loved comics. It’s fascinating to think how many artists in that era had an obsession with or were influenced by the comics medium. I found myself attracted to that aesthetic. I knew the difference between comic strips printed in the newspaper and artists who took that influence for their artwork. Even as a kid I had a thorough if instinctive understanding of low art and high art, even when the skills and the visuals were very close or in the same family.
My family was attracted to poets, and I think Robert Duncan was the first one I realized was an actual poet. He looked just like a poet to me. He had one angel eye that would wander, and he had the talent to communicate with almost anyone. His humor came off clearly, even to a kid like me. He was gossipy, yes, but with a sharp intelligence to his commentary. Robert and Jess were probably the first gay couple I was ever aware of. Not in a sexual or intimate sense: the fact that they shared a room was not something I was conscious of at the time. But they were clearly a couple, even to me as a child.
If Robert Duncan was my first impression of a poet, and what a poet sounds like, then Michael McClure was my prototype for the romantic poet. He would wear a chunky scarf as if it were naturally appended to his neck. This is not criticism but praise of his unique style, because Michael was (and is) an incredibly handsome man. My earliest memory of Michael is as a Monty Clift combined with just a touch of Brando’s The Wild One (1953). He never looked like a beat or a beatnik to me. His clothing and attitude and even his voice were a poetic 1950s attitude, and without a doubt, had dandified flourishes. When he read his poetry in public, or privately to my father, he had a way of pronouncing his words like they were sculptures. Each word seemed as if he were making an object positioned in front of his eyes or view. He has the ability to bring a physical, bodily presence to his poetry or words. Ghost Tantras (1964) is, I think, his masterpiece, which is him roaring like a lion. Of all the poets we knew at the time, he was the one most interested in sound. Years later, he worked with musicians, but I was always of the view that the music got in the way of his poetry. Just he alone and his voice are enough. I suspected that, somewhere in his past, Michael must have taken a diction class, because of the care with which he pronounced words.
Michael was not natural. There was something artificial in him, and I loved the dramatic aspect of his personality. I have a strong memory of dining with him and my parents at a traditional French restaurant, where he ordered the food for the entire table, including yours truly. What I wanted was a hamburger, but I wasn’t going to get it at that restaurant. Michael was by no means ordering such food for a table he was dining at. Everything he ordered was very much “grown-up” food, clearly unsuitable for an American kid like me. All I wanted was a piece of meat between two pieces of bread, and I was angry at him for not ordering such a plate for me. Instead, he ordered frog legs and snails. Imagine! Food for a tot.
WALLACE BERMAN / Untitled (Beard poster), 1967
Michael has a star-like quality. He had a flair no one else had, down to the scarf around his neck. To this day, when I look at a scarf or put one on, I picture Michael. Also, he’s one of those poets who know stagecraft. The majority of my dad’s poet friends didn’t have a commanding style before facing an audience, but I think Michael put a lot of thought into this. Even off-stage, he has a commanding personality. I don’t recall frivolous chit-chat with him. He saw the world at the time with an intense awareness. Some poets didn’t care how they were packaged, but Michael had a strong point of view regarding book covers, being in journals, and, of course, how his poetry was laid out on the page. I remember one time my Dad and Michael had a very intense discussion about a poster Wallace made for Michael’s play The Beard (1965). Michael didn’t like the poster at first, or maybe not at all, but at the end of the day, my father won the argument. Even though their discussion was heated, there was lots of respect between the two men, which made them good partners on a project together.
707 Scott Street / chapter 10
Compared with the shack in Beverly Glen, our residence in San Francisco, at 707 Scott Street, appeared to be a mansion. We had the bottom floor and various interesting people rented the upstairs. My parents became the managers of the residence and were responsible for collecting the rent and taking care of the premises. I have no real recollection of being upstairs at all, mostly due to my fear of staircases. At least we had our bathroom on the first floor. I believe there was a bathroom upstairs as well, and the other tenants must have shared it. Louise Herms lived upstairs, before she married George Herms. I found her to be very comforting, perfect even. The poet John Wieners lived on the second floor as well. There he wrote what’s perhaps the best known of his published journals, The Journal of John Wieners Is to Be Called 707 Scott Street for Billie Holiday 1959 (1996), usually referred to as 707 Scott Street. In the book, my dad figures as “Wally,” a character that wanders into the poems and leaves silently. It’s a remarkable document of that time in San Francisco, as well as a magnificent book of poetry, which, of course, I read when I was an adult.
I had a friend on the block on Scott Street who lived in a big house with a Christmas tree that was up all year round. On a daily basis, we played at the park across the street from our homes. There was no father figure in his household. Most of the kids I met had a set of parents, so when I was four or five, I was struck by the oddness that not everyone had two parents. I never asked my friend why he didn’t have a father. Even then, I was conscious of the fact that I should not ask such questions of a person unless they brought the subject up.
My parents took me everywhere. If there were a gallery opening, I would go. Sometimes, but rarely, they had a babysitter for me. The babysitters that I remember were Leslie Caron, the actress, and John Reed, the artist. The producers of the film The Subterraneans (1960), based on Jack Kerouac’s 1958 novel, wanted my parents to appear in a club setting, so they demanded a babysitter for me. Why Leslie Caron, the lead actress in the film, had to be my babysitter is beyond me.
John Reed was a rather delightful person. I haven’t the slightest idea where he came from, but I knew even then he was an artist. My parents liked him very much. He seemed to be very much of a jazzer in aesthetic and in life. I presume he enjoyed a drink or two, or many. I remember that he smelled like beer, and compared to my parents’ other friends, he was the most boho of the set. He always had a beard and wore a cap. I remember a few times when he took off his hat, his hair was all scrunched down and sweaty. He liked to laugh, and had a lazy chuckle. He seems to me to have been a beautiful soul with a hard life. His artwork was much admired by my dad, but I don’t think he ever had a show when he was alive. He was also quite close to Walter Hopps; in fact, he used to live in Walter’s Pasadena house when Walter was in some other part of the world. Redheaded, with a red beard and freckles, he would have looked like a teen character from a situation comedy if he didn’t drink and shaved his beard. My family lost contact with him, especially after my father’s death. The last I heard of John, his body was found in the bushes by a freeway entrance.
I started reading around this time, mostly comic books. I was drawn to the illustrations, the inking, and even the smell of the comic book itself. At the time, I didn’t have a collection. But I remember my attraction to the medium was immediate. Popeye was a favorite, and I think I understood the narrative of Popeye and Bluto fighting over Olive Oyl. That triangle is part of my DNA, and I later often found myself sucked into the world of a girl and another guy. I grew out of that type of thinking or feeling in my very late 20s, but romance or yearning for attention was of great importance to me. Not in the sense that I needed someone at all times—God, no—but I think I was meant to be loved from a distance. This had to do with the fact that I’m an only child. There is something catlike in that; you want someone to come up and pet you, but not hang out too much afterward. I much prefer objects: the vinyl LP, for instance.
WALLACE BERMAN / Tosh
