Part I: A Wig's Tale: Andy Warhol
Part II: Look into My Eyes: James Baldwin
On my way home with my partner and a friend who had joined us to see Andy Warhol, I reflected on the experience of the evening. Grateful that Warhol's wig had not been tempered with, I felt exhilarated and exhausted. When I had escorted Mr. Warhol to the limousine, and had thanked him heartily, I could not remember a response. I wondered if he was preoccupied with getting to the next opportunity of a lifetime of 15 minutes of celebrityhood. Since that evening, however, I have always tried to think of Andy Warhol as I saw him at the book signing: backed against a wall, hemmed in by adoring fans, too shy to express the appreciation he felt.
My mind drifted to the next evening's appearance by James Baldwin. Who would he bring with him, what could I say to a 20th century icon of American literature? Would he speak to me?
The next day I worked my regular hours at the library and tried not to think about the evening. When 6:00 o'clock arrived, I was waiting nervously at the entrance, watching the swelling crowd of patrons heading for the stairwell to the auditorium. Suddenly, inside that swell, I spotted him and rushed over to greet him and his friends.
He was alone.
As I looked into that famous face, those famous eyes, the word "swoon" began suddenly to have real meaning. Sweating lightly, and breathing slightly, I thanked him for participating in the author series. He returned the greeting with a warm smile, thanking me, in return. Whew.
When we were alone in the green room, I offered refreshments and explained the routine for the program. No questions, no demands. We started to talk (me ready to launch into a carefully rehearsed, short speech about how important his writing was to me), but were interrupted by a security guard informing me that there was an "old friend" of Mr. Baldwin's who wished to see him before the presentation. I thought quickly, and told Mr. Baldwin that I would run upstairs and get the name of the person, (just in case it was someone he might not want to see, or even a celebrity stalker). It turned out that it was an old friend, a woman in a big, white floppy hat, unruly blond hair creeping out from under; a good friend from their East Village days in Manhattan.
"Jimmy," (Jimmy?) I remember her exclaiming as they embraced and settled into a comfortable reunion, peppered with reminisces about the era when they were friends, the conversation sprinkled with questions and comments regarding the whereabouts and doings of long-lost acquaintances. I felt privileged to listen (and a little ticked off that this woman had interrupted my lovely, little conversation with Sir James). Jimmy, indeed. I thought how little I had learned about Andy Warhol as I listened to their intimate talk.
When we finally walked down to the stage, the reverent silence was broken by a ripple of applause that spread quickly throughout the auditorium. This was a book tour and James Baldwin talked about his latest publication, The Evidence of Things Not Seen (Holt, 1985), an investigation into the case of the many African American children who were missing or found dead in Atlanta in 1980-81.
Baldwin questioned the guilt and the conviction of Wayne Williams, an African American, for two of the murders, using the case as a springboard for his concern about the continuing, deplorable situation of so many African Americans in a country that still prized and protected white supremacy. Baldwin, himself, had chosen to live off and on in France since 1948.
When the time came for questions, the audience was shocked by a young man who stood and shouted angrily at Baldwin: "Why aren't you at the forefront in demanding that something be done about the AIDs epidemic?" or something to that effect, a question filled with anguish and sorrow. I honestly do not remember how Mr. Baldwin replied, but I do know that it was quiet and filled with compassion, immediately calming the young man's accusatory behavior.
The remainder of the questions were standard fare for a writer of Baldwin's stature, and the evening flowed effortlessly from the stage to the green room to the book signing alcove. No jostling, and almost a queue, a respectful atmosphere
as the security guards stood by lazily, relaxed and happy.
When the signing was finished, I walked James Baldwin up the stairs, and in unrehearsed, gushy, emotional tones, I began to tell him why his writing was so important to me . He smiled, looked me in the eye, and asked me if I would care to join him at a party sponsored by an African American fraternity at Boston University. I nearly died.
Rather than abandon my partner and my friends, I mumbled something about how sorry I was that I had to take care of them, drive them home, and on and on, red-faced, totally confused, flattered, and just a little bit in love with "Jimmy." One of the greatest opportunities of my life thrown away on the steps of the library.
As we said our goodbyes to one another, I thought about the previous evening with Andy Warhol. An old recording by jazz legend Dinah Washington flooded my mind:
What a Difference a Day Makes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In a little over two years, both of these masters of the 20th century would be dead. Following minor gall bladder surgery, Andy Warhol died of heart failure in his home on February 22, 1987. James Baldwin died of stomach cancer on December 1, 1987 at this home in St. Paul de Vence, France. I have always been grateful I had the honor to meet them.