I was on assignment to photograph George Bowering's friend poet, "Dom" DeLuise (circa 1980). I was given a heads up that he may be delicate in mood since he'd just lost his wife of many years the night before.
The back of the room was a large cartoony brightly colored mural. I realized it was a reassembled train car but on going inside it seemed to be cut lengthwise to be narrower. There was an expanded metal staircase inside like fire escape on its wall. I was looking at the zigzag of stairs to no where when Dom pushed himself into the space and began chatting at me casually and gesturing just as wide despite skinning his knuckles on the wall as he did, seeming oblivious to my being pinned. I squeezed out past him and looked at the room. The apartment was an open concept flat, about 20 stories up, upper stories of office towers were the view. It was smoggy. It was a double story penthouse I expect since there was only one room and no panel I could see that could hide a murphy bed. No living room.
It was probably a 1500 square foot room, all pale possibly bleached maple wood flooring and white walls, with 2 sides of the room being banks of windows. There was bar seating all along the one facing the entry along the long side of the room. Dave was seated there with a few empty martini glasses.
There was a cafe table on the far side of the room and beige area rug. 1/3 of the way into the room was a probably 16 foot kitchen island where DeLuise was cooking, and stripping as he did so, flinging coat and shirt as he sauteed and made flames leap up from his flambe something. I was perplexed of whether I should photograph this bit or this was the part I was here to film. I heard a snort of laugh and Dave was watching the scene then in humming amusement pretended he saw nothing while continuing to watch in the reflection in the glass. DeLuise was in his boxers when I woke sputtering something to no one in particular.
For mom’s bd
15 hours ago