By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
With shaved head and strong build, the 77-year-old Leslie, a gymnast and artist's model in his youth, betrays no loss of the piss 'n' vinegar that has fueled a half-century of what he once termed "octopussarian impulses"the drive to express himself not just as a painter but as a writer, filmmaker, set designer, and even tunesmith.
Leslie developed his painting chops during the heyday of abstract expressionism while learning about theater from exiles who came to New York to escape Nazism. He met practitioners of Brecht's theater of engagement and confrontation, in which "people shout at you, and harangue you from the audiencethat was their shtick." In 1959, he confronted the public with his groundbreaking indie film Pull My Daisy, gorgeously photographed by Robert Frank as if through scrims of black, white, and infinite gray. Adapting an unproduced Jack Kerouac play, Leslie silently filmed the action in his ramshackle painting loft, and then had Kerouac dub the voices of a Who's Who of Beat-generation "actors" playing themselves. Allen Ginsberg gyrates like a spastic shaman in front of splattered rectangles on the studio wall; Gregory Corso chugs an early-morning beer and flicks a hand toward Fourth Avenue outside, mouthingin Kerouac's grumbling voice"Nothing out there but a million screaming 90-year-old men being run over by gasoline trucks, so throw the match on it!"
Daisy is full of serendipitous gems made possible by Leslie's process: The engineer kept the mic open on Kerouac at all times and during a break caught the Beat king free-associating, "Up you go little smoke," as he dragged on a cigarette. That unscripted line makes luminous a scene in which a sleepy child reaches up for a wind chime. The film celebrates the Beats' Dada-esque rebellion against the stifling conformity of the Eisenhower years, while unconsciously documenting a dress rehearsal for the cultural revolution of the '60s.
Continuing his acclaimed abstract painting and Pop-presaging collage work (a selection of which is on view now at the Allan Stone Gallery), Leslie next reached a tentacle toward literature. The Hasty Papers, the one-shot literary journal he published in late 1960, was a "democratized, egalitarian, choral work." Characteristically blunt, Leslie solicited literary luminaries from John Ashbery to William Carlos Williams, promising to divide any profits evenly among contributors. Illustrated with paintings, drawings, and photo montages, the writing jumped from poetry by Joel Oppenheimer to father of the atomic bomb J. Robert Oppenheimer's treatise "Industrial Society and the Western Political Dialogue." Ashbery and Terry Southern kicked in comedic plays; Fidel Castro's legendary 1960 U.N. harangue the American naval base at Guantánamo particularly galled El Commandanteand the Eisenhower administration's rebuttal are transcribed in full. Reviews of the Papers were mixed: Retrograde art critic Hilton Kramer sniffed, "How inelegant for a painter to do this"; Leslie's friend Bill de Kooning enthused, "Geessus Les, vot the hell, it's a snapshot of us all!"
Two years later, although the high priest of abstraction, critic Clement Greenberg, had proclaimed "there is nothing left in nature for plastic art to explore," Leslie began a series of monumental full-frontal nude Grisaille paintings. Working large-scale and in a hyper-real style, Leslie sought "direct testimony" challenging what audiences perceive as the "pure truth" of photography.
Which didn't stop him from making another movie, in 1964the provocative, absurd, and sometimes melancholy Last Clean Shirt. Shot from the backseat of a convertible as a mixed-race couple drives up Third Avenue, the 10-minute take (demarcated by an alarm clock lashed to the dashboard) is looped three times. First, the white female passenger speaks a nonsensical language; next, poet Frank O'Hara supplies rueful subtitles ("If we were all flowers, and someone stepped on us/someone else, maybe even God, would at least think/That's too bad."); finally, the driver's dissociated thoughts spill out: "jellied aluminum bathtub." "Elke Sommer." As the Vietnam War escalated, Leslie says, people saw "an American soldier [on TV] firing an M-16 into a man's head" while voice-overs told viewers "something entirely different, and the people believed it." Leslie wanted Shirt to force the question "What the fuck is going on?" because "to most people, reality is nothing more than a confirmation of their expectations."
Then came the fire.
It's disturbing to flip through a catalog of Leslie's work and find paintings captioned Destroyed, drawingsDestroyed, films Destroyed. On October 7, 1966, shortly before he was to exhibit at the Whitney Museum, Leslie escaped with his son from an inferno at his Broadway studio. Almost 39 at the time, he has spent the last 38 years on two tracks: making new art, and recovering his lost art.
Earlier that year, his friend and collaborator Frank O'Hara had been run over by a beach taxi on Fire Island. Homeless and nearly destitute after the fire, Leslie gave up filmmaking and began merging his ideas into "painted stories," beginning with Killing Cycle, paintings about O'Hara's death. A flood of water-colors, charcoal drawings, and paintings followed; an oil exhibited in the 1973 Whitney Biennial, The Telephone Call, depicting O'Hara prone before the jeep that killed him, was labeled by the indefatigable Kramer "the single most repugnant work so far installed." The Loading Pier (1975) quotes Caravaggio's Entombment of Christ through its dark, shallow stage-setting and the angled gestures of the mourners. Yet the bathing suits and cutoffs worn by Leslie's female pallbearers conjure O'Hara's earthy humanity and the absurd circumstance of his death.