Since my father spent lots of time at North Beach, we often walked through Chinatown. Compared to the rest of San Francisco, Chinatown had level streets, so it was a comfort zone for me. There also seemed to be various red objects: red toys, red lanterns, and buildings with red signs. I found the color aesthetically pleasing. I don’t know whether my memory is playing tricks on me, or if the connection between the color red and China is clouding my consciousness, but that’s what I recall. Another thing I remember is a fake tin can of spinach with Popeye on it. It was in one of the gift shops in Chinatown. Why did that object exist in that neighborhood? My parents bought it for me on one of our walks. This image of Popeye was not my introduction to the character. I must have seen the comic strip in the newspaper or the animation on television. Louise Herms, who the family met at this time, looked just like Olive Oyl, Popeye’s sometimes girlfriend. Louise was beautiful, but to me so was Olive Oyl. Besides having innocent crushes on girls I went to kindergarten with, I also had a thing for animated female characters. Betty Boop was another fetish-like fascination for me. I couldn’t possibly have defined or understood sexuality, yet both characters struck a deep chord inside me that played for a long time afterward.
My parents also bought me a plastic sword from a Chinatown gift shop, and I enjoyed the fantasy of having an instrument of death in my hands. I would walk with my mom or my dad or both with the sword attached to my arm. I never really played with the sword at home; it was an object I wielded in public. Each face I saw on the street was another character in the story that was in my head. To this day, I have a tendency to look at people, both friend and stranger, and place them in a narrative of my own making.
My obsession with toy guns and knives started in San Francisco. I don’t know where I picked it up. My parents weren’t into weapons of any kind. I wasn’t brought up in an anti-gun culture, but a “no-gun” culture. I must have picked up this obsession from either the medium of comics or the small amount of time I spent in front of a TV screen. I have no memory of watching TV during the late ’50s. But somehow I got the idea of fighting bad people and knew that there was a constant struggle between “good and evil.” I became obsessed with fighting imaginary criminals. At the time I didn’t have the slightest idea what “good” or “evil” actually meant. I just knew that evil was bad, and that I was more attracted to the evil characters than the good ones. I took pity on the bad characters. They had to go to jail or, even worse, die.
WALLACE BERMAN / Robert Duncan, 1950s
At a neighborhood café near City Lights, I went up to a pair of police officers who were taking a lunch break. I was drawn to them because of their uniforms and, more significantly, I noticed they were wearing guns at their waists. One of the officers patted me on the head and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, so I told him I wanted to be an assassin. My parents, who overheard my comment to the officers, pretended they didn’t know me.
Another significant location for me in San Francisco was the home of Robert Duncan and Jess Collins. Robert and Jess had first editions of the entire Oz book series by L. Frank Baum. Over the years, they gave me a lot of their Oz books. I’ve rarely kept anything from that era, but I still have the books they gave me, which is amazing, considering how many times I’ve moved. Jess was a man of a few words. I never saw him in painting mode. I imagine for Jess it was just like going to an office to work, but once he was out of the office, he looked very much like—not the wife exactly, but the partner who didn’t share the “work” with the family after hours. I think he was the one that made the meals in the household. I remember going to dinner at their home numerous times, which were consistently fun for me because I was drawn to the books. Aside from trips to City Lights, these were probably the first occasions when I paid attention to bookshelves.
WALLACE BERMAN / Jess, Topanga Canyon, 1968
WALLACE BERMAN / Michael McClure, 1958, San Francisco
Jess, of course, was an excellent painter and collage artist. Even as a kid I was called to his work because there was something “comic book” about it, but not in the obvious sense, like Roy Lichtenstein. I feel he got the nature of the comic book or strip. One of his most eminent collages is his Tricky Cad (1954–59), a total cut-up of the Dick Tracy comic strip. He took all the images, dialogue, and text from the strip and re-imagined it in his peculiar fashion. Regardless of the fact that I was too young to fully grasp the work, I understood it as a child who loved comics. It’s fascinating to think how many artists in that era had an obsession with or were influenced by the comics medium. I found myself attracted to that aesthetic. I knew the difference between comic strips printed in the newspaper and artists who took that influence for their artwork. Even as a kid I had a thorough if instinctive understanding of low art and high art, even when the skills and the visuals were very close or in the same family.
My family was attracted to poets, and I think Robert Duncan was the first one I realized was an actual poet. He looked just like a poet to me. He had one angel eye that would wander, and he had the talent to communicate with almost anyone. His humor came off clearly, even to a kid like me. He was gossipy, yes, but with a sharp intelligence to his commentary. Robert and Jess were probably the first gay couple I was ever aware of. Not in a sexual or intimate sense: the fact that they shared a room was not something I was conscious of at the time. But they were clearly a couple, even to me as a child.
If Robert Duncan was my first impression of a poet, and what a poet sounds like, then Michael McClure was my prototype for the romantic poet. He would wear a chunky scarf as if it were naturally appended to his neck. This is not criticism but praise of his unique style, because Michael was (and is) an incredibly handsome man. My earliest memory of Michael is as a Monty Clift combined with just a touch of Brando’s The Wild One (1953). He never looked like a beat or a beatnik to me. His clothing and attitude and even his voice were a poetic 1950s attitude, and without a doubt, had dandified flourishes. When he read his poetry in public, or privately to my father, he had a way of pronouncing his words like they were sculptures. Each word seemed as if he were making an object positioned in front of his eyes or view. He has the ability to bring a physical, bodily presence to his poetry or words. Ghost Tantras (1964) is, I think, his masterpiece, which is him roaring like a lion. Of all the poets we knew at the time, he was the one most interested in sound. Years later, he worked with musicians, but I was always of the view that the music got in the way of his poetry. Just he alone and his voice are enough. I suspected that, somewhere in his past, Michael must have taken a diction class, because of the care with which he pronounced words.
Michael was not natural. There was something artificial in him, and I loved the dramatic aspect of his personality. I have a strong memory of dining with him and my parents at a traditional French restaurant, where he ordered the food for the entire table, including yours truly. What I wanted was a hamburger, but I wasn’t going to get it at that restaurant. Michael was by no means ordering such food for a table he was dining at. Everything he ordered was very much “grown-up” food, clearly unsuitable for an American kid like me. All I wanted was a piece of meat between two pieces of bread, and I was angry at him for not ordering such a plate for me. Instead, he ordered frog legs and snails. Imagine! Food for a tot.
WALLACE BERMAN / Untitled (Beard poster), 1967
Michael has a star-like quality. He had a flair no one else had, down to the scarf around his neck. To this day, when I look at a scarf or put one on, I picture Michael. Also, he’s one of those poets who know stagecraft. The majority