Tossing Glitter… When It’s Authentic You Love Forever

Love. Fidelity. Commitment. People often ask what’s our secret. When I met Jeff I was just a few months shy of thirty. I felt old because I felt trapped. I felt trapped in my own head and in what I believed people expected of me. Their expectations of perfection and identity. I felt that life – real life, the life I wanted – was locked away somewhere that I couldn’t find.

Jeff told me he didn’t expect perfection- perfection was simply a myth. What he did expect was to share a happy life. Happiness. Jeff believed in happiness. And he believed that it was something we could find and have together.

Jeff allowed me to be myself. Being with Jeff and loved by him, gave my life meaning. I didn’t have to be someone else’s idea of Eddie, I could be my own. All Jeff wanted was for me to be myself, because that’s that man he loved. Me, Eddie. Insecurities, Indiana twang, and all.

Washington DC 1989

I can’t imagine a bigger feeling of accomplishment than knowing you’ve shared an authentic, happy life with the person you love. That your life together has an unbreakable bond. That you have been faithful to that love and rejoiced in it. Being happy doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment if you compare it to landing on the moon, or discovering a cure for cancer. But in the everyday life that most of us have, there is no greater human accomplishment than simple happiness with the person you choose, who – by some crazy, beautiful chance – also chooses you.

Love Letters… Mark

And your guitar just sounds so sweet and clear

But your not really here

It’s just the radio

-Leon Russell

Looking back at my youth I ask myself, when exactly did I begin building up walls in a desperate attempt to divide and separate myself into neat and solitary compartments? As a little boy my father told me he knew what I was and that I would never be happy being me. I see how the fact that I loved pretending to be Catwoman, having all my best friends be girls, were all “telltale signs” for my father. But the rigid confinement of masculine stereotypes terrified me. Sensitive and shy, I realized I could never achieve what my Father wanted. What I began to believe society expected. The perfect boy…

In sixth grade, at the zenith of my physical awkwardness, I met my cosmic opposite – a boy who was the epitome of confidence. His name was Mark. We sat next to each other in art class, a place where Mark’s creativity could flourish. He was not a “cool” kid in the traditional sense of the term, but I envied him because he didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought of him. He knew what he liked, what he was, and what he wanted. Being artsy and a little eccentric might have thrown people meeting him for the first time, but I was immediately drawn to him.

Maybe it wasn’t the rough-and-tumble male friendship of a football field or a hunting trip, but it was my first true friendship with a boy. It showed me that I could have a male friend. And it showed me that not all men were jocks or standard-issue Indiana guys – some were artists or just appreciators of art, and were no less ‘male’ for it. Although it would take me far longer to understand all the ways a man can be masculine, my friendship with Mark was a first glimpse into a different kind of maleness. My friendship with Mark helped me see that male friendships weren’t all defined by a slap on the back or a punch in the arm. Men could listen to music together, make art together, simply hang out together, and be physically at ease in each other’s presence.

I spent hours at Mark’s house and he introduced me to so many diverse musical styles. Just as it was for me, Mark’s bedroom was his sanctuary. His stereo and vinyl collection were treated like religious objects. Once the music started, without speaking, we would both nestle side-by-side on his twin bed. Bette Midler’s debut album, The Divine Miss M., was a favorite of Mark’s. The first time the vinyl spun, we would just sing along. But by the time we got to the second or third drop of the needle, we’d lower the volume and talk to each other while we stared at the ceiling. My right shoulder would press up tight against his left in that tiny twin bed. My physical preoccupations subsided during those hours in Mark’s room. I stopped worrying about my own awkwardness long enough to enjoy the emotional connection that I couldn’t have imagined sharing with anyone else. I think of him whenever I hear Bette Midler.

Later, I realized that Mark too longed for easy male friendship, and had his own secret identity, much like mine. In 1983 when I moved to Washington DC in hope of creating a new life for myself, Mark was doing the same in New York City. His dreams became a reality when he began working in the Museum of Natural History doing the dinosaur displays. I can’t help but think of the irony. All the old ways of thinking about masculinity and feeling ashamed were the real dinosaurs. I like to think that Mark made that connection too as he worked on those displays. That he was tearing down those walls of shame and embracing something that really mattered – authenticity.

I remember Mark as someone sensitive, but strong. He was never unkind; he loved animals, and had beautiful hands that could create something incredible from any art medium. Mark became fearlessly authentic before I could grasp what that meant. I realize now that Mark was brave, and that bravery wasn’t something men like my father had exclusive claim to. Courage is something that lives in all of us, and we find it in our own ways. I’m proud that he was my friend, and I miss him still.

I promised Mark’s mother I would never forget him. And how could I? He was and will forever be unforgettable.

Because I Remember…

I had some friends but they’re gone,

Somethin’ came and took them away.

And from the dusk ’til the dawn

Here is where I’ll stay…

-Buzzy Klingman/Bette Midler

I recall the outrage over that first Newsweek cover: never had a mass-market magazine created such a stir. Not as much for it’s AIDS cover story, but because two gay men with AIDS stood together. Out of the shadows. Faces with names and families and friends. Men who were loved by those families and friends.

Reagan, Image and Freedom

His supporters talk of a larger than life figure that all but single-handedly won the cold war. His detractors paint a picture of a president who was somehow hailed as a hero of the working class while setting policies beneficial to the wealthy and devastating to middle class and poor.

It was 1983 when I moved to Washington DC. Coming out of Indiana in the hope of creating a new life for myself was exciting, terrifying and completely confusing. I had worked my whole life to be that perfect Indiana boy. Now, I realized I had worked all that time to conform to everyone else’s ideal of the perfect Indiana boy. They had wanted me to be that boy and I had almost destroyed myself in the process of trying to live up to those expectations.

Now I was presented with the freedom to create a new identity. No longer would I be asking myself, is this it? Is this who you want me to be? Will I be perfect then? Will you love me? Having a blank slate in front of me – being now a blank slate myself – at times felt liberating. But only seconds later that feeling of freedom was replaced with feelings of loneliness. For it was now my choice. My path. Self-acceptance. Happiness. Authenticity. And I would have to accept the loneliness that might accompany me on that path.

My second day in the city I found myself on the corner of 14^th and F Street, one block from the Treasury Department and less than two blocks from the White House. Standing before me, with its stately limestone façade and restrained classical style, one could feel the carefully cultivated air of plush and sophisticated elegance. And walking through that glistening bronze and glass front door for the first time, I had no way of knowing within a matter of days this would become my second home for the following seven years. The salon, Julius Garfinckel & Co.

 My clientele grew quickly. Many were from Capital Hill and they worked for or directly with President and Nancy Reagan.  I quickly realized just what polarizing figures both the Reagans were. There was so much myth and absurdity around both of them. There was the great love story, the fashion icon, the utterly ridiculous ‘JUST SAY NO’ drug campaign, the failures as parents, and the glamorous friends. How kind he was and how cold she could be. How much they truly adored each other. Everyone who sat in my chair had an opinion. Listening to everyone’s vehemence about the Reagans – pro or con – I found myself feeling guilty for being so detached from politics. I was in Washington, after all. But I knew how to play my assigned role, better than most. Hairdressers were supposed to only have one thing in mind. The client’s hair.

All this was about to change.

There had been muttering about this plague that was killing gay men. Even in Washington DC, mystery, fear and stigma surrounded what was dubbed the ‘Gay Cancer’. Within my first year there, it suddenly seemed like everyone was dying around me. Co-workers and friends. Billy who made my fried egg on whole wheat every morning at the corner deli. Ralph, who ran the drycleaner’s. It seemed as if suddenly they were just gone.

It was devastating and terrifying. The mutterings grew louder. The fear grew more intense, and ultimately angrier. And yet the White House was silent. Ronald and Nancy Reagan – who had worked in Hollywood (as the American public was constantly reminded) – had worked with many gay men in the course of their pre—political life. From art directors to co-stars, they had lived and worked in one of the few cultures in which gay men had thrived. But Regan’s moral majority communications director Pat Buchanan called this spreading death nature’s revenge. And the deaths continued.

I recall the outrage over that first Newsweek cover: never had a mass-market magazine created such a stir. Not as much for it’s AIDS cover story, but because two gay men with AIDS stood together. Out of the shadows. Faces with names and families and friends. Men who were loved by those families and friends.

You never forget that first friend, finally admitting in a hushed whisper “I’m HIV positive”. You recognize that all too familiar look of shame. And you also never forget that late Thursday night, as you left work with him, you wondered what it must take for him to get through a ten-hour day only to face protesters coming from the White House lawn with their ‘God Hates Fags’ signs. Coming out of Indiana to escape, you realize shame is something you can no longer run or hide from. You must look it straight on. Because true shame is denial and denial is death. True shame belonged to those ignoring the suffering, the fear, and the dead.

It was 1987 when President Ronald Reagan finally addressed AIDS. By then 36,058 American’s had died and over 20,000 had been diagnosed with the disease. This was just the beginning. It’s impossible to imagine any social group in America would have to die in those kinds of numbers before a sitting President even acknowledged their plight. Today his supports shrug and say it was a different time. Larry Kramer, playwright, public health advocate, and LGBT rights activist believed many gay people fought the wrong way. A bitter critic of the promiscuous 1970s-era sex culture, he advocated a politics that presaged today’s fight for marriage equality. He made a lot of enemies in the community because of his ‘bourgeois conservative’ viewpoint. God knows how many lives he saved.

It took many years for me to attempt to sort out that moment in time. It was a combination of personal growth, extreme loss, and terrifying fear. But despite all the anger that I had felt, years later as Mrs. Reagan stood at the President’s funeral, I felt tears running down my face. In fact, I was sobbing. I watched her grey, grief-stricken face, and fragility. It was a reminder of mortality, and how we all must face it one way or another. Watching Nancy Reagan, I felt all the devastating grief from that time rise up in me. I remembered all the loss that was the result of slow acting government that had refused to acknowledge the urgency of the plague. I remembered all the impotent anger and terror. But I also saw a woman plunged into sorrow. Despite all the public display and sentiment, it was Nancy Reagan’s grief-ravaged face and the way she placed her cheek on her husband’s coffin that unlocked my tears. Perhaps it was because in that moment I could put my personal feelings aside and just recognize and feel the horrible empty loss of love.

Coming out of Indiana, in that moment and time, I would begin to learn not only how images are created. But I also learned the lack of meaning and value they provide. I began to understand the hollowness of an image that is separated from its reality. I began to understand that although we shouldn’t live in the past, we can’t move forward without looking back. Self-discovery for me taught me that a secret life is a sad life. Self-discovery taught me about the tenuous and all-important connection between identity and freedom. Despite all that came before and would come after, without individuality and authenticity, we could never be free. Now I knew.

Tossing ‘Forever’ Glitter

Poem by Carl Woodall

After a beautiful early morning run along the water I opened my computer to find this poem written by my childhood friend. I’m touched, humbled and blessed. Truly, when it feels authentic you love them forever…

Tossing Glitter… Mary Ellen Mark (March 20,1940-May 25,2015)

“I feel an affinity for people who haven’t had the best breaks in society. What I want to do more than anything is acknowledge their existence”

-Mary Ellen Mark

Her photography often addressed social issues that included homelessness, prostitution, drug addiction and mental illness. Her work many times left you sad but always thinking. Especially shots which included children and how she captured their heartbreaking lives. Her photography told a story. No matter her subject her style was immediately recognizable.

Photo by Mary Ellen Mark

Mary Ellen Mark was an incredible photographer who will be missed but never forgotten.

Tossing Glitter… The Korean War Memorial

Battery Park

He who seeks beauty shall find it…

Every Picture Tells A Story…

I Walk On Guilded Splinters…
Every picture tells a story…
In 1969 Cher recorded ‘3614 Jackson Highway’ with famed Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section. For an eleven year old boy, hearing Cher wail Bob Dylan for the 1st time it became and remains one of my favorite albums…
As much as the music was the photography. Looking like an Indian princess, buckskin & beads lying in a field. It was taken by the amazing Stephen Paley whose name I recognized from countless other album covers… Allman Brothers, Sly & Family Stone, Laura Nyro, J Geils, Aretha Franklin, the list is endless…
It was a thrill many years later to contact Stephen and purchase one of his photos from that shoot…And an honor when in New York on business Stephen contacted me and stopped by my apartment and shot my portrait with his portrait of Cher… Great talent and super person…

Photo by Stephen Paley

Thinking about that eleven year old boy studying those liner notes on his bunk bed makes me smile…

Tossing Glitter… One-Named Wonder

I walk through the fire
And I’ll fly through the smoke
I wanna see my enemies
On the end of my rope
Walk on pins and needles
And I see what they can do
Walk on guilded splinters

-Dr. John

Photo by Stephen Paley… Vogue magazine/3614 Jackson Highway 1969

Tossing Glitter… Country Boy

When it feels authentic you love forever…