Love, Joe

Excerpted from Love, Joe: The Selected Letters of Joe Brainard by Joe Brainard, edited by Daniel Kane. Copyright (c) 2024 The Estate of Joe Brainard. Used by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.

Brainard met the actor and writer Keith McDermott through their mutual friend Edmund White at a party Brainard threw for Kenward Elmslie’s fiftieth birthday. The two men were immediately attracted to each other, and shortly afterward, Brainard wrote McDermott a letter (postmarked May 21, 1979) that pops with erotic energy.

The letters here show Brainard tripping over himself with delight at how lucky he felt to be connected to this handsome young man whom he suspected could fulfill his desire for all-consuming, obsessive love. This is not to say that Brainard cut off ties with Elmslie. Brainard continued living with him over the summers, with time in New York City devoted to nurturing Brainard’s bond with McDermott. Over the years the situation changed; at times Brainard saw Elmslie and McDermott in New York City on alternate days and evenings, and both maintained an open relationship outside the triangle. Whatever the situation, though, McDermott was a major figure in Brainard’s life. “I loved him,” McDermott writes, “and, against all odds, he went bananas over me.”

May 21, 1979, Calais, Vermont

Dear Keith,

(Ah that felt good, writing your name down, for the first time. Thanks a mint, kid. And I do mean it.)

Showered and shaved, my favorite jeans on, late afternoon in Vermont, drinking a Campari and soda, smoking a cigarette, and writing a letter to YOU. Boy do I feel lucky!

Can’t tell you how much your address—(a lot)—has been burning a hole in my pants, or . . . er . . . pocket, all this time. Which is actually only a little over a week. Nine days. Of feeling a whole lot different, and a whole lot better.

But let me tell you now—right now—that I’m not about to lay any heavy trip on you. Am just glad and grateful for what you have already given me. Which is a much longer story than I’ll probably ever tell you. Except to say that I’ve had a “thing” for you way before I even knew what you looked like, or anything. Which is pretty weird, really, as I’m a pretty down to earth man.

And then seeing you on stage—such a bright clear light!—only reinforced my feelings.

And then seeing you at the party—well, it flipped me out so much I can’t even recall the experience. Hard as I’ve tried to savor it, and have savored the few fragments I’ve been able to “find.” Such as your eyes looking directly at me. Your light blue sweat shirt, sleeves pushed up to [the] elbow. And a vague sense of your arms : such clear skin, stretched over the pulsating veins of an animal, alive, I would just so much have liked to touch. And of telling you how pretty you are—how pretty I found you, and find you—and being rather embarrassed for having said it so crudely. And wondering if—as I’m sure everyone must say that to you—it might be boring for you to hear that. (?) Hard as it is for me to imagine that that could be true. And then some-how before I knew it, you were gone.

And then when having dinner with Ed [White] and Chris [Cox]—when Ed told me that you liked me—!!!—well, you have been beautifully on my mind ever since. Though I didn’t dare inquire as to what “like” meant, as—for starters—just that in itself was (is) more than enough. Enough to allow me to bravely and sheepishly ask Ed for your address, so I could “send you a post card.” Which, in fact, I am doing. (Enclosed) One that I especially like, and especially hope that you will too. It is based on a French myth—similar to our explanation of where our babies come from : the stork—that babies grow in vegetable gardens, most commonly out of heads of lettuce and/or cabbage.

And the only reason I have waited so long in writing to you—although I have been doing it in my head a lot—is that I haven’t been feeling too good. Due to a new healthy “thing” I’m on. Due to Anne Waldman—a terrific poet, and one of my very best friends—who recently zipped through town in her usual, but glamorous, manner. Convincing me that I’d feel a lot more “steady” if I’d lay off the tons of sugar and coffee I have always consumed. And so I gave them up. And so for the past week I’ve been able to do little of anything but sleep and read. Am finally feeling a bit more alert tho. Tho I’ve yet to experience the promised “high” from having done so. That, plus meditating for one hour every morning : in hopes of acquiring a bit more patience. And in hopes too, of simply thinking things out a bit more. As I tend to try to do everything, all at once. As opposed to being more selective, throwing all my focus and energy into that : a single thing at a time. As, at this point in my life, I do feel the need of that. (I’m a ripe 37, tho not all that ripe.)

At any rate—as I’m sure I told you—and aside from my fixation—I thought you were very good in the play. Would love to have seen you tho, in an earlier version of the play I saw years ago, in which your part was longer, and more integrated with the plot. As, in a recent letter from Don [Bachardy], he said he and Chris now feel was a mistake too: (to have isolated your presence so compactly.) But God—compared to most theatre I see—I thought it was terrific, and was surprised it didn’t have at least a tiny run—weren’t you?

As much as I’d love to go on and on, I don’t really trust myself.

And think I maybe ought to wait until I hopefully hear from you— (wanna pen pal?)—before I. . . . whatever.

One thing first tho—I really have my heart set on this—I hope I can get you over to paint, when I come back come September. As I know you would inspire me—(yes, I believe in inspiration!)—and I really need that. To say nothing of being able to really look at you in the way only painting someone allows. So do think about this—if just for me—will you?

Well—I hope this letter doesn’t have too much bullshit in it. Sometimes I don’t know anymore. But, if so, it’s just because I want to impress you—of course.

I’ve gained 5 pounds already!

Just want so much to get back to healthy and ambitious and capable of real fun. And you could help me a lot, if you feel like it, by just—in whatever way—responding. And—shit—I’ll do anything for you. (Too.)

So—I think before I get mushy, I’ll just end abruptly. And cross fingers. THANK YOU!

AND LOTS OF LOVE,

Joe

STATUES OF CRITICS 🗿