performance
Bryan D. Price There is a picture of him. He’s wearing a western style shirt with no pants or underpants. In other words, nude from the waist down. I don’t know why he let them take it or why he let them put it out there. His testicles are bigger than his penis and that would embarrass me but nothing embarrassed him. Even though the cock and balls are visible that’s not what the eye is drawn to. He knew how to take a picture. He had a beautiful face. No, beautiful isn’t the right word (it’s almost never the right word). His face wasn’t beautiful it was something else. Tragic, yes, but something other than that. It demanded to be looked at, he knew how to look at you and by extension, the camera. By you I mean whoever he was with. Not you through the camera but you in his presence. Across a table for instance or seated next to him at a bar. What do you want to know, he’d ask. Why the fuck are we here? He was very direct. Taciturn, but direct. I preferred subtlety, you know, languidness. Encircling a subject gently and then, finally, after some chit chat, getting down to brass tacks, so to speak. Or else he’d just stare at you. Not as if he wanted to kill or eat you, but as if he wanted you to look away, but it was impossible. It wasn’t as if I was a stranger. He treated everyone like that. He had a great deal of self-regard, not that it was undeserved but he knew how to carry himself, even before anyone knew who he was. That is something I never learned or was never entitled to. How we got to be friendly, if that’s even the right word, is a mystery beyond my understanding. We lived for a while in the