Still no sign of that painting of Sean Vigle. It was him,
standing in his black leather car coat, looking like such a hard man, on a
brilliant cadmium yellow background.
Nonetheless, I’m fixin’ to start a new painting or three of him.
First though, I need to run into Utrecht’s for more canvas and large sheets of
nubbly, rough watercolor paper.
Amazingly, in this very small house, there are still more places
to hunt.
I was trying to recall if there was any particular reason, beyond
life’s simple, crazy chaos, that we lost touch.
Maybe.
His girlfriend at the time, while smart, pleasant and stunningly
beautiful, was the jealous sort. She had no worries from me -- Sean and I were
platonic friends and, HELLO, THE Amazing Bob! But I understood. I was
wickedly, irrationally jealous back then too. I became a snarling and
stupendously neurotic, whirling dervish of lunacy if any girl strayed too close to MY Amazing Bob.
So, I stepped back -- stopped calling and writing.
Mostly though, our out-of-touchness was a by-product of la vida loca.
While foraging yesterday I found more letters and postcards from
him. Sean used to send these 3”x5” cards with Xerox copies of funny, interesting
bits pasted to the front. When picking up the mail, after a long day of
press room toil, I felt like I was finding hip, witty, little exclamation point
bouquets.
He sent the one, at right, during his LA years.
The pics on the contact print were taken during his Brooklyn
span.
Today, I am so very glad to be a pack rat.
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