W.M. Hunt

 #somereallygoodones, #geraldslota, #twonarcissistswalkintoabar

narcissist (from www.dictionary.com)

1. A person who is overly self-involved, and often vain and selfish.

2. Psychoanalysis. A person who suffers from narcissism, deriving erotic gratification from admiration of his or her own physical or mental attributes.    

Gerald Slota is an artist for whom I have infinite regard.  He has an acute imagination and an awkward, yet uncanny approach to art making.   Like most artists, he craves approval but manages to stagger forward with or without your blessing.  Most often he lives close to the edge and deals with it.

I have my own very deep craziness.  Gerald and I do some mute onanistic mirror dance.  There is safety there, with recognition of each other and empathy.

It may be that the original Narcissus got a bad rap.  Wasn’t he just looking for himself?   We ought not to be critical of one another’s search for truth.  Admitted the degree of self absorption may have been mythic, but nevertheless.  

Two narcissists walk into a bar… .   

It started with a letter sent to me, a presentation from a gallery I had never heard of, about an artist I had never heard of, and it used three people as references, two of whose names were spelled incorrectly.  Along with that misguided cover letter, there was certainly a sheet of slides and a press release.  Importantly there was a copy of a review by A.D. Coleman writing for the then still relevant New York Observer.  Coleman has long been a great writer about photography.  About Slota, he said that, in effect, some genius naif had been making unique gelatin silver prints, and they were on view downtown and, in his opinion, an art star, Gerald Slota, had been born and delivered: “… something extraordinary takes place when Mr Slota applies his inclinations to his material.   Unrelated components behave synergistically, plot fragments start to skitter around like mice startled in the kitchen, shards of artifact turn resonant.  In other words, real art gets made.  The homegrown feel of these mixed-media works and their superficial mundaneness enhance the consistent sense of something obsessive, shocking, more than a little chaotic, lurking beneath the surface”.*1

Awesome.

I have been a fairly visible collector of photography much of my adult life.  Duly yet oddly summoned, I made my way to SoHo to see this phenomenon, challenged if nothing else by the misspellings.

Presenting myself at Wooster Street on a lovely, sunny New York day around noon,  I was stunned to find a note on the door “Gone to Lunch.”    

Lunch?  

What an odd way to run a gallery.  I could see that this was a fully operational street- level space, not some third- floor “Mom and Pop” walk up.  There were big framed prints on the walls but no personnel. 

Eventually, I worked out a time to return when someone would be there.  I looked as the gallery crew watched me.  

No pressure.

I liked what I saw.  The work had boldness.  To my mind, collectors do not need the new best thing, but they do want it to be fresh.  “Astonish me!” famously remarked Russian ballet impresario Sergei Diaghilev as possibly fashion editor and tastemaker Dian Vreeland quipped.  “Show me the thing I’ve never seen.”  

The works were black and white photographs.  Good sized.  Not “straight” pictures but still recognizable as some faces, some scenes.   They looked to be made from more than a single negative with elements that had been cut or torn.  There was drawing and scratching — mark making — on the negative and the print itself.

They were full of feeling: terror and rage, nightmarish, but not scary.  More to the point, they were great looking.  Time stopped.  The price bought me crashing back.  In 1996, $3,500 was a fortune for a work by an unknown artist even if the pictures were one-of-a-kind and mounted in heavy raw steel frames.  It was all very well considered, but too rich for my blood.

The dealers made themselves known to me in their way. They would be Frank Maresca and Roger Ricco, and it was going to be the first day of the rest of at least my next decade. 

They had a big back viewing room.  Guests sat on a set of very nifty Warren MacArthur chairs.   There was also a basement treasury with strange, wondrous art and objets.  These boys had some style.

The boys “double teamed” me in a manner that I came to recognize as outrageous and genuine, generous and, oh so slow.   

The whole metabolism of their selling was deliberate and foreign.  “Would I like something to drink?  How about these free books?”  I felt like I was in some casbah being offered rugs or young boys.  Later when I worked for them, I would say that I had to slip out so I could shave because presentations lasted so long.  

I was and am a completely visceral shopper.  I felt as if I had landed on the moon because my experience as a collector had always been one of immediacy.  If I saw it and liked and I could buy it, I did.  Slam bam, thank you ma’am.  You could do that with photography then without having a fortune which I did not. 

They talked and talked, and it was fascinating.  They weren’t selling me so much as seducing me.  

They had me at the misspellings.  

I visited again.  I loved the Slotas, and it was the same deal, stranger and funnier.  Who were these fellows?  We made a third date to meet at my apartment.   Roger, whom I thought less odd than Frank was sitting next to me on the couch and asked if I had ever thought about curating a show.  

“Hmmm”, says I,  “no.”  Then, “sure.”  
“Which is better, in a couple of months or in a year and a half?”  

Really?  The former.  “Now!’

The exhibition “delirium”—lower-case “d”—was born almost on the spot.

I had gotten incredibly sick after a couple of days in India, part of an around the world voyage from Hong Kong to Naples that I was workingon as an actor.  It’s a longer story … .  It was probably food poisoning which yielded two full nights of spiking, soaking fevers alternating with teeth-rattling chills.  At some point on this roller coaster I was able detach myself enough to process how crazy it was.   I seemed to start taking notes from an out-of-body vantage point, either mopping the sweat or bundling up.  The morning after, I felt reborn, or at least, several liters of liquid lighter. 

The ship’s doctor — probably a podiatrist on dry land working a couple of hours a day in exchange for a free trip — was no help, and the delirious whole thing repeated the next night.   That delirium became “delirium.”

As a collector I had always pursued “magical, heart-stopping images of people — mostly — whose eyes could not be seen” (my quotation marks) for whatever reason; they might be veiled, closed, poked out… whatever.   The exhibition “delirium”  became a crazy survey of photographs from many sources, all images that I determined had to do with some altered state — crazy eyes, heads thrown back, screaming mouths — all by different makers, from the whole history of photography: from nineteenth-century “facial analysis” experiments with electricity coursing through some poor soul’s face to wild, colorful contemporary abstractions of pixilated dots.  

I put some of my own collection in the exhibition, and ultimately bought stuff out of the show because I had determined that I could get some of those Slotas cheap—or, shhh!, free—if I used him in the show which I fully intended to do.   

Most dealers are collectors in search of better discounts.

The show was a success, and it gave the gallery some new visibility, even notoriety.  Towards the end of its long run, the deliriously wonderful Melissa Harris, then the editor of Aperture magazine asked if I would guest-edit an issue of the magazine based on the exhibition for summer 1997.

Again, “Now!” Or rather, “yes”.  Why not?

I had no methodology for organizing this beyond studying some notes I had been keeping, then free-associating like mad, and finding that curating in this case was guided by a free and spirited karmic rush.  I discovered that there was a theme to “delirium” that had unconsciously played out, that pictures very often do not actually report or represent what we think they do — the truth — and that we should be careful how we interpret them because we’re likely to be mistaken.  

Reading a photograph ought to be done with some skepticism.   The dead man with the hole in this head from which his spirit seemed blissfully to escape was not a gun shot victim.   He had syphilis.   Weegee’s Jerry Lewis was either wincing in agony having been kicked in the nuts or he was hysterical with laughter.   You don’t know enough to say.     

Interpretation is tricky.   Feel free to read an image as you wish, but recognize that it’s your interpretation.  

Gerald had work in the issue, the ones from the exhibition.  I planned to include text pieces in the issue: lyrics, snippets from plays, songs, and quotations, and he was able to steer me to some writers like Charles Bukowski, another “bad boy.”  

Editor Melissa deemed my originally chosen story to be too demeaning to women, in spite of it’s being riotously funny.  The narrator, a very drunken guest at a wedding ploddingly attempts to ravish the mother of the bride at a wedding during the vows.

Gerald always looks out for me. 

If I had the power to do so, I would give him fame and wealth.  He does have the richness of my deep regard and affection for him.  

I don’t remember that we actually met, but, of course, we must have.  I remember him talking about his process.  Much of what he senses and feels is with his hands.  There is chance and purpose; he imagines and arranges.  I joked about wanting to do a portfolio of his collected bar napkins with his sketches and mark making.  

In “delirium” I included the three works, one, a moon-faced boy is one of the anchors of my collection.  It is the photograph that I looked at one day and thought “Oh my God, this is me!”   Here was my unconscious manifest.  This was disconcerting and unsettling to say the least.  There is my round Charlie Brown-like face.  But the big black empty eyes were chilling; it’s like a paper plate that has had holes cut into it to make a face.  There is nothing behind.  It’s empty.  

And it seemed like a picture of me.  Swell.

Gerald has described his modus operandi to me, but I recognize it doesn’t matter.  However he gets there, good for him.  There is a fine, divine madness.  He makes me laugh, he worries me, he energizes me. 

I have horrible trouble with dates, with chronology, but towards the end of delirium’s summer run, Roger Ricco said to me, “You don’t seem to be leaving [the gallery]”. 

I stayed.  Gerald made his gallery debut in 1996 so about then.

To my surprise, by indirection, I was a dealer.  Dealers support and promote their artists.  Here was Gerald.  After two decades I still don’t know a lot about him.  I can talk about the work, but did he go to school?  I don’t know.  It has never seemed to be a factor.  We have never seemed to need the specifics.  He has genius about him, and he is an original.

He is sweet-looking white boy from Paterson, New Jersey.  He used to like to drink, and I quit after too many evenings of it.  He wore me out, but he wears his slight dissolution just fine thank you. 

He has a good soul.  He loved and cared for his parents unquestioningly.  His girl friends adore him.  They all come to his openings.

I love the transgressive part of Gerald, his refusal to just accept things as they are.  He likes to poke at the dead bird.  I rarely think of him as unhappy.   Rude and brilliant in his art, yes.  He may be distressed and frustrated by work, women, parents, life and the elusiveness of recognition, but mad not sad.  

OK, sometimes he can get sullen.

We worked together.  His art is not an easy sell, but I’ve been a hard-core advocate all along.  I usually suggested the titles, from “Extraordinary Madness” to “Smashed,” “Cracked,” and “Gone,” to “Found” and sometimes the idea for a project like “Fable”. 

Gerald has always been a storyteller, and I thought he should read the darker Grimm Brothers tales to  see if that prompted anything.   As Goldilocks said, that suggestion was “Just right!”  We produced a perfect dummy for a catalogue that included a little verse from an old English nursery rhyme, "Oranges and Lemons.”  It struck me as reflecting Gerald’s sensibility.    

Here comes a candle to light you to bed.

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

(Chip chop, chip chop, the last man's dead.)

Dark.  And unpublished.

A big piece from a second show went to a friend and client.  “Head with Hat” is classic early Slota, one of his best.  A manic boy in a party hat seems to be unravelling.  His image has menace and abandon.  It is as if some psychotic clown, possibly young Gerald, is loose on New Year’s Eve and like Chucky or Halloween’s Michael Myers, and lives forever in a separate but close-at-hand dimension.  

Somewhere along the way he produced and brought in a study of a female nude, possibly the strongest photograph I have ever handled, as powerful as Joel-Peter Witkin’s portrait, “Man without head”.   

Gerald had been invited to be a fellow at the estimable MacDowell Colony, a very prestigious feather in his cap.  While he was supposedly there, we got word that he had escaped the tranquility of New Hampshire.  He was suddenly in Detroit, where he had gone to work on a horror film, which also seemed to have evolved into soft core porno.  This gave Gerald a peculiar celebrity at the retreat after he returned.   

He, of course, had befriended one the film’s stars, the lead actress, Jacklyn — Jackie — whose last name was Lick.  Gerald rendered a large size — 40 x 40 inch — it seems larger — portrait of a nude female, legs wide open, with little stars of light tracing her body, like a gorgeous celebratory constellation of Woman, a contemporary response to Corot’s “L'Origine du monde”.  I gave her a rude nickname by changing the “o” in “Constellation” to a “u”.   

Work it out for yourself.    Next page.

Please, someone buy this classic and hang it over a bar.  It is deliciously inappropriate.

One day I got a call from Kathy Ryan, the longtime and legendary director of photography for The New York Times Magazine.   “Did I think Gerald could do a job for her?”  My initial thought: “no,” probably not, maybe impossible.  Where would I find him?  How could he ever do it in timely fashion?  

“Sure,” I said.  Fuck me.

Where in the world would I find him?  Will Information give you the phone numbers for all of the bars in Paterson, New Jersey?  I had an instinct that he might be in Woodstock with Roger and found him in one call.  Amazing.  I laid it out for him.  He had two days to do work on something about schizophrenic children or whatever, I don’t remember.  I told him that if he failed to deliver on time, I would personally come to his house and break both of his kneecaps.  Kathy was a valued friend, and I was not going to let Gerald compromise that relationship.  I made him repeat my threat out loud.

Guess who turned out to be “Mister Overnight” in the editorial world.  He could take an idea that seemed impossible to visualize— bipolarity, terrorism, exorcism, hysteria, etc.—and he could bring it to graphic life.  I believe the term “photo-illustration” was coined for him.

Here is a Christmas story.  Ricco and Maresca alway had wonderful holiday parties for the staff, or at least for the half of the staff that would get drunk and stoned.  The boys were great gift-givers.  They never gave me any cash bonus like the others, but great gifts.  

Sometimes the artists would, too.

One year Gerald made our portraits.  It’s most often uncomfortable to be confronted with a a portrait of oneself, particularly a photo-based one by Gerald Slota.  

In his version, my face appears twice.  A two headed monster?  I don’t know.  He got the big and scary part right.  The image is divided by a jagged vertical line.  I am roaring or gnashing my teeth on the left.  And on the right, I appear to be losing them, and they are floating in front of the black rectangle where my mouth would be.  Dreams of lost teeth are always the most terrifying to me, after some loss or trauma.  

Of course there are no eyes, simply gaping holes.  

Meerie Christmas to you too.  I have never asked him much about this.  Maybe he was being kind.

Gerald would sometimes worry out loud about money, and one day— again I am no good at chronology—it came to a point where he asked me directly to help him out.  

What to do?  

I commissioned him to do portraits of my cats, Jane and Joe, and still don’t know what possessed me.   I have no memory of his coming to my apartment to photograph them, but he must have chased the cats around for an afternoon and then a week later, delivered the most extraordinary pictures.  

He created drawn environments around them, with a non-existent ball for Joe, and mouse doorway for Jane, and he got them just right.  This was particularly interesting because Jane, the cat, in life, never appeared to have an ounce of ferocity or even personality for that matter.   

A sweet irony of this story is that they got published in BOMB Magazine.  Alison Nordstrom, celebrated curator at the George Eastman House was organizing “Why We Look at Animals” and loved and wanted them, too.  I kept a set of prints for myself, donated another, got a tax deduction, and Gerald got to be in a touring show and in the GEH permanent collection.

And that is what the kingdom of heaven looks like, folks.  

A friend of mine was the agent for the playwright Neil Labute, whose work I liked; it was funny, rude, transgressive, fierce, and not unlike Gerald’s.  I imagined that they might collaborate on something and got an online meeting set up.  They took to each other and started talking, all by e-mail.  Gerald would call me and ask what was it they should be doing, and I encouraged him to keep faith, that the project would reveal itself, which it did.  Labute would write the dark narrative captions: 

“the baby stopped crying hours ago. I’m afraid to go upstairs and check it.” 

“I freeze when his tongue touches me there.  every night.  every night.”  

“on some nights I slip inside my parents bedroom and watch them sleep.  If I’m very careful they don’t feel me sitting on the mattress.”

“when I hear my husband’s car turn into the driveway each evening, my stomach sinks.  The hope that he may have had an accident  on the way home still thrills me.”  

And Slota would illustrate them. 

The colors are fire: red and yellows and black, nightmare scenes of suburban homes.   Primal.  

The two finally met in person at an opening two years later.  Aperture published the set as “Because the Darkness feeds my Soul,” not as cocktail napkins but rather as cards.   I still like the idea of the napkins.*2

Slota continued to evolve in this style resulting in “No No No” a few years later, combining image and text with some mayhem

The above-mentioned Alison Nordstrom organized another show of photographic portraits at the Cornell Fine Arts Museum on the campus of Rollins College in Winter Park, Florida and featured Gerald prominently.  My sister has a horse farm in Ocala which is less than two hours away to the north.  I insisted that Gerald come with me for a visit.  After an unmemorable afternoon reception, we headed out.  

Disney World was due west and I drove looking for the turn-off north to I-75.  Gerald looked apprehensively at signs overhead: “Disney World—50 Miles”, then “40 Miles,” etc.

He stiffened and sought assurance that I was not taking him to Disney.

“No, of course not”.    

“30 Miles.” “20 Miles.-

“Hey Bill, what’s the deal?”

“Don’t worry I must have missed the turn-off.”

“10 miles.”  “5 miles.”

He was sweating.

“You are now entering … “  Gerald became increasingly agitated.  I worried that he might jump out of the car.  

Finally, I turned around and got on the right track.  No Disney.

Gerald remained absolutely silent.  Too close to something I suppose.  He already lived in The Magic Kingdom.

It was evening when we finally got to the farm, “Horsefeathers!”  The dirt road from the main highway is covered by the canopy of tree branches in an allée of gorgeous live oaks.  It was too dark to see much, and Gerald was definitely lost.  We drove through the gate and up the drive.

More silence.      

Gerald looked out into the night for some indication of a house which I imagined he had determined was an enormous Southern plantation that would soon loom into view.    

I stopped the car, got out, looked back at him, and said “Leave your bags.  Uncle Ben, will be out to get them.”

It was a small horse farm in the country.  There was no Uncle Ben.  Gerald sat in the car for the longest time.  

He paid me back a few years later.  A charity approached my gallery about donating to an event by curating a whole room of art.  We set about furnishing a “surrealist child’s nursery” with colorful and suitable works by our artists.  Gerald was persuaded—by me--to fashion a unique toy chest with figures that looked like cookie- cutter bears or people that had been flattened by a steam roller.  

Needless to say, as his dealer I had to “cover” the price at the auction and ended up its owner.  

There was an after-party at some downtown club, which we went to with whichever girl friend.  It wasn’t too late.  I headed home at a reasonable hour.  It was starting to rain so I stopped and returned because I had on a new suit and didn’t want to mess it up.  

Much later that night—much later—we found ourselves at The Half King, a bar/restaurant on West 23rd Street.  I do not know how we ended up there, but that happens with Gerald.  The Half King has some support in the photographic community because one of the owners is the writer Sebastian Junger, who wrote the novel “The Perfect Storm” and did the movie “Restropo” with his late buddy, the photojournalist Tim Hetherington.  

Mr. Junger is very handsome, and somehow Gerald knew that Mr. Junger was my not so secret crush.  

Magically Gerald disappeared then reappeared saying “Hey Bill, look,” as he revealed to me the bewildered and bemused Mr. Junger.  I was speechless, as in I could not make any words come out of my mouth.  Nothing.  I mimed recognition but could not get sound to come out.   This never happens.  I always have something to say.

I have yet to actually speak with Mr. Junger.

It was funny. 

I did a book on my collecting in 2005, “The Unseen Eye: Photographs from the Unconscious”.  I was never really happy with the subtitle, but the publisher liked it.  He was paying for it, and I thought he probably knew more than I did.

When I write, I like to read everything out loud and even insist that colleagues do this so I can hear it.   It has to have rhythm.  

The writing in the book is not linear but rather circular.  It’s intended that you can pick it up at any point without being lost.  I learned a lot doing it, with some regrets but that has passed.  

I wanted to perform it.  I spent most of my adult life as an actor, and wanted to do some sort of theatrical presentation using the text of the book as the basis. This all happened in the gallery space at Aperture (and in different forms elsewhere), and I wanted a poster to promote it.  Gerald kindly obliged.  

We riffed on the cover of the American edition from Aperture (the covers on the Thames & Hudson UK and Actes Sud French editions are different) and which used the image by the photographer Carrie Levy of a young boy, shirtless, sprawled over the back of a couch.   The Levy original is enigmatic, with an odd abruptness to it.  

Gerald and I restaged it in my living room with me bent over my own black velvet couch.  It is not cleaned up: you can see my mess of thinning hair on my head and even the like on my back.  It is rude and direct, and my ass is hanging out.  

Gerald added his marvelous scrawling printing to the title of the presentation, “The Unseen Eye: a Life in Photographs and other digressions … “.  I do love my ellipses ….  

I always think of this image as the yellow one.  I don’t know it very well having bought it impulsively at a charity auction for the Center for Photography at Woodstock with which Gerald and I have had sweet history.  My instinct as a dealer was to protect him, to prevent the piece from going unsold or at a unseemly low price.  Like the toy chest.  Dealers do that.   The yellow one was not a piece I coveted.  I no longer had a gallery;  I was simply looking out for my buddy.  I made it a birthday present to myself.

It came at a major juncture in the artist's oeuvre although you could make the case that Gerald is too humble and non-French to have one.  Color had started to appear in his work.  It wasn’t there and then it was.  My guess is that Gerald wanted to up his editorial game and even his commercial one, should that opportunity present itself.   You’ve got to work in color.

He never seems to use a lot of colors, tending towards the monochromatic fields like this one, yellow, or yellow and red, or red.

This image dramatizes something quite boldly.  The cut-out eyes are one of recognizable tropes.  I don’t know who the model is.   I hope it’s Gerald.  Psychologically this may depict the artist’s very active unconscious, both manipulated by him and seeming to manipulate the artist himself: Pygmalion.  The synapses between thought and action or instinct and action are not there.  It’s immediate.  There is no intellectual mediation. 

From the bottom of the frame the artist/model’s eyes gleam with resolve.  I don’t know what to make of the chicken-scratch/mark-making that renders the fingers like points on a crown.  Puppet strings and Art?  His marks here seem offhand, even random, but as always distinctive and necessary to his work.

The color is bold.  The structure is very straight forward, like his earliest work.  This piece seems so essential within his development, a statement that he knows full well what he’s doing, and able to channel the uncapped imagination of his inner child.   And here the child sees in color.  

In the time I was a dealer, my best institutional client was the late Robert Sobieszek at the Los Angles County Museum of Art.  Robert trusted me not to waste his time.  He was the first major curator to step up on Gerald.    Robert did a “New Acquisitions” show at one point and, to my mind, Gerald’s piece stole the show and expressed the anxiety and boldness of both the artist and the curator.

The piece has a direct link to the yellow portrait above: two figures facing the viewer, with one as a seeming off-stage controller of the central figure, and with Gerald’s characteristic interventions of cutting and drawing.  

One of Robert’s long-time colleagues, Tim Wride, became the curator at the Norton Museum in West Palm Beach.   I would visit periodically, and Tim professed his longtime admiration of Gerald during one long conversation.  He called up immediately after my return to New York, asking if I thought Gerald could fulfill a commission with a very short time line, that had to relate to the Florida Everglades.  

Of course, “yes.”  I know how to answer this question.  Mister Overnight. 

What resulted was a fairly staggering multi-part mural, more than five meters square, depicting a battle in one of the three mid-nineteenth Century seminal Seminole Wars, the only time a white US Army has been defeated on its own soil.   Leave it to Gerald to do the homework.   

The piece signaled such mature, sophisticated, artistic response.  He was systematic about the elements included, and he brought me in several times to show its development.  The museum couldn’t acquire it because of its size.  They bought a modello.  It’s not the same.  

Please, I implore some smart soul to rescue it from storage or commission another historical mural.  

It is worth pointing out that Gerald’s late father appeared in many roles in his son’s work over the years: unidentifiable but present as a Japanese suicide victims jumping on to railroad tracks for Newsweek (but, disappointingly,  not as a pedophile priest for another cover, as I had long thought).  Here he is a slain Confederate officer.    He was the artist’s biggest fan.

Gerald and I have gotten to collaborate again, this year 2018, on a show titled After.  This is the work he did in a feverish creative run  after his dad died.   When his mother passed a number of years ago, I remember a bunch us sitting around the gallery wondering what we could do for him or with ourselves.   There was silence, a long one, and finally someone—I hope it was me—finally said “I can hardly wait to see the new work”.  It sounded ghoulish, cruel and pathetic on our part, but it was true.  

Gerald’s work is him.  

The new work was bound to be spectacular.  His muses are unique and personal.   He keeps evolving.  

Gerald and I like to talk; we nudge each other to complete a thought, to articulate an insight.  These conversations are wonderful, as in filled with wonder.  We share some moral wounding that we recognize in the other without having to detail it. 

He has lost some of his boyishness, but none of his awe, his “feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder” (as the Oxford Dictionary define it). 

It’s a honor to be part of his practice and process and incredible journey.  At this juncture, to continue the metaphor, we’ve merely pulled over into the service plaza to relieve ourselves.

The present.  I look at Gerald and no longer see the young man I described early on as looking like “Pat Boone. … just later.”  It’s later for me too, in very present tense.   

Two narcissists walk into a bar.  

*1 date?

*2 Original published Aperture, Fall 2009

Adapted from original text for “two narcissists walk into a bar: a book of Gerald & Bill” published by Dancing Bear Books ©2018

©2021 

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