Gerd Stern, Multimedia artist and poet, aged 79, May 13, 2009

 (Gerd Stern in 1963)

Gerd Stern was born in Germany in 1928. His family fled the Nazis and he wound up living in Washington Heights. Because of tempestuous relationship with his father, a cheese broker, he left home at 16 and moved to Greenwich Village.

Gerd was seduced by an older woman and started his poetry education by hanging out at the Four Seasons Bookshop on Greenwich Avenue.

In 1949, at the age of 21, he was living in a burnt-out car in New York, underfed and stressed out. A sympathetic doctor suggested he get himself committed the New York Psychiatric Institute, where he met Beat icons Allen Ginsberg and Carl Solomon.

Gerd wound up in the San Francisco area, hanging out with the Beat poets. He lived on a barge in Sausalito, and for a time was both the lover and manager of Maya Angelou, during her club singing career at the Purple Onion in San Francisco. Gerd eventually moved back to the New York area, continuing to write original poetry, publishing six poetry books. He also became a prominent multimedia artist. Gerd Stern is a very charming storyteller, but these fantastical life stories are all true.

I was introduced to Gerd by his friend Gloria Sukenick. Gerd was living in New Jersey, but we spoke at his partner’s apartment on 24^th Street, in Chelsea. [Gerd is now 91.]

DYLAN FOLEY: Did you hang out at the Four Seasons Bookshop?

GERD STERN: The people I met in that bookstore were the Partisan Review people. One of them was Isaac Rosenfeld, who got me a scholarship to Black Mountain. It didn’t really work out, but it put me in touch with people I’ve known the rest of my life.

I started out in the West Village, living with Stanley Gould. When I knew him, he wasn’t old then. He was sitting, minding the Potter’s Wheel, a store on 4th Street.

Stanley introduced me to Dick Winansky, who shared this apartment with me. I had no idea about dope, no idea about homosexuality. I had no idea about sexuality. I was a refugee boy from Washington Heights. It was all fascinating.

DF: Could you tell me about meeting Elaine Goodman, a young woman working in publishing?

GS: I met Elaine Goldman at a party. She took me home and basically raped me. [Gerd chuckles]. She was forceful. She was big. She was great. I lived with her for months. She convinced me I should become a poet. 

The Village was like, wow, freedom from middle-class oppression, expectation. After Elaine, I had an identity. I considered myself a poet, and I have ever since. The weave was seamless.

DF: What kind of poetry books did Toshka Goldman of the Four Seasons push on you? [Editor’s note: After she married, Toshka Goldman became Rosetta Reitz. She died in 2008.]

GS: I was working at a store called Jabberwocky, next door to the Four Seasons. We made lamps out of vases and bottles and anything people brought in. I learned about Dylan Thomas, the whole New Directions group. Roethke, Pound, Joyce. I was clueless. I started reading the Partisan Review. She stocked all the little magazines.

 (Partisan Review)

Toshka was a sweetheart. You could sit around with her for hours. It didn’t matter if anybody bought anything. I don’t know if she ever made money. The place that people bought books was at the 8th Street Bookstore.

Paul Goodman used to hang out there. This crowd included Delmore Schwartz and Lionel Trilling and a lot of highly intellectual types.

(Delmore Schwartz, 1930's)

My first sexual experience was with Paul’s ex-wife Ginny. I met Ginny through a translator at the U.N., who was the first person who turned me on to pot.

(Gerd Stern, left,  playing bongos 1955)

DF: Where did you start hanging out in the Village?

GS: I started going to the Waldorf Cafeteria, which was the real hangout place. At the Waldorf, you didn’t need to buy a beer. If you bought coffee, you could stay there all day. Jimmy the Greek was my first connection and Al Manion. All the junkies stayed at the Waldorf.

I think it was Stanley Gould who introduced me to the Remo. With one beer, you could manage for hours and there were people who bought you beers. Anton Rosenberg came from the same group.

Fran Deitch came from Central Park West. She came from a family that owned a toy company. [Editor’s note: Fran Deitch was a torch-song composer who wound up marrying the night-club entrepreneur Jay Landesman.] They had a lot of money. Anton also became a junkie. He died in Woodstock not too many years ago. He was a friend of mine for a long time. He used to buy us beers. We used to stand at the bar, but when Anton was around, he’d put a table together. He’d even buy us booze.

DF: In 1949, you were living in a burnt-out out car in New York City and were underfed. How did you wind up checking yourself into the New York Psychiatric Institute? A doctor suggested you go into the hospital to recover from malnutrition.

GS: I was in a critical situation. I was living on the street in this burned out Willis (a car). My uncle sent me to this doctor. The doctor was right. I wasn’t eating enough. My father was a dangerous, far-away presence to me. My uncle, the doctor, was a real prick, by the way.

The sequence was off in my oral history. Transcription is not like writing. I’ve been urged to write a memoir, but it is not one of my more important projects.

To me, the story doesn’t seem wild. It is just what happened.

DF: You knew Beat icon Carl Solomon and Allen Ginsberg at the New York Psychiatric Institute?

GS: Carl was a wise guy. We acted up in the hospital, but it was his ironic idea that triggered us.  He involved the three of us in these games he played.

Carl loved to take advantage of people if you weren’t his friend. That’s how he got into the hospital in the first place, by throwing potato salad in the face of Wallace Markfield, a famous proto-anarchist.

[The aide Carl harrassed] had no business being in that job. He was a nut job. What finally drove the aide over the brink—it was Easter and they put these papier-mache bunnies on the tables where we ate. Carl took the bunny into the bathroom and masturbated into the inside of this rabbit and put it back on the table. It drooled out this little pool of cum. The aide came and said, “What is that? Carl said, “I jerked off into it.” The guy went mad and they took him away.  The aide had to be taken away in a straightjacket!

When Carl came into the hospital with all those books, Genet was big. Solomon and Ginsberg got me thrown out of the hospital   in a Genet-like manner. I wasn’t upset at all. I was ready to go. It set me on a very positive course for the rest of my life. 

 

(Carl Solomon, 1950's. Photo by Allen Ginsberg)

I had a Dr. Hamdig. He had no business telling me what to do. It was the last time he saw me. He said, “Look, I’m a Freudian. I’m not supposed to do this, but I need to tell you that you can’t live both the life you want to live and the life that your father wants you to live. You better make up your mind.” I made up my mind right then, as soon as the words came out of his mouth. He was right. I hadn’t made up my mind ’til then.

I don’t know whatever happened to people I knew then. I was emotionally put out when I saw that Toshka Goldman only died last year. I had no idea what she did after I knew her.

DF: Do you think Joe Santini, the owner of the San Remo, had hostility towards his new bohemian clientele?

GS: The Italians and bohemians didn’t get along too well. The Italians felt we were usurping their turf, but the bar needed the money. It became a magnet. Jimmy Baldwin was there all the time, before he went to Paris. I remember the night before he left.

DF: What was the sex vibe in the Village?

GS: It was very tolerant. I quickly understood that there were two kinds of gender relations and they didn’t mix. Jimmy [Baldwin] was as gay as you could get. He was flaming, even more so than Allen.  

DF: What was the black-Jewish relationship like then?

GS: That relationship was intense. Bird [Charlie Parker] once said to me, “I might as well be Jewish. It’s the same thing.” I met Bird in San Francisco.

The Remo was it. I would be there every night. You could count on most of your group being there. Stanley Gould would be there. When I met him, he had a job, but very soon after he became a bum. He did a lot of dope deals back and forth. He was always on the take. He was very well liked, by the way.

Norman [Mailer] was there. That’s how I met him. Twice a night, we’d walk to the Minetta Tavern, to see who was there. It wasn’t the hangout like the Remo. They were more formal. They didn’t like people standing around without buying anything. Joe Gould was always there. He was the house character, and he took it very seriously.

DF: What was the San Remo like?

GS: It was funky, but it wasn’t dirty. They kept it very clean. It was relatively cheap.

DF: What was the sex vibe at the Remo?

GS: There weren’t a lot of loose women around. First of all, most of the patrons were men. Most of them were straight. Stanley was bisexual. Dick Winansky was bisexual. After the hospital, Carl Solomon had money because he was working for his uncle A.A Wyn, owner of Ace Books.


DF: Did Ginsberg imply that Carl Solomon slept with his mother?

GS: He doesn’t imply it. He quotes him. “Howl” sent Carl back to the hospital and it cost him his job with A.A. Wyn. He wound up at Pilgrim State.  I had a lot of things against Allen. The worst thing was that Allen and Jack went to Pilgrim State and got Carl to sign a legal document that he wasn’t going to sue. His mother was about to sue. Then the court case happened [City Lights was being sued over obscenity for Howl.] I was there. Hey, it’s a wild world. Allen was very good at scheming people. He was a great poet, don’t get me wrong. I kept up a quasi-friendship with him. He was manipulative, and he could be not nice.

DF: Ginsberg was a great promoter of himself and his friends?

GS: He got his gay and bisexual friends published. I got Burroughs published through Carl on Junky. I was Carl’s West Coast agent. Ginsberg gave me a whole bunch of manuscripts. Ginsberg was a purser on a ship going across the Pacific.  He left all these things with me. Junky was the only thing that worked. I also got Carl to publish Jaime De Angulo’s Indian Tales.
Among the manuscripts was a 12- to 16-page letter of Neal Cassady’s, which I supposedly destroyed. Not true. According to Allen, I destroyed it by throwing it off the barge. Not true. It didn’t get lost at all. I gave the manuscripts back to Allen. I believe, honestly, that Jack used it up in one of his books. Allen picked up everything from my wife Ann. He asserted it was missing. [Editor’s note:Gerd was right. The letter had been lost at an old publishing house in a submission pile, being discovered more that 50 years later in 2012. It went up for auction in March 2017 and was sold for $206,000 to Emory University, which has a famed Beat collection.]

(A gorgeous Maya Angelou in the 1950's)

I helped build the Living Theatre on 14th Street. Judith Malina is great. USCO Multimedia performed there.

 (USCO flyer)

DF: Did you go to the White Horse?

GS: It was a circuit, but the White Horse was important on certain dates, when Dylan was in town.  I helped carry him home certain times. He was fantastic, but he was also a nasty brute. His poetry was incredible. His poetry was very influential on me, not in writing but in understanding emotionally that it was possible to write that way. I knew a lot of so-called famous poets. Dylan was the worst, really. He was an unpleasant personality because he was rarely not drunk. He was okay when he was not drunk, but that was only early on. It didn’t take him very long to get drunk.

Dylan Thomas was a groupie object, and for older groupies, as well. Taking him home was a nightmare. It took four or five people to walk him down the street.

Later on, there was the Cedar. There weren’t a hell of a lot of painters at the Remo. [The Remo] was a literary and drug place. There was a lot of drug dealing at the Remo, both reefer and heroin. I was never into junk or cocaine. I’ve been a pot smoker for a long time. In those days, we thought a toothpick joint got us high. I just don’t understand how we got high.

DF: To go back to 1947, you were involved in helped to covertly finance a ship used to transport Jewish refugees from Europe to Israel?

GS: The boat was called the S.S. Ben Hecht. It was financed by the playwright Ben Hecht. Harpo Marx gave us more money, but Harpo said, “If Groucho knew that I gave you money, we’d be in a lot of trouble. [Editor’s note: Money was raised from a 1946 Broadway play written by Hecht called a “A Flag is Born,” with an unknown actor named Marlon Brando. The play raised $400,000. In March 1947, the junky boat, a German-built former yacht, delivered 600 Holocaust survivors from France to new lives in Palestine.]

DF: Did you go to the Cedar Bar?

GS: Oh, absolutely. People I knew. A very close friend of mine was John Chamberlain. John and I would drive down from Rockland County in his Volkswagon bus. He would hangout there all night long. There was a bit of crossover between the Cedar and the Remo. LeRoi Jones and his wife drank at the Remo, then the Cedar. LeRoi was a barfly and Hettie supported him. He was a bastard to her and he’s still a bastard. Yet, he was very talented. I don’t think he is anymore. He’s very self possessed and he thinks a lot of himself.

(San Remo entrance, northwest corner of MacDougal and Bleecker))

The Remo had an aura and a personality that was much bigger than any of the other places. It was like Grand Central Station for the bohemia of the time. It was pre-Beat and pre-any of the movements that were later ascribed to that era, and it had a prime geographic location. You couldn’t do better than the corner of Bleecker and Macdougal. People would come from Europe and head straight for the Remo. It was an internationally known hangout. They’d hardly know three words of English. There was the neighborhood people, but we didn’t pay attention to them. Nobody was hassled. Norman wasn’t even hassled, though he was famous. It was amazing, this feeling, that you felt at home. I don’t remember anyone really getting hassled by the owners and that’s unusual for the bar.

Fran Deitch slept around with a lot of musicians, specifically black musicians.

(William S. Burroughs in front of the Sam Remo, early 1950's)

DF: Did you know Winnie Meyer, the woman famous for exposing her breasts at the San Remo?

GS: Sure. I slept with her. She was a lot of fun, a humorous, generous person. The other girls who came to the Remo was Odetta, the folk singer. She was a big personality.

I wasn’t a big drinker, one or two beers a night. I don’t know how we got high in those days. There wasn’t much pot around and what there was wasn’t that great.

DF: You smoked reefer with Count Basie in San Francisco, making it very potent by feeding tub through your bathtub, turning the bathtub into a gigantic waterpipe. What did he say to you?


GS: “I don’t know whether to love you or to hate you.”[said Stern, imitating Basie’s slurred speech.] He got stoned all his life. It wasn’t his last time.

DF: How many children do you have?

GS: I have three and a new one. I got a call,  “Your name is on my birth certificate as my father.” The woman was Jackie Gibson. She told people she was pregnant with Jack Kerouac’s baby. The reason I stopped seeing Jackie was that she was hanging out with Allen, Jack and Neal, which wasn’t my scene. Eric is the new child. Radha is my oldest one from the first marriage.

I was supposed to do sound for “Easy Rider” for Dennis, but I was too busy.
Working for Playboy…I had dinner with Sinatra in Vegas. He was so obscene, I snuck out of the bathroom.

DF: Did Carl Solomon and his wife Olive stay married for a while?

GS: I think they lasted for four or five years. I can’t remember it exactly. I think Carl enjoyed the gay world. I don’t know if he was sexually gay. I have no proof of it. Certainly, Allen acted like he was. I have a letter that I just found that Carl sent to Ferlighetti that he was going to sue him, and then a second letter saying, “”I’m sorry, that was a big mistake. Allen has been the best friend in my life. I didn’t mean that [the first letter].  I take it back.”

I believe that letter was before that, and it was what caused them to go to the hospital [to get Solomon to sign a document].

I met Larry Ferlinghetti the first day he came to San Francisco. A few years ago, I saw him at the Woodstock Poetry Festival.

Jonas Mekas, I’ve known forever…he’s a very good guy.

The Partisan crowd, they all turned into horrible right wingers.

DF: Did you know the performance artist Carolee Schneemann?

GS: We did a tour together. Intermedia 68. Dancers in paper costumes. She has a studio in New York and a house in Ulster County. She takes herself very seriously. She should.

DF: Did you know William S. Burroughs?

GS: I knew him, but I didn’t like him.

DF: What are you going to do with your archive?

GS: I want to sell it. I need the money.

[Editors note: Stanford University bought Gerd’s archive in 2013. The material came out to 50 linear feet and in 156 containers. In 2018, the archive list was put online.]

Gloria Sukenick, San Remo scenster and housing activist, interviewed on April 30, 2009

(Gloria Sukenick, 2019)

Interviewed by Dylan Foley

Born in Brooklyn in 1925, Gloria Sukenick studied art at Columbia, then went to the Yale School of the Arts. She came back to New York, living in Hell’s Kitchen. She married and moved down to the Village, on Perry Street. When the marriage went south, she became a Village scenster, working as a waitress and frequenting the San Remo Café, on Bleecker and MacDougal.

After her wild youth, Gloria eventually became a housing activist. She was very active in the Chelsea fight to prevent Barney’s Department Store from evicting four to five buildings full of rent-stabilized tenants to expand their women’s store on West 17^th Street and Seventh Avenue. At one demonstration, she wore a dress made out of fake $100 bills, mocking the greed of the Barney’s executives.

 (Gloria Sukenick in her Barney's demonstration costume)

(Barney's housing demonstrations)

Though the Barney’s tenants were evicted, the activists’ demonstrations forced Barney’s to find other affordable housing for the tenants.

Gloria’s brother was the late literary critic  Ronald Sukenick, who also chronicled the Village in his history Down and In: Life in the Underground.

I interviewed Gloria Sukenick in her sunny, art-filled apartment at Penn South, on West 24^th Street, where she had lived since 1991. During our interview, Miles Davis played softly in the background. An observant, very sharp woman, Gloria Sukenick painted vivid portraits of the Greenwich Village characters she hung out with in the 1940’s and 1950’s.

Gloria died on May 26, 2019, one month after her 94^th birthday.

DYLAN FOLEY: Your apartment is quite impressive, full of crafts.

GLORIA SUKENICK: I do ceramics. I also do wall hangings, as well.

DF: The artist Larry Rivers said that Louis’ Tavern was the best pick-up joint in the Village?

GS: He had a lot of competition from the Remo.

DF:  You went to art school?

GS: I was a fat kid out of Brooklyn. I had no clothes. I wore a shirt and some kind of skirt. I went to Columbia University, where I was taking a painting class and working on the Manhattan Project as a messenger in the afternoon. I went there for a year, then I went to the Yale School of Fine Arts. I could get in because it was the last year of the war. There were few young men around. They let me in. I was there for a year and a half. The white-shoe boys and I didn’t get along. The white-shoe boys, what they call the kids from the wealthy Northeast families, and me were not a good mix at all.  I left after a year and a half and came back to Hell’s Kitchen, which was near the Art Students League.

My apartment was a six-floor, cold-water flat, complete with rats. How did I get downtown? I got married for a short, brief, unhappy time.

My sister-in-law lived on Avenue B and 10th Street, replete with stuff from local junkies, who would bring her stuff they stole from various apartments. I tried to buy my brother’s manuscript back once because his whole filing cabinet was stolen.

I moved to Perry Street with my husband when the marriage was really on the rocks. It didn’t save the marriage. I was about 22. I got involved in Reichian therapy, with the orgone box. Then I started hanging out at the San Remo and the Minetta Tavern, then moved to another cold-water flat on Prince Street, where Anatole Broyard, Carl Solomon and Stanley Gould, the first Jewish junkie lived. Stanley had no teeth left, so he got Norman Mailer to spring for a new set of teeth.

I’m 84 now.

This was the early 1950s. Stanley was the first guy to die of AIDS [in the early 1980’s]. I don’t think he knew what he had. He was the thinnest creature you’d ever seen.

DF: What kind of jobs have you had over the years?

GS: I’ve done many things, from teaching ballroom dancing to witnessing. I waitressed in Bermuda, Woodstock and Provincetown. I’d leave my 15-dollar-a-month cold water flat and let my friends stay there.

I had this job with a fake labor newspaper. I didn’t know it was fake at the time.

DF: Did you know that artist Anita Steckel?

GS: She did a wonderful thing during the early women’s movement. She made a dollar bill with a penis running down the middle.

DF: Do you know my friend Harriet Sohmers Zwerling? She slept her way through the Village.

GS: Who didn’t?

My sister-in-law owned the shop on Avenue B. She was a gorgeous woman. She went with Carl Lee, Candida Lee’s son. He acted in “The Connection” He got my sister-in-law hooked on drugs. Sonya Milling. She had kid after kid after kid.

Did you hear of a guy named Red Madden, Rouge Montaigne? Sonya had about eight biracial kids. She was living with a junkie, shooting speed. She died, must have been in the late 1960s, early 1970s. One day, she picked up the wrong needle, and shot heroin instead of speed. The guy she was living with was so frightened, he left her there and she died. The kids were wandering around the building. My ex-husband made sure all the kids were adopted.

DF: What was the San Remo like?

GS: You could go and get the martini at the San Remo and that was good for hours. Everybody was buying martinis. It was the best buy in town, and the most bang for the buck.

It was mobbed from the doorway to the bar. Maxwell Bodenheim would stand at the door, cursing everyone in a stentorian voice. Joe Gould was a Minetta man. The energy was amazing. I saw Miles Davis there once, fresh from wherever he’d come, mid-country. He had short black hair and was dressed in a suit. He was very closed. The bar was so crowded, there was a waiter who could pinch asses and nobody would know. There wasn’t even room to lift your arm and smack him.

It was the place to find out where the parties were and who was doing what. It was the place to make contact.

I also worked at the Modern Art.

DF: You lived in the same building as Carl Solomon?

GS: I lived on the sixth floor. Carl Solomon was across the hall. He was away a lot of the time in mental hospitals. He was very quiet and withdrawn.

I was going with this trumpet player Johnny Caressi. He had a brother named Jimmy Caressi who was working at an airplane factory. He was bound and determined that he was going to straighten out Stanley Gould. He got Stanley a job at an airplane plant. Every morning, he’d pick Stanley up take him downstairs. Everyday for a couple of weeks, but it didn’t stick. He was a semi-functioning junkie.

You could never see the floor, the Remo was so crowded. One thing the bar did have was people from uptown coming to the San Reo to make a connection with the real bohemians. It was a good source of money or drinks for people. There was one guy named Larry Burns, whose father had a men’s store on Central Park South. Did you know Marilyn DuPont? Did you know Marilyn Kanterman? Iris Brody, me and Marilyn Kanterman went to Bermuda together to waitress.

Iris was very beautiful. She was on drugs. When we went to Bermuda to work at the same hotel, both Iris and Marilyn went to live with Shane O’Neill, the son of Eugene O’Neill, whose father had a house there.

I’d only seen Shane around the Village. He was a harder gone junkie than Stanley, if that was possible. Heroin.


(The art of Iris Brody)

Iris would wind up in jail periodically. She had a bookstore at one point, and did some wonderful paintings. I remember the way she looked when she was tall and thin, model beautiful with sunken cheekbones. She’d go to jail at the Women’s House of Detention and would come out bloated, because heroin kept her very thin. The [jail] food was pretty starchy. She’d go back on junk, lose weight and start modeling again. She had a child with a musician and the musician left her. She was dependent on her mother. I don’t know if she was broken up over the guy leaving, but she jumped off the roof.

DF: Did you know Sheri Marinelli?

GS: She was pretty much a knockout.

Gerd Stern had a son whose mother had told him that Jack Kerouac was his father.
Gerd and I know a lot of the same orgone accumulator people. I owned one when I lived in a loft of 21st Street.

DF: Were you friendly with the bookstore owner Rosetta Reitz?

GS: I lived next door to her on 16th Street. Rosetta was tough and a half. Her daughters were Rainbow, Robin and Rebecca.
She had a fling with Lee Konitz.
I met her during the second-wave women’s movement. There was  the Older Women’s Liberation group. She told people that she founded OWL, but she didn’t. It was a consciousness raising group.
Fairness was not one of Rosetta’s traits.
She was going with an African-American jazz critic. Very opinionated.


When I was living on Avenue B and 10th, you had to walk outside with one of those sprays, pepper spray. People were shooting at each other.

Q. Brownmiller?

At Cornell, Brownmiller had a thing about prostitutes. She tried prostitution herself, my brother said.

The original Five Spot was on Fifth Street and 3rd Avenue.

Marilyn DuPont was a friend of Iris Brody and another suicide. My brother met her at a party at my loft. He was in from Cornell. The next morning, my mother called me. “Where is Ron? He never came home last night.” I knew her from the Remo. She was madly in love with Larry Burns. She had the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. I met her at Provincetown, married to a poet. Her sexual behavior was very strange. She lived in a railroad flat. Whenever she felt like it, she’d go upstairs or downstairs and would have sex with whomever was around. Things went from bad to badder. She tried to live with the wife of the one-armed locksmith on MacDougal Street. She spent some time in a mental institution.

I was hooked speed--pills, Dexedrine and Benedrine inhalers. That’s what I was doing through my marriage and after. That’s how I got to be nice and thin. You’d soak the inhaler in juice. I got a prescription somehow from an obliging druggist on Abingdon Square. My father was the worst and poorest dentist in Brooklyn, but he had a prescription pad that I used. I was on pills from my mid-20s to 31 or 32. To keep me going. I finally had to give up waitressing and I had to learn how to type. I got off Dexedrine. I stayed home to readjust. I got a job copyediting and writing retail advertising.

Mark America was a student of my brother’s.

DF: Did you know the musician David Amram?

GS: I knew David Amram. We had a fling. He was a sweetheart. He was as folksy as you could get while still being able to work.

It could have been at the Remo. He had just gotten back from Korea.

DF: Were you involved with the women’s movement?

GS: The second wave women’s movement. My life opened up again.To me, I saw the women’s movement as a way of reordering the world, but then I see women with Wall Street Journals under their arms, heading downtown in the morning. It turned out to be a personal solution. What needed to be fixed was the system itself.

DF: Did you go to the Minetta Tavern much?

GS: They had a better, bigger kitchen. The Minetta was the place to eat.

DF: Was there a toughness to the waiters at the San Remo?

GS: My experience was only with Joe the Asspincher. The Café Bohemia was good. David Amram played there.

Michael Harrington used to eat at the Blue  Mill. They specialized in steak.

Rosetta Reitz worked the classified section at the Village Voice for a while. She was trying to set me up, so she put in an ad in, which said, “Loves Trumpets, Raccoons.” Crystal Field’s brother showed up because he played trumpet. He was vey unappealing.


DF: What did you think of the White Horse Tavern in the 1950’s?

GS: It was very self consciously literary.

My marriage was annulled. One of us said we didn’t want to have children. We were together for four or five years in total misery. He was very controlling. He gave me a diary with a key. Idiot here wrote down everything, including the time I was not faithful to my husband. Every night, he would open the diary with his own key and read it. I started to have terrible crying jags. I don’t know where they came from.

I was working as a 9 to 5er.. It was pretty restrictive.
There were Marxist -feminist study groups.
Red Madden was an A #1 grifter., always staying at some woman’s apartment. I was involved with him for a while. He won a million-dollar lottery.

There was Corinne Coleman..she had a loft on Greene Street for a long time.
Bridget Poke? She used to give herself injections through her blue jeans. I’d see her at the Remo. Very tall,very beautiful.

I went from Montgomery Ward to Gimbels and Alexanders. Anti-union. I switched to housing activism. I ran off flyers on their copy machines. That was the time they had pitbulls in the hallways and fires to chase the tenants out in Chelsea.

(Gloria Sukenick in her Barney's demonstration costume)

I got involved with the Barney’s protest, where they were taking affordable housing on 17th Street to put up their ladies’ store. They took 4 or 5  tenement buildings. We had people lined up from 6th to 7th Avenue. We had Christmas stories and Easter stories, people reading from the same script. “Once there was a man named Barney and he had a store for men and fat little boys.” We were reading in unison. We made their lives miserable….some good street theater. Those boys went bankrupt. They knew nothing about business. If it makes a buck, it’s okay.

(1950's orgone box)

There was Chuck Mangravite…he made orgone boxes. He had a loft on 6th Avenue and Canal. You’d sit in there and you’d feel energy coming off it. Something was being accumulated in the box. The therapy was effective. They’d manipulate your body and that contained certain attitudes. Verbal therapies were worthless.