JONATHAN: Connor, I have to ask, though I happen to know the answer already. Were you lovers?
CONNOR: [makes a face expressing exasperation with his own long-standing distaste for talk about such matters] Well, yes. But, you know, then, for people like us, it wasn’t all about making love. And with Don, it quickly came to be about kindred spirits, which was much more interesting and relevant than who does what to whom. [pauses] Though, I mean, kissing is always important, surely.
In the VIP box, Peter noticed that Wallace bumped shoulders privately with Frankel as they sat there and heard the line.
JONATHAN: It was a great time, then, wasn’t it? What was that—fifty-three, fifty-four?
CONNOR: Fifty-four, I’d guess. We were so poor! I remember very often having to decide whether to spend my last quarter on a hamburger or the New York Times.
JONATHAN: And what was the outcome, usually?
CONNOR: The Times, of course. People would always invite you for dinner, and then, if you’d read the paper, you might have something interesting to say.
JONATHAN: There was a lot going on then, intellectually, wasn’t there, in New York? People were doing new things and there was a lot to do. There was a lot of movement among blacks, gays, women, artists. The sixties didn’t come out of nowhere, did they?
CONNOR: No, indeed. My opinion—speaking of big? In the fifties, when we were all buoyed up on our triumph in the war, a lot of what you might consider commonplace, like a glass of wine with your friend, took on a kind of importance, on the scale of the war’s great mission. We were victors. The world was ours. That felt like something, and we all shared it. America was initiated into a new level of greatness, yet there was so little in our culture big enough to accommodate all that greatness. What did we do? We threw ourselves a victory party that’s still going on today. We pumped up Hollywood and Las Vegas and Detroit and Madison Avenue—all the bosoms and glitter and convertibles you could want! Which was terrific, surely, but only parodies, I think, of what a real American greatness, or glamour, or progress could have been. So what if there were a few of us artists, puttering away in the background, just trying to understand what happened . . . ?
JONATHAN: You’re right.
CONNOR: Then came the sixties and that generation, who did seek greatness of a more elevated kind, but all that amounted to, ultimately, was Woodstock—another party.
Chuckles from the audience.
JONATHAN: I might disagree with you there, Connor, but often I do find myself wondering whether the value of what we’ve built since the fifties exceeds the value of what we tore down.
CONNOR: Ah!
JONATHAN: We addressed what we had to address after World War Two—the racism and sexism and all that, right? Tore down conventions. But the other things we tossed out the window, like Sunday dinner with the family—are we going to leave behind anything of as much communal value? Are we even happier now? I mean, as a gay man it’s great to be out, to be free of shame, but I have to say—and I’m about twenty years younger than you—I can see there was a certain thrill, a certain value, in the old days, of being included in this very special, secret society; a pride, even, that was embodied in those shadowy relationships. It’s true that what we’ve got today doesn’t quite equal that, in color or texture....
CONNOR: No, not at all. But it’s not just gay people, it’s everyone. As a nation, we’ve traded in a sense of special for simply being OK.
Another magazine photograph—this one from the 1960s, quite formal, of the stable of artists at the prestigious art gallery in the East Seventies where Frankel racked up his first big sales and established his reputation. Connor stands near the back of a group of fifteen men and one woman, dressed in a very sharp-looking suit, his hair still dark and somewhat long, but combed neatly for the occasion.
JONATHAN: Very dapper.
CONNOR: I bought that suit expressly to be in the photograph. I think it cost eighty-nine dollars, at Bond’s. That was an amazing group of people. I was enormously proud to be among them, to have been taken into the gallery. And I started meeting some very fancy people, at that point, and happily they started buying my work.
JONATHAN: You started going places, as they say.
CONNOR: Yes, and getting invited places.
JONATHAN: Such as?
CONNOR: Oh, society stuff. La Côte Basque, Pavillon. Palm Springs, Palm Beach. Not that I ever fit in. Yet I have to say that those people, the great doyennes and moguls, who’d been kids before the war—they did the sixties-international thing with that great, elevated specialness we’re talking about. Babe Paley—QED. There’s no real glamour around that kind of human being nowadays, only buzz. No more Eleanor Roosevelts or Albert Einsteins, either. No icons worthy of a pedestal. Yet people continue to grow up and become . . . what? Paris Hilton? They’re children, with this parody of stardom. And stardom itself, at its height in Hollywood, was only a gold-plated imitation of this precious human capacity for magnificence! [pauses, then sighs] It’s like a delicious strain of apple, bred and perfected over centuries, that no one eats anymore, because they’re so used to the tasteless, mass-produced thing that’s sold in supermarkets. So the orchard lies in waste.
JONATHAN: That’s a very fancy image, Connor.
CONNOR: I’m assuming we can look at all this in editing. [glances upward and around the studio, then refocuses] Honestly, I did my share of fleeing magnificence. Even as I put my heart and soul into my work. Which is why I’m doing this interview now—to embrace, if I can, a phase of growth that for the longest time simply frightened me. I didn’t know how to do it. There were no wise parents guiding people in the right direction, toward the right kind of big. No Eleanor Roosevelts. [shakes his head, visibly moved] I saw the doors being opened throughout my life—I saw them!—and just couldn’t walk through them.
JONATHAN: Until now. Everything has its time.
CONNOR: Yes. [pauses, as if to control himself] Sorry. I have some emotion around this.
JONATHAN: Don’t be sorry.
CONNOR: I wish it were easier to know what we want, to know what there is to want....
A snapshot of Connor in the 1970s, now a grand figure in the art world: He’s standing with the leading Park Avenue society doyenne of the time and a famous boyish novelist, at the pool pavilion of the lady’s Palm Beach estate. Philodendron leaves contrast dramatically with louvered shutters; bamboo furniture boasts gaily striped cushions. Connor is in a baggy floral shirt and a pair of baggy plaid swim trunks, while the lady sports chic pedal pushers and a sleeveless blouse with the collar turned up. Her hair is fashionably big. The novelist stands by in the skimpiest tank suit possible, clowning for the camera in an attempt to be alluringly cute.
JONATHAN: Didn’t he have a great body?!
CONNOR: Yes, didn’t he? And he certainly wasn’t afraid of showing it off.
JONATHAN: Did he act seductively around you?
CONNOR: Lord, no. He wasn’t the least bit interested in me—I mean, beyond that kittenish thing he did with everyone. Now the lady’s husband—that was a different story.
JONATHAN: Really—he hit on him?
CONNOR: He knew nothing would come of it, but at parties and such he had to let everyone know he was attracted. It was a supremely uncomfortable thing to watch, yet glorious, too, in a way.
JONATHAN: God bless the envelope pushers.
CONNOR: I suppose so. Palm Beach is nuts. It encourages all sorts of mischief. But I’ll tell you where I did fit in. I can recall several enormously pleasant weekends up at Sam Barber’s place in Mount Kisco—the place he had with Menotti—what did they call it? Capricorn. Now that was a special place. Glorious country estate. All the gays of a certain sort went up there—Bernstein, Horowitz, Copland. These were important people. They made music, the authors read their work, we talked seriously about everything. It was fun of an intellectual sort, yes, and there was even some seduction, on some levels. But there was also a code that bound u
s, a conspiratorial covenant, if you will. Maybe a useful kind of doublethink; maybe even a queer ethics, to use an academic term—all around the collegial and mentorial thing: the sharing and transferring of power. [smirks] Think we have anything like that nowadays?
JONATHAN: You mean doing favors for each other and for newcomers to the fold?
CONNOR: That, yes. But also just this way of understanding and respecting each other’s choices about the public and the private. It was a complete and very nuanced social contract among us. . . .
JONATHAN: I’m sorry we don’t have any pictures of one of those weekends.
CONNOR: No, well, you wouldn’t, would you? I mean, I guess there are some—Sam probably took some—but they’re probably in one of those “open in ninety-nine years” vaults.
A photo of Connor as the reclusive master in the 1980s, in the studio of his secluded residence in rural Connecticut. The studio is often described as “a barn,” but several million dollars went into its renovation, and it was filled not only with Connor’s own work but that of others he’d bought or been given over the years: Johns, Warhol, Twombly, Guston. In the background are several assistants, young artists who also happen to be unusually handsome young men.
JONATHAN: Your crew.
CONNOR: That was a magazine shoot. The photographer was a dream. He really had eyes in his head. His shots were full of meaning. But the writer! She kept pushing and pushing for more information....
JONATHAN: About?
CONNOR: Me; my assistants; Wallace, who had just come there to live . . . ! She was digging for dirt! As if, instead of making art, we were partying all day long. I had to call the editor and say that if that were the tack she’s taking, I was going to withdraw.
JONATHAN: And?
CONNOR: The piece turned out fine. [grins modestly]
JONATHAN: She was only hoping to get you out of the closet.
CONNOR: Precisely. Instead of talking about my work.
JONATHAN: It’s not as if you’ve ever loved talking about your work, Connor. And you always do manage to have attractive helpers.
CONNOR: [laughs] No, you’re right. I’m just an ornery cuss, Jon—always have been.
JONATHAN: I’m glad we have that on record.
CONNOR: In some ways, the closet was made for me. I’m not happy to say that now, but it’s true. For a long time I thought the closet one of the best-engineered conventions of all time, the most towering code of behavior ever constructed, bar none. Christianity, Anglo-American jurisprudence, modern hygienics—none was more useful or elegant or adult. Because it was created and maintained so thoughtfully. And then gay lib questioned all that, and AIDS finally killed it. I mean, people used to pour all this ingenuity into coded appearances, manners, pageantry! Everything heightened. Each relationship, each encounter, was a secret adventure of heroic proportions. Now what we’ve got, instead, is gay marriage. Well and good.
JONATHAN: Surely you don’t miss the culture of shame.
CONNOR: [shakes his head] “Why this is hell, nor I am out of it.”
JONATHAN: Funny. [speaks to the camera] Marlowe’s Faust—Mephistopheles.
CONNOR: [smiles wearily] No, I don’t miss the shame. Though I look at Facebook sometimes— Wallace shows me—and I have to wonder if this is what pride looks like. Boys dancing around a pool on Fire Island.... I don’t know. I miss Capricorn.
The film, which was about an hour long, incorporated a dozen photographs in all. Frankel spoke eloquently about all of them, and Peter was unexpectedly moved by the man’s openness in conjuring a younger, frightened self and letting it share the screen with his present eminence. In fact, Peter found himself contemplating his own life in the same way, grateful that he had turned out to be perhaps more of an adult than some others of his age, yet perhaps less of one than he could still be, at his age—a thought that was both marvelous and scary, which in turn raised other thoughts. If the adult in him had been forged during AIDS, almost inadvertently, then what of the Peter who existed before that, the dear young Peter who had arrived in New York in the mid-’70s, wanting to start living? Had he expired without being properly mourned? Was he still alive today, somewhere in the psyche, still wanting . . . something?
There was a small wave of applause in the still-darkened house, as the credits began to roll. Ah, the guitarist was John Williams, thought Peter. The Partita no. 2 in C Minor—I have to get that. Would Will like the partitas? he wondered. Did he like Bach, anyway? Did he like the film? It would be a minute or two before the credits rolled out and houselights came up, but Peter was suddenly desperate to gab with Will. Can you believe what their lives were like, back then? A hamburger or the Times! Would you and I have been friends in the ’50s, do you think?
And then a thought occurred to Peter: Shit, I’m kind of in love on these two different levels, as an adult and as . . . something else. Could that be?
When the credits ended, a spotlight appeared on the VIP box. Peter drew back a bit, so as not to be in the light. The audience responded to the sight of Jonathan and Frankel with another wave of applause, much heartier, to which Jonathan responded by waving and Frankel by smiling. Then the houselights came up and people began moving into the foyer for supper.
A serpentine bar of pink marble and blond wood. A towering urn of lilies, tulips, and roses. Bartenders serving wine, mixed drinks, and sparkling water. Seating areas of sectional sofas, ottomans, and low tables. In the background, lounge-y music. Across the room, servers ready behind a skirted buffet table, with platters of food set at various heights on cast-glass blocks. Votive candles and little “cocktail” flower arrangements.
Peter and Aldebar positioned Jonathan in a spot where he felt comfortable, then Peter went off to get drinks for the three of them. By the time he came back, a reception line had formed, of quietly animated admirers wanting to share their enthusiasm for the film.
“Marvelous,” said a lady in a gray pantsuit and pearls, bending in toward Jonathan slightly, so she could be more at his level.
“First-rate,” said a man in a plaid sport jacket and bow tie.
Jonathan, in his chair, looked happy in a haunted way.
“We’re going to keep going . . . ,” he was saying, when the Hollywood action star appeared at the head of the line and, with overhumble apologies to those who were waiting, stole Jonathan’s hand for a shake and said a few words directly into his ear, before heading off with an assistant.
Jerk, thought Peter, watching from one side. Then Will and Luz appeared.
“Amazing, amazing, amazing,” said Will, gathering Peter into a warm embrace.
“Really strong,” said Luz, kissing Peter on both cheeks when Will released him from the hug. Only Will didn’t fully release Peter. He kept his arm around Peter’s shoulders as the three of them stood there bubbling on about the movie.
“It really makes you see how much this country has changed,” said Luz.
“Exactly,” said Peter. “For better and worse.”
“You’re not going to tell us how brilliant the closet was,” said Will.
“No, no,” laughed Peter. “Though there was a time in my life when I really didn’t expect to be accepted, and that made me think I didn’t want to be.”
“Things change,” said Will. “There was a revolution, which is always better and worse at the same time.”
“Really,” said Luz.
“We should count ourselves lucky that the gay revolution happened so peacefully,” said Will. “That’s what I kept thinking. Connor talks about infrastructure. Your generation built an entirely new way of thinking about gay, that both younger and older people have benefited from.”
“We did?” said Peter. “Golly.”
“Thanks, Papi,” said Will.
Peter gave Will a playful push with his hip, but not so hard as to break the embrace. He loved the feeling of Will’s arm around his shoulders. It felt protective, endearing, territorial.
“Food?” said Pe
ter.
“Sure,” said Luz.
“The music was good, wasn’t it?” said Peter, as they moved off toward the buffet. Will and Luz agreed, then starting chattering about a “crossover classical” guitarist whose new album they’d been listening to, after Will was sent an advance copy.
“I’ll dupe it for you,” said Will. “It’s really good.”
“Great,” said Peter.
“He made you a music mix,” says the daughter to Michelle Pfeiffer in I Could Never Be Your Woman. “That’s how boys tell you what’s in their heart.” So I get the younger boyfriend? Peter wondered. This thing I want so much—I can have it? It’s OK for me to want and have? I merit it?
Now and Yesterday Page 40