Allen Ginsberg

Farewell to a poet and photographer who was able to penetrate activism to find the gentle core of compassion. He was that rare sacred soul who embodied both Buddha and Dionysus. I think his spirit will be with us through the Millennium.
 

First, in New Orleans in 1971.

We met in October when Allen was invited to read his poetry at a Tulane University Poetry Symposium. I was invited to join the welcoming committee and to take photographs. Allen arrived several days early and we were charged with meeting him at the airport and taking him to his hotel. Tulane had reserved a room for him at the Pontchatrain Hotel on St. Charles. But the place was far too elitist and bourgeois for Allen. For one thing, the desk clerk was appalled to see a band of "hippies" accompanying this denim-clad, beaded poet enter the main lobby. He informed us after pretending not to find the reservation, that only Ginsberg could go to the room and that the rest of us must remain outside. Allen threatened to stage a sit-in protest. When the clerk gave in to Allen for fear of a major scene, Allen demanded that we take him to a more hospitable hotel. Our group returned to the Tulane van and drove to the French Quarter where someone suggested the quaint Olivier, which was not only friendly, but had a lovely courtyard where I took this picture.

For several days, we wined and dined at parties in the homes of English professors and other literary liberals, and at New Orleans' finest restaurants. Right away, Allen had shocked some of our entourage by asking where the boys were. I was the only one willing to take Allen on a tour of the Quarter and its more notorious nightclubs. We spent hours visiting Lafites in Exile, and the bars along Bourbon that the tourists don't usually reach. We even looked in on a particularly popular bath house on Toulouse St. We ended the evening on a balcony overlooking Bourbon having a midnight breakfast and talking of Allen's travels to India. Allen told me of his love for Peter Orlovsky, of his past friendship with Jack Kerouac, of his interest in Blake and Whitman. I was pleased that the activist we first met had transformed into the compassionate poet.

During the week we visited schools where Allen chanted and read his poetry, stirring up the younger children who would try to imitate his chanting. Allen walked the streets of the Quarter carrying a long, brass trident and wearing beads. He had shaved; so the characteristic beard was missing. But he was otherwise clearly the Beat poet. He chanted on the Quad, drawing a large crowd of onlookers, and on the night of the Symposium he had a group of Hare Krishna followers join him on stage for a lively chant.

All in all, I saw that Allen Ginsberg had many faces and was, like some other famous gadflies, harsh with those he found pompous and self-righteous, while being gentle with those he liked.

Second, in San Francisco in the early '80s.

It was probably in 1980 when I lived on Russian Hill all summer, but it could have been any summer from 1976-1980 when I spent several weeks each year with my friend Julian. I attended a reading and party at City Lights, hosted by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and featuring a colorful assortment of writers. Another friend of mine named Tess was there and doing her bit socializing and charming Ferlinghetti, among others. There was ample wine; so most people were quite relaxed.

I knew Allen wouldn't remember me, but I walked over to him and asked if he remembered his visit years ago to New Orleans. When I identified myself, He politely pretended to remember the evening we spent together, and remarked how much he liked the French Quarter and its hedonistic delights. Speaking of which, he then lowered his voice, and whispered slyly to me with a grin, " Did we sleep together?"

I thought for a moment, tempted to lie; but then said," If we had, you wouldn't have to ask."

Third, with Dar in New York at an Aperture opening featuring Ginsberg's photography:

I was with my husband Darryl in New York at an
Aperture opening in 1993 featuring Ginsberg's photography. It was
a bustling, crowded opening-- very New York chic. Allen looked fatigued
and sat on one of the few seats outside the gallery entrance. Darryl
spoke to him and I resisted the urge to remind him of our past
encounters. I enjoyed the photographs-- there were several of William Burroughs, a nude of Allen and Peter Orlovsky. Allen was proud of the photograph Darryl was asking him
about-- a lovely boy on a Greek Island-- or was it that the boy was
Greek? I recall the photo-- a beautiful face and torso.

And now I can see Allen again only in photos.  I have those I took in
1971 and, of course, the thousands others have taken and shared. The
films and videos bring back his image and his voice to us. His own
photos give repeatedly his wry humor and heart. And yet, if ever there
was a spirit that was likely to be reincarnated, I think the soul of
Allen Ginsberg is surely it.
 

Here is an interesting link to Ginsberg.