porch and a garden. I would sit on the porch and mend clothes there. My kids would play in the grass.
JONES BEACH, 2013
A man and woman are sitting on the sand beside a trashcan. The summer hasn’t started yet. They watch seagulls beating their wings against the wind. Red flags mark the area within which it is safe to swim. A few children are throwing inflatable rafts onto the water and jumping on. Lifeguards watch, unconcerned, from high posts. The man and woman get up and walk to the West Bath House. The fast-food kiosks are faded, closed. The linoleum floor is stained and cracked. The woman looks up at the chandeliers from yesteryear hanging from the ceiling and imagines what this place must have looked like in the past. A janitor who has been mopping the floor straightens up and says, We’re not open yet. Come back next week.
They go outside.
Why bring me here when it’s closed? she asks.
Next week will be too crowded. Come on.
They sneak up the stairs that lead to the empty restaurant. Through the window they see chipped plastic chairs and Formica tables. Laminated menus lie in a pile by the door.
Was this place ever good? she says.
Beats me.
Over the wall they see dry swimming pools. The woman takes a photograph with her camera. They run down the steps. They are looking for a suitable secluded space. There are many to choose from, it seems. Along the boardwalk are scuffed basketball courts, volleyball courts, the faded fake grass of a pitch-and-putt course. The trashcans that line the boardwalk are designed in the style of ship vents made for luxury cruises. The paint on the handrails is chipped and spotted with gum. The boardwalk curves along the shore. It is empty except for the man and the woman. They are holding hands and looking about. They feel they are the only survivors of a natural disaster. It is impossible to imagine this place teeming with people. The display signs show pictures from the 1930s, a woman in a generous bathing suit and swimming hat, teetering on the edge of a diving board. The auditorium they come to is very small. In the distance they can see the new stadium built far away from the beach. A sound-check is being performed, getting ready for the first day of the season. They listen to the beat of a single drum. The woman kisses the man and leads him through the stage door to a dark corridor. Off the corridor are two dank rooms containing overturned plastic chairs. Seagulls call and beat their wings as the couple put their heads around the door. The man presses the woman against the cold, wet wall. She pushes him away.
Not here, she says. This whole place is wide open.
In the refreshment stand, a few beach-goers are lining up for French fries and slices of pizza. Giant sauce bottles line a dirty window ledge. There are vending machines, change machines. The floor is very dirty.
Further along the boardwalk is the East Bath House, which is also closed. They walk up the flight of stairs to the upper floor where beach recliners are lined up in the shade.
Well? he says, lying out on one of the recliners and crossing his hands behind his head. He smiles. Come get me, he says.
Be serious, she says. She looks out at the ocean. There is a cold breeze now. She wants to feel the sun. They stay here awhile.
They walk back to the main entrance where families are posing for photographs before the Jones Beach sign. She takes a photograph of it too, then of the original black iron silhouettes of comical figures, a man holding a beach umbrella to advertise beach equipment, a woman striding off to change her clothes. They wait for the bus at the beach entrance. She sticks her legs into the sunshine. A man wearing dirty clothes asks them for money. When the bus comes they climb aboard and walk to the back seat. They are the only passengers aboard. The bus drives them back along the parkway. They look out at the ocean.
You always take me to the best places, she says.
He laughs and holds her hand. She lets him. They close their eyes. They sleep all the way back to Manhattan.
Institutional Dream Series
(1972–1973)
LAURIE ANDERSON
In the photograph, Laurie Anderson sleeps on the beach, lying on the smooth sand. Coney Island amusements loom in the distance. Her ankles are crossed. Eyes closed.
In the photograph, Laurie Anderson sleeps in the courtroom. She wears a hat and a thick overcoat. She sits pressed up against the wall. She has made herself small.
Beside each photograph is a description taken from the notebook in which Laurie Anderson wrote after she woke. The first thing she did when
she woke up was to write down her dreams.
Laurie Anderson is changed by outdoor spaces.
It’s not the place where she sleeps that’s important but the things she records as she is dreaming, or after she has dreamt, or before, or when she is about to dream. Then it is what is left on the page that counts and not the sleeping as such. Though the sleeping has something to do with it because without the sleeping there would be no dreaming.
She is travelling all over New York, not just to Coney Island to sleep on the beach, and not just to the subway station, and not just to the afternoon court. She is interested in the line between the conscious and the unconscious. She wants to sustain the unconscious for as long as she can, but, of course, when she is asleep she is waiting to wake.
She feels under surveillance. This is because she is sleeping in public spaces. People are watching her as she sleeps. You could call the sequence ‘The Sleepers’ because there is more than one. When she is awake she looks at the photographs of herself sleeping. The city, too, is sleeping. There are no other people. The beach is empty. The courtroom scene is happening way away from the frame and you can’t see the people.
44
The reporter follows the directions he’s been given from the subway station, down a deserted residential street to the beach. The wind buffets him, cuffs him as he walks. He can’t see the clear line of the tide due to the spray and mist hanging in the air. He checks his notebook as best as he can in such conditions, holding it in the shelter of an elbow crook. He walks along the beach to where he can see a line of beach cabins through the sea mist. He squints his eyes against the cold air. The boarded-up cabins are in need of restoration for the paint has begun to peel and crack. He continues along the beach but he can’t see the houses he is looking for. He has been told this is where the residents are being housed, somewhere close to the beach. He makes his way past the cabins. He sees something in the corner of his eye as he passes. He looks at what it is – a girl of about six wrapped in a bed sheet, watching him – and he thinks he must be imagining things.
Everyone is Watching Page 12