liefs, dinoke
(+ zijn secretaresse)

Picture of 2 black gentlemen. Standing; painter Herb Gentrey. He studied art in Paris on the GI bill in the fifties. Like many black american artists Herb became part of the enclave dissatisfied with the USA after WW 2. Herb divided his time between New York and Stockholm. He passed away a couple of years ago and his widow Marianne still resides at HC. I’ll find out for you who the seated man is.

Guy Harloff passed away in Italy in 1991. He had a Dutch passport but never lived in Holland. Nether did he know anything about the country nor did he speak Dutch. His father Han Harloff, also an artist, came from The Hague and moved to Paris sometime in the 30 ies.. (See Pieter Scheen, page 438.) The dog’s name was Leda. He had an incredible relationship with the animal. Guy had a daughter by the name of Veda who moved to Amsterdam in the late 70 ies and as far as I know is still there.
I knew Guy very well. He was an alchemist and knew early American movies inside out. He turned me on to George Romero before anybody was aware of him. He had also a great respect for Samuel Fuller. Guy could be a regular pain in the ass and had whacko but definite ideas and would not budge. A lot of hard drinking, he loved his bourbon, ” a very clean alcohol’ he would say. Destruction and broken furniture
but never a fistfight, I must say. He lived in the Beat Hotel in Paris in the late 50 ies
until the place closed down in 1963. There is some wonderful photography available of the young “russian black prince” as he was known in Paris. He was truly very well connected. He lived off and on in The Hotel Chelsea through the mid eighties and moved back to Italy. He had show(s) at the Wadell Gallery until Mr. Wadell commited suicide. “Jesus Christ, Guy, is it because of your work he did himself in? ”

Your shot of bicycles locked onto hotel canape stand. One of the vehicles was my “bromfiets” and Stanley Bard was mighty pissed off at me for tying the thing up and of course I refused to move the thing but I did ride the thing through the lobby which shut him up.

The cockroach remark by Susan Kleinsinger got somehow lost in translation. George
was a composer and a super alcoholic and a great friend. His greatest theatrical success was “Archie and Mehitabel”, about a cockroach and an alley cat It played on Broadway with Carol Channing and Eartha Kitt.
This was long before he passed away.

Mr. and Mrs. Rene Shapshak were my downstairs neighbors, apt. 603. Very lovely people. After I first moved into HC in 1979, I threw a party and called Mrs. Shapshak
to let her know about it and I asked her to call me if or when the noise level was too much for them. Her wonderful reply was, “oh no don’t worry, you kids have a wonderful time, we’ll sleep through the noise” and they did.
I believe it was in 1987 when we had a major fire in apartment 607, one door down from the Shapshaks. It was a big one and everybody on the floor was evacuated. The fire department had knocked on the door of 603. No reply, the firemen were under the impression nobody was home. Wrong, they slept through the whole ordeal.

I just wanted to share these memories and hope you’ll appreciate them. Best Willem van Es

I had four friends over this weekend. You know real life, flesh and blood friends and they all had different opinions on my mental state, so I was grouchy… I am sorry!

Well aware as I am that I am more than a little goofy at times, if not always, I tend to overreact when people try to diagnose me.

My official diagnosis is PTS, post-traumatic stress disorder combined with severe panic attacks and depression of course. The latter sort of comes with the terrority, although one is never sure what was there first; the egg or the chicken.

I am also dependent on benzodiazepine, because anti-depressants just don’t manage to suppress the panic attacks. (And I do not like the effect they have on me. I cannot work on 30 or 60 mg of Remeron and I do love to work!) When I combine my medication with alcohol, which I unfortunately do at times - maybe because I live a very boring life due to these problems - I can turn into a living car bomb, metaphorically speaking, that is.

I do hate that addiction but even my psychiatrist sees few or no alternatives. Especially since I seem to be therapy-resistant. My (Dutch) verbal skills make it almost impossible for a psychologist to help me work on better cognitive awareness. (Haha! I speak-a-dee-lingo) And I do detest psychologists! They think life is always and under all circumstances “makeable” and I disagree with that. Sometimes there is just too much damage to be successful in repairing. Think of it as a car that is a total loss.

I will just have to live with who I am, as much as I hate it. Two or three panic attacks a day (during depressed periods) over twelve years is enough to make anybody want to hang himself, and I am not even talking about the digusting nightmares day-in day-out, but I am strong and I absolutely adore my son, so I go on.

Love, Hans

PS; In an earlier post, three years ago I think on Amea’s board you suggested that I was Bipolar. I tend to think that was a clever diagnosis.

I warned you about sitting too much behind your computer with back pains. If you can - try to walk a little, instead of doing all that programming. The new site looks great. I like the new typography a lot.

Love and take care, you silly girl! ;-)