I met Spalding Gray in Washington Square Park. I saw him and walked around so I could come up from behind him and said, “Spalding, man!” in my worst South African accent. He turned and burst into laughter. He said, “Now that’s an introduction.” I proceeded to tell him how much I admired him and loved his work. He demurred and was completely humble and started asking me questions about myself and what I did/was doing and his eyes lit up when I told him I came to the city for an internship with the War Resisters League. We sat on a bench and he talked about how he had spent time there getting ready for his role in The Killing Fields researching the history of the war(s) in Southeast Asia and the antiwar movement and the times in general. We spent probably 45 minutes talking about this and life in NYC and his experiences doing the monologues and performing in general. It was thrilling and authentic and so pleasant with the activity in the park swirling around us barely noticed. I came away with an even deeper love of him and his work.
Lovely piece, Peter. As a Substack neophyte, it’s only just dawned on me that I can mine this platform for reflections on my dad’s life and work. There’s not much I can offer that isn’t highlighted in your piece, believe it or not; my dad was just as penetrating, and often as laconic, in our home. I’ll leave you with one funny bit, though: whenever a passerby would stop him and insist that he looked familiar, my dad would wryly respond, “I am.”
And I think he did have that quality of being “familiar” to so many of us who didn’t actually know him because he was so good at his art. It struck a sympathetic chord in us.
Your wonderfully crafted essay about eggs and Spalding Gray took me back to my own lone experience with Gray, who was also a hero to me when I was finding my way in New York City as a young man (although I was not as clear as you were as to why).
I had recently graduated from Boston University. I’d just quit the advertising agency copywriting job I had secured (with a pitch letter that opened with “No clips. That’s right, I have no clips…’) after two weeks. Instead, my girlfriend and I were moving to New York—for me, a return to my hometown—where I would accept the other job I’d been offered: marketing assistant at the scholarly book publisher, Columbia University Press. The ad agency had a really nice office and free access to a pool. CU Press had a dirty old office in the ground floor of a dorm. But I’d flipped a coin. It was decided.
One of the perks of working at the press were credits to audit Columbia U classes. I signed up for Spalding Gray’s storytelling class because I knew I was a writer even though I wasn’t writing, and that I had some stories to tell. And because he was Spalding Gray, who sat at that desk with no props except a glass of water, and who spoke slowly and clearly and even the spittle that collected in the corners of his mouth could not distract me from his mesmerizing tales.
When I got to the first meeting of his class, it seemed like I was the only one among the 20 or so men and women there, all around my age or a little younger, who didn’t already know Spalding Gray. With not much fanfare, Gray had us take turns getting up in front of the class to tell a story. I wasn’t ready. I had nothing prepared. But when it came to be my turn, I remembered that time while driving back to school in Boston when my roommate Pete’s VW van sort of caught on fire. We had to pull over at a rest stop as smoke billowed from the van’s exhausts and get all our stuff out of there. That seemed like a good one, yeah. I began to tell the story: “…smoke everywhere…!” I did not speak slowly or all that clearly. But I thought it was going well, at first.
“Louder!” Spalding Gray shouted with no particular expression on his face. I went on, louder: “All our stuff, lamps, rug, beanbag chair, laid out like we were living at the rest stop…!”
“Louder! Spalding Gray shouted with no particular expression on his face. I went on, raising my voice… “Louder!” was all Spalding Gray said. I looked around and the others, friends of Gray’s or so it seemed, looked as if they wanted me to speak more loudly, too, but I was pretty much shouting by then and I had run out of story.
I never went back, although I kept up with Spalding Gray’s exalted stories and, later, his own tragic tale. “Louder!” is all he ever told me.
there are so many of us walking around, crossing paths, bumping into each other, passing by recognizing or not; with words or not. thank you for sharing these moments of yourself intersecting with another, recognizing and with words; a beautiful memoir
Thank you so very much for this, Peter. I, too, felt deeply enamored and inspired from the very first public work he did that I saw, and over the decades I read every book, watched every film and documentary, and whenever there was a live performance in the New York area went to see it at least once. Post-accident, once he was back in New York after receiving shoddy medical care in Ireland he and Cathy decided they wanted to write a book about the experience, from the accident through the long journey to mobility but deep depression, and I was fortunate enough to be his editor. He even tried to perform it once at a small venue in Westchester, which I attended and, afterward, was headed backstage before Cathy said he did not want to see anyone. It was only a month or two before he slipped out during the night and headed toward his mysterious destination, which we subsequently learned was the ferry. This was an entirely heartbreaking time, but I am always glad to read of others keeping his memory and work alive.
I saw Spaulding Gray at the Jonesborough (TN) Storytelling Festival in the early 1980s. He was already renowned at that time, and the grounds were abuzz over his appearance. When he walked onto the stage and sat down, he seemed a laconic, crumpled man. But his narratives brought a whole world to life in even, measured tones, holding back a bit; the stories startled him, too. Then he shuffled off during the applause, as if applause were an alien ritual to him. Thanks for the memory spark.
What a marvelous piece. It conjures up all the edgy want and desire of every artist. And reminds me of my own encounters with heroes or ones I so much wanted to be heroic.
We must have lived in NYC at the same time, Peter. Your essay reminded me of all the times I spotted Gray in Soho. I was too afraid to speak to him, of course. Your line about traversing the fourth wall resonated with me. It describes every "celebrity" encounter I had in NYC - including when I saw Jerzy Kosiński at Régine's (what a sentence). I loved this essay so much. Thank you for taking me back. Waaaaaaay back.
I saw one of his early plays at The Performance Garage and have loved his work ever since, I was devestated when he ended his life. I so wanted to study with him. He was one of the greats. I loved how he told stories from his life, I resonate with your response to him, and as writers we know how difficult it is and how much work it takes to get from our hearts and minds any story onto the page. He had so much talent and just seeing his face again sent shock waves of loss through my body. Thank you for sharing this moment and memory.
I loved Spaulding Gray. And this piece is so vivid. I can clearly picture the interaction. I used to work in that neighborhood and know that coffee shop well (many, many lunches there). Sadly, I recently learned that it closed.
Thank you for this, Peter. I had no idea what had happened to Spalding Gray. I have several of his books still on my shelves. He had fallen off my radar and I didn't realise he had died back in 2004. I'm now going to reread Swimming to Cambodia – thank you for the insights and the nudge.
My family lodged on SI also and the ferry was commute to and from school. I couldn't imagine taking my life from the place I felt most enlivened by the wind and the sea. I loved swimming in Cambodia and I guess it was a fitting way to go for him
I loved this... I was one of the people he interviewed in the shadow of the Twin Towers a few months before they fell to ash and twisted metal and changed America forever. I remember sitting in the chair opposite him, answering questions. These "interviews" with audience members were spontaneous and filmed, but I don't believe they were ever released. That evening haunts me, as do the scaffolding, makeshift stage, and the eerie setting at the base of the towers only weeks before they fell. I, too, loved and admired his writing style and performance art. Thank you for reminding me of the atmosphere and magic of New York City.
1-30-1989
I met Spalding Gray in Washington Square Park. I saw him and walked around so I could come up from behind him and said, “Spalding, man!” in my worst South African accent. He turned and burst into laughter. He said, “Now that’s an introduction.” I proceeded to tell him how much I admired him and loved his work. He demurred and was completely humble and started asking me questions about myself and what I did/was doing and his eyes lit up when I told him I came to the city for an internship with the War Resisters League. We sat on a bench and he talked about how he had spent time there getting ready for his role in The Killing Fields researching the history of the war(s) in Southeast Asia and the antiwar movement and the times in general. We spent probably 45 minutes talking about this and life in NYC and his experiences doing the monologues and performing in general. It was thrilling and authentic and so pleasant with the activity in the park swirling around us barely noticed. I came away with an even deeper love of him and his work.
I think it is very beautiful and true what you said to him about what you learned. And I think it is a pity that he did not think so.
Lovely piece, Peter. As a Substack neophyte, it’s only just dawned on me that I can mine this platform for reflections on my dad’s life and work. There’s not much I can offer that isn’t highlighted in your piece, believe it or not; my dad was just as penetrating, and often as laconic, in our home. I’ll leave you with one funny bit, though: whenever a passerby would stop him and insist that he looked familiar, my dad would wryly respond, “I am.”
Forrest, I’m beyond pleased that this found you, that you found some truth in it and that you took the time to reply. Thank you.
And I think he did have that quality of being “familiar” to so many of us who didn’t actually know him because he was so good at his art. It struck a sympathetic chord in us.
Peter,
Your wonderfully crafted essay about eggs and Spalding Gray took me back to my own lone experience with Gray, who was also a hero to me when I was finding my way in New York City as a young man (although I was not as clear as you were as to why).
I had recently graduated from Boston University. I’d just quit the advertising agency copywriting job I had secured (with a pitch letter that opened with “No clips. That’s right, I have no clips…’) after two weeks. Instead, my girlfriend and I were moving to New York—for me, a return to my hometown—where I would accept the other job I’d been offered: marketing assistant at the scholarly book publisher, Columbia University Press. The ad agency had a really nice office and free access to a pool. CU Press had a dirty old office in the ground floor of a dorm. But I’d flipped a coin. It was decided.
One of the perks of working at the press were credits to audit Columbia U classes. I signed up for Spalding Gray’s storytelling class because I knew I was a writer even though I wasn’t writing, and that I had some stories to tell. And because he was Spalding Gray, who sat at that desk with no props except a glass of water, and who spoke slowly and clearly and even the spittle that collected in the corners of his mouth could not distract me from his mesmerizing tales.
When I got to the first meeting of his class, it seemed like I was the only one among the 20 or so men and women there, all around my age or a little younger, who didn’t already know Spalding Gray. With not much fanfare, Gray had us take turns getting up in front of the class to tell a story. I wasn’t ready. I had nothing prepared. But when it came to be my turn, I remembered that time while driving back to school in Boston when my roommate Pete’s VW van sort of caught on fire. We had to pull over at a rest stop as smoke billowed from the van’s exhausts and get all our stuff out of there. That seemed like a good one, yeah. I began to tell the story: “…smoke everywhere…!” I did not speak slowly or all that clearly. But I thought it was going well, at first.
“Louder!” Spalding Gray shouted with no particular expression on his face. I went on, louder: “All our stuff, lamps, rug, beanbag chair, laid out like we were living at the rest stop…!”
“Louder! Spalding Gray shouted with no particular expression on his face. I went on, raising my voice… “Louder!” was all Spalding Gray said. I looked around and the others, friends of Gray’s or so it seemed, looked as if they wanted me to speak more loudly, too, but I was pretty much shouting by then and I had run out of story.
I never went back, although I kept up with Spalding Gray’s exalted stories and, later, his own tragic tale. “Louder!” is all he ever told me.
Larry Blumenfeld
there are so many of us walking around, crossing paths, bumping into each other, passing by recognizing or not; with words or not. thank you for sharing these moments of yourself intersecting with another, recognizing and with words; a beautiful memoir
I appreciate that.
Thank you so very much for this, Peter. I, too, felt deeply enamored and inspired from the very first public work he did that I saw, and over the decades I read every book, watched every film and documentary, and whenever there was a live performance in the New York area went to see it at least once. Post-accident, once he was back in New York after receiving shoddy medical care in Ireland he and Cathy decided they wanted to write a book about the experience, from the accident through the long journey to mobility but deep depression, and I was fortunate enough to be his editor. He even tried to perform it once at a small venue in Westchester, which I attended and, afterward, was headed backstage before Cathy said he did not want to see anyone. It was only a month or two before he slipped out during the night and headed toward his mysterious destination, which we subsequently learned was the ferry. This was an entirely heartbreaking time, but I am always glad to read of others keeping his memory and work alive.
Wow, Steve. I didn’t know this history you had with him. I want to hear
more about it. Thanks
I saw Spaulding Gray at the Jonesborough (TN) Storytelling Festival in the early 1980s. He was already renowned at that time, and the grounds were abuzz over his appearance. When he walked onto the stage and sat down, he seemed a laconic, crumpled man. But his narratives brought a whole world to life in even, measured tones, holding back a bit; the stories startled him, too. Then he shuffled off during the applause, as if applause were an alien ritual to him. Thanks for the memory spark.
What a marvelous piece. It conjures up all the edgy want and desire of every artist. And reminds me of my own encounters with heroes or ones I so much wanted to be heroic.
Thank you, David. It feels like yesterday to me.
We must have lived in NYC at the same time, Peter. Your essay reminded me of all the times I spotted Gray in Soho. I was too afraid to speak to him, of course. Your line about traversing the fourth wall resonated with me. It describes every "celebrity" encounter I had in NYC - including when I saw Jerzy Kosiński at Régine's (what a sentence). I loved this essay so much. Thank you for taking me back. Waaaaaaay back.
I saw one of his early plays at The Performance Garage and have loved his work ever since, I was devestated when he ended his life. I so wanted to study with him. He was one of the greats. I loved how he told stories from his life, I resonate with your response to him, and as writers we know how difficult it is and how much work it takes to get from our hearts and minds any story onto the page. He had so much talent and just seeing his face again sent shock waves of loss through my body. Thank you for sharing this moment and memory.
What an amazing slice of your life and told so beautifully. I could picture that era and the excitement you felt. Thanks.
I loved Spaulding Gray. And this piece is so vivid. I can clearly picture the interaction. I used to work in that neighborhood and know that coffee shop well (many, many lunches there). Sadly, I recently learned that it closed.
End of an era...
Thank you for this, Peter. I had no idea what had happened to Spalding Gray. I have several of his books still on my shelves. He had fallen off my radar and I didn't realise he had died back in 2004. I'm now going to reread Swimming to Cambodia – thank you for the insights and the nudge.
My family lodged on SI also and the ferry was commute to and from school. I couldn't imagine taking my life from the place I felt most enlivened by the wind and the sea. I loved swimming in Cambodia and I guess it was a fitting way to go for him
I loved this... I was one of the people he interviewed in the shadow of the Twin Towers a few months before they fell to ash and twisted metal and changed America forever. I remember sitting in the chair opposite him, answering questions. These "interviews" with audience members were spontaneous and filmed, but I don't believe they were ever released. That evening haunts me, as do the scaffolding, makeshift stage, and the eerie setting at the base of the towers only weeks before they fell. I, too, loved and admired his writing style and performance art. Thank you for reminding me of the atmosphere and magic of New York City.
I love this. I remember that neighborhood which became my neighborhood, as I was trying to find my way into adulthood. I lived and worked there.