Richard Hawkins
01 Jul - 27 Aug 2011
© Richard Hawkins
"Dungeon door: Barbershop but no boy", 2011
Oil on canvas and acrylic on panel
168 x 122 cm
"Dungeon door: Barbershop but no boy", 2011
Oil on canvas and acrylic on panel
168 x 122 cm
RICHARD HAWKINS
Scalps, Dungeon Doors and Salome Paintings
1 July - 27 August, 2011
The Poem
These notes toward a press release were initially intended to be a poem. For the reason that it seems like you used to meet a lot of gay poets. Not so much now though. You meet a lot of gay accountants and realtors these days. But few, if any, poets.
My poem, not finding a poet and having to take on the task myself, was to be about a sex club that used to be at that big swerve in the road where Fountain turns into Hyperion near Casita del Campo – it was called “King of Hearts”. After passing through an entryway of reclaimed corrugated tin, plastered with local punk rock posters and “lost dog” adverts, you entered a junkyard realm of rusted iron bed frames and tractor tires, repurposed oil-drums and faded plastic flowers poking out between the concrete blocks and Johnson grass. Unlike its neighboring “Basic Plumbing”, the “King of Hearts” décor was very intrusive and, to many gay minds, too much like a spooky back lot or the set for “Sanford and Son” to be conducive to the more serious sex that many of us might have wanted out of it.
The overt theatricality of “King of Hearts” had a very strange effect. I’m not sure if its ridiculousness dislodged the (also, in their own way, overtly theatrical and imposing) masculine codes of other bars and sex clubs nearby. Or if it was a kind of “wouldn’t be caught dead in” place where, surely, you could get your business done and never ever run into any coworkers or ex-boyfriends. Or maybe it was just the last chance place for minorities within a minority: Blacks who weren’t tops, Mexican kids with fake id’s, big fat hairy guys before bears had their own scene, drag queens out of drag, those of us who’d never been to a gym or who were already banned from the rest of the clubs, those of us who were already super drunk on a Tuesday night but still horny, etc, etc. If furries and yiffies had existed back then, "King of Hearts" was the only place you would’ve found them.
Given such a dynamic, miracles – though rare – could inevitably happen there. I’ve seen Mr Whipple with a 30 year old Kip Noll pinned to the front grill of an old Buick. I’ve seen the Incredible Mr Limpet chewing the nipples off a high school quarterback. Wally Cleaver once took the piss of Charles Nelson Reilly against an old set of badly painted gym lockers. Willie Aames was into getting fingered but got rather testy when you tried to fuck him. Ralph Macchio arrived with his favorite dildo in a Flintstones lunchbox. Erik Estrada lounged in the buglit doorway – just a t-shirt, no pants.
And the porn stars, they all lived in the neighborhood – especially the aging nameless ones from AMG over on West Adams and the perpetually downlow ones from Old Reliable. The porn that stirred up and informed so many of the desires of gays my age was primarily a collaboration between kids from the Valley and old queens living in Silverlake so while you might not always see Al Parker there much, a day would hardly pass that you didn’t get mixed up with Randy Page’s speed freak shenanigans. Rod Garetto must’ve had a lease on the old cot in one of the back rooms there. The Toby Ross surfer kids were always up for anything but would inevitably ask for a few bucks afterwards. Lee Marlin was still around and had held up pretty well. Jon King would try to pass himself off as a top (as if we hadn’t seen all his films, endlessly, on a loop, over and over and over again).
Kip Noll’s brother Chip could always be found – stoned out of his gourd – beneath a string of burnt-out Xmas lights in a patch of weeds to the left of the garden gnome. And other brothers, my gosh!: Mike Henson and his slightly less hot brother Bill, Kevin Williams and his little brother Chris, Tim Lowe and his apparently adopted brother Jason, etc etc...
What baffles me – aside from the astounding lack of poets amongst our people – is where are these gay mystery spots now? Obviously not WeHo. And Silverlake itself has turned into a pedestrian-friendly incubator for straight couples with baby names that sound far too much like Samantha Stephens’ kinfolks: Hagatha, Clara, Esmeralda, Endora, etc.
I’m sitting here now scrolling through the facepics of Grindr and it’s just not the same. My “Salome Paintings” could also be called “King of Hearts Paintings”...
Scalps, Dungeon Doors and Salome Paintings
1 July - 27 August, 2011
The Poem
These notes toward a press release were initially intended to be a poem. For the reason that it seems like you used to meet a lot of gay poets. Not so much now though. You meet a lot of gay accountants and realtors these days. But few, if any, poets.
My poem, not finding a poet and having to take on the task myself, was to be about a sex club that used to be at that big swerve in the road where Fountain turns into Hyperion near Casita del Campo – it was called “King of Hearts”. After passing through an entryway of reclaimed corrugated tin, plastered with local punk rock posters and “lost dog” adverts, you entered a junkyard realm of rusted iron bed frames and tractor tires, repurposed oil-drums and faded plastic flowers poking out between the concrete blocks and Johnson grass. Unlike its neighboring “Basic Plumbing”, the “King of Hearts” décor was very intrusive and, to many gay minds, too much like a spooky back lot or the set for “Sanford and Son” to be conducive to the more serious sex that many of us might have wanted out of it.
The overt theatricality of “King of Hearts” had a very strange effect. I’m not sure if its ridiculousness dislodged the (also, in their own way, overtly theatrical and imposing) masculine codes of other bars and sex clubs nearby. Or if it was a kind of “wouldn’t be caught dead in” place where, surely, you could get your business done and never ever run into any coworkers or ex-boyfriends. Or maybe it was just the last chance place for minorities within a minority: Blacks who weren’t tops, Mexican kids with fake id’s, big fat hairy guys before bears had their own scene, drag queens out of drag, those of us who’d never been to a gym or who were already banned from the rest of the clubs, those of us who were already super drunk on a Tuesday night but still horny, etc, etc. If furries and yiffies had existed back then, "King of Hearts" was the only place you would’ve found them.
Given such a dynamic, miracles – though rare – could inevitably happen there. I’ve seen Mr Whipple with a 30 year old Kip Noll pinned to the front grill of an old Buick. I’ve seen the Incredible Mr Limpet chewing the nipples off a high school quarterback. Wally Cleaver once took the piss of Charles Nelson Reilly against an old set of badly painted gym lockers. Willie Aames was into getting fingered but got rather testy when you tried to fuck him. Ralph Macchio arrived with his favorite dildo in a Flintstones lunchbox. Erik Estrada lounged in the buglit doorway – just a t-shirt, no pants.
And the porn stars, they all lived in the neighborhood – especially the aging nameless ones from AMG over on West Adams and the perpetually downlow ones from Old Reliable. The porn that stirred up and informed so many of the desires of gays my age was primarily a collaboration between kids from the Valley and old queens living in Silverlake so while you might not always see Al Parker there much, a day would hardly pass that you didn’t get mixed up with Randy Page’s speed freak shenanigans. Rod Garetto must’ve had a lease on the old cot in one of the back rooms there. The Toby Ross surfer kids were always up for anything but would inevitably ask for a few bucks afterwards. Lee Marlin was still around and had held up pretty well. Jon King would try to pass himself off as a top (as if we hadn’t seen all his films, endlessly, on a loop, over and over and over again).
Kip Noll’s brother Chip could always be found – stoned out of his gourd – beneath a string of burnt-out Xmas lights in a patch of weeds to the left of the garden gnome. And other brothers, my gosh!: Mike Henson and his slightly less hot brother Bill, Kevin Williams and his little brother Chris, Tim Lowe and his apparently adopted brother Jason, etc etc...
What baffles me – aside from the astounding lack of poets amongst our people – is where are these gay mystery spots now? Obviously not WeHo. And Silverlake itself has turned into a pedestrian-friendly incubator for straight couples with baby names that sound far too much like Samantha Stephens’ kinfolks: Hagatha, Clara, Esmeralda, Endora, etc.
I’m sitting here now scrolling through the facepics of Grindr and it’s just not the same. My “Salome Paintings” could also be called “King of Hearts Paintings”...