Igor’s Game Room & Laundromat
New Orleans, Louisiana
I’m excited after my walk along St. Charles, enjoying the sunshine of midday. I took a turn into the Hotel Pontchartrain and found a manuscript page from A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams worked on the play at the Ponch between December 1945 and January 1946. I was totally delighted because I had no idea Williams knew his way west of the French Quarter.
I love studying the handwriting of a great writer, and I took time to take in his changes to the typewritten script. I just haven’t figured out why his letters were so much larger than typewriter letters. Why did the hotel stationery have such a large, unusual size? Was this a galley sent by the editor for Ten's review? The document, framed on the wall, belongs to the Harry Ransom Center, the massive collection of manuscripts at the University of Texas, Austin Campus. The Ransom Center lands all the manuscripts lately. The Ransom Center probably has a brief to answer my questions.
Tennessee Williams resorted to staying in hotels, maybe too much. He died in the bathroom of a New York City hotel, the Hotel Elysee, midtown. He was taking Seconal to sleep. A sad ending, and yet a hotel allowed him to be close to what he needed to write, drinks and excitement and potential male partners. He lived life in a perpetual state of cruise. Once, he was beaten by men who had lured him into a trap by pretending to be gay.
When I see the famous black and white of Ten and Andy Warhol greeting each other on the SS France in 1967, I find myself hoping that for a moment Ten found transcendence. I could put a finer point on the math, but I think the picture shows Williams at age 54, a hard age for a man, much more hard for a gay man.
Same math puts Warhol at 40. Warhol made an album cover for a recording of Williams reading from his works. Warhol created a silk screen of Williams, a bigger honor than appearing on a United States postage stamp. I have to wonder about the relationship between the two men, both pioneering American gay artists. Warhol mourned the death of Williams with a silk screen in 1983 that wasn’t printed until after Warhol’s death.
I had been avoiding Tennessee Williams on this sojourn through New Orleans because his legend tends to absorb my attention. I can draw from his writing hints on how to write a play that works, a script that charms directors and producers and actors, seduces them into bringing it to life. A Cat on a Hot Tin Roof caught the energy of Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor. A Streetcar Named Desire landed the energy of Marlon Brando. I have to stay away from Williams and the web the world wove around his words. I have to weave my own web.
I was delighted to be followed on Instagram by you this morning and discovering your newest effort, one more voice hoping for the perfection of the social experiment called America. I cannot see how such titanic forces can fail to save democracy, everyone from Billionaire Bloomberg to Mayor Pete to you. I just hope you have the strength to shout through the noise to find your audience and hope that the audience is wide and numerous enough to make your writing sustainable. I know I’ve tweeted and posted and blogged and YouTubed and TikTokked until it has seemed toxic. In fact, I love that I have written so many of these posts for you and for you alone. I don’t need Brando. I don’t need Taylor. I’ve always could talk to you.
February 8th, 2020 @ 11:06 AM
Igor’s Game Room & Laundromat
New Orleans, Louisiana
I’m excited after my walk along St. Charles, enjoying the sunshine of midday. I took a turn into the Hotel Pontchartrain and found a manuscript page from A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams worked on the play at the Ponch between December 1945 and January 1946. I was totally delighted because I had no idea Williams knew his way west of the French Quarter.
I love studying the handwriting of a great writer, and I took time to take in his changes to the typewritten script. I just haven’t figured out why his letters were so much larger than typewriter letters. Why did the hotel stationery have such a large, unusual size? Was this a galley sent by the editor for Ten's review? The document, framed on the wall, belongs to the Harry Ransom Center, the massive collection of manuscripts at the University of Texas, Austin Campus. The Ransom Center lands all the manuscripts lately. The Ransom Center probably has a brief to answer my questions.
Tennessee Williams resorted to staying in hotels, maybe too much. He died in the bathroom of a New York City hotel, the Hotel Elysee, midtown. He was taking Seconal to sleep. A sad ending, and yet a hotel allowed him to be close to what he needed to write, drinks and excitement and potential male partners. He lived life in a perpetual state of cruise. Once, he was beaten by men who had lured him into a trap by pretending to be gay.
When I see the famous black and white of Ten and Andy Warhol greeting each other on the SS France in 1967, I find myself hoping that for a moment Ten found transcendence. I could put a finer point on the math, but I think the picture shows Williams at age 54, a hard age for a man, much more hard for a gay man.
Same math puts Warhol at 40. Warhol made an album cover for a recording of Williams reading from his works. Warhol created a silk screen of Williams, a bigger honor than appearing on a United States postage stamp. I have to wonder about the relationship between the two men, both pioneering American gay artists. Warhol mourned the death of Williams with a silk screen in 1983 that wasn’t printed until after Warhol’s death.
I had been avoiding Tennessee Williams on this sojourn through New Orleans because his legend tends to absorb my attention. I can draw from his writing hints on how to write a play that works, a script that charms directors and producers and actors, seduces them into bringing it to life. A Cat on a Hot Tin Roof caught the energy of Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor. A Streetcar Named Desire landed the energy of Marlon Brando. I have to stay away from Williams and the web the world wove around his words. I have to weave my own web.
I was delighted to be followed on Instagram by you this morning and discovering your newest effort, one more voice hoping for the perfection of the social experiment called America. I cannot see how such titanic forces can fail to save democracy, everyone from Billionaire Bloomberg to Mayor Pete to you. I just hope you have the strength to shout through the noise to find your audience and hope that the audience is wide and numerous enough to make your writing sustainable. I know I’ve tweeted and posted and blogged and YouTubed and TikTokked until it has seemed toxic. In fact, I love that I have written so many of these posts for you and for you alone. I don’t need Brando. I don’t need Taylor. I’ve always could talk to you.
No comments:
Post a Comment