{"id":122571,"date":"2018-03-13T09:00:10","date_gmt":"2018-03-13T13:00:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=122571"},"modified":"2018-03-12T14:47:33","modified_gmt":"2018-03-12T18:47:33","slug":"duncan-hannahs-new-york","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/03\/13\/duncan-hannahs-new-york\/","title":{"rendered":"Duncan Hannah\u2019s Seventies New York"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Duncan Hannah in his studio and apartment in Brooklyn. Photo by David Coggins.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the last decade, a cottage industry has sprung up around wistful recollections of New York in the seventies, from memoirs authored by people who lived through it, like Richard Hell (2013\u2019s I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp<\/em>) and Patti Smith (Just Kid<\/em>s, which won the 2010 National Book Award for Nonfiction), to novels by people too young to have been there (Rachel Kushner\u2019s The Flamethrowers<\/em>, Garth Risk Hallberg\u2019s City on Fire<\/em>) to television series that gleefully depict the city when it was near bankruptcy and had a harder edge (The Get Down<\/em>, about the burgeoning hip-hop scene, and The Deuce<\/em>, about the golden age of pornographic theaters in Times Square). Some of these works are endearing pieces of art, but all of them inevitably look back with a glimmer of sentimentality\u2014and perhaps envy\u2014at a time when it was still possible to live comfortably as an artist in New York without a trust fund.<\/p>\n

Twentieth-Century Boy<\/a><\/em>,\u00a0by the painter Duncan Hannah, a collection of the artist\u2019s notebooks from the seventies, has none of the retroactive fondness afforded by distance. Beginning at age seventeen, Hannah meticulously documented his conservative upbringing in Minnesota (against which he rebelled with a combination of alcohol, LSD, and a part-time job as an usher at the Guthrie Theatre, where he got to live out his hero-worship of figures like Led Zeppelin\u00a0and Janis Joplin) through his art education at Bard College in Upstate New York and his move, in 1973, to the city to attend Parsons and try to make it as an artist.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Hannah is something of an outlier in his generation. He is a figurative painter of earnest portraits who has more in common with the realism of Fairfield Porter than he does with any of his more abstract contemporaries. In the mid seventies, critics routinely announced the death of painting in favor of the conceptual photography of Cindy Sherman and the Minimalist sculpture of Donald Judd. By the end of the decade, painting was once again fashionable at galleries, spurred on by the arrival of Kenny Scharf and Keith Haring\u2014who were, for a time, roommates and got their start painting in subways\u2014and the so-called neo-expressionist painting of Julian Schnabel and David Salle, both of whom would define contemporary art\u2019s transformation into symbols of status and wealth. Hannah, a painter concerned with craft instead of theory, didn\u2019t really fit in.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/a>

Duncan Hannah, The British Invasion<\/em>, 2016.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve basically ignored the avant-garde,\u201d Hannah told me one recent afternoon in his apartment in Brooklyn. \u201cI was surprised by the conformity of the art world. Because I always thought from afar that it was a bunch of eccentrics who couldn\u2019t really agree on anything and were marching to their own drummers. But there was a rigidity to it that really kind of baffled me.\u201d<\/p>\n

At age sixty-five, Hannah is still boyish and handsome, dressed on this day in a tweed jacket with a corduroy vest and shirtsleeves. A pair of campy suspenders, adorned with women in bikinis, occasionally peek out beneath the vest. His longstanding dandyish appearance was another factor that made him an outsider among the punks he was hanging out with in the seventies (he almost edited a Television fanzine, but Tom Verlaine, the band\u2019s singer, vetoed that), but it also provided him with a kind of easy entry into any room he wanted to walk into. Warhol would humor the aspiring painter by inviting him over to his studio. The New York Dolls let him stand in the wings during a performance at the Palladium. A major subplot in his notebooks\u00a0is the frustrations of gay men\u2014from Allen Ginsberg<\/a> to Dotson Rader\u2014at discovering that the cherubic young Hannah\u00a0is straight.<\/p>\n

As a diary, Hannah\u2019s book, portions of which have been excerpted in The Paris Review<\/em><\/a>,<\/em> provides an unusually levelheaded portrait of New York in the seventies, though it is still filled with charming and occasionally unbelievable anecdotes. Hannah plays pool with Richard Hell. He watches from the corner of his eye as Lou Reed\u2014\u201clooking like a skinny chimpanzee\u201d\u2014gets too drunk on a date at Max\u2019s Kansas City. Patti Smith dedicates a poem to Hannah. He serves as a chaperone for Nico, just in town from Ibiza, and takes her to a Television concert at CBGB, where Brian Eno is working the mixing board. Amanda Lear invites him to drinks at the St. Regis with Salvador Dal\u00ed, who arrives in a gold cape, announcing, \u201cDal\u00ed \u2026 is here<\/em>!\u201d Nancy Spungen offers him a blowjob in the elevator at the Chelsea Hotel.<\/p>\n

And yet as a catalogue of the city, recounted as the history itself unfolds, Twentieth-Century Boy<\/em> often has the feel of reportage, even if Hannah occasionally interjects with an awestruck \u201cWow!\u201d or \u201cThis is our music.\u201d The mythological status of various seventies landmarks\u00a0is summarily debunked. CBGB is a \u201cbiker bar at Bleecker and Bowery\u201d where the \u201cdecor is neon beer signs and giant blowups from bygone theatricals. Smells like dog poo.\u201d Hannah laments his cheap apartment with its \u201ctwenty-five thousand cockroaches\u201d and the toilet that never stops running. Most telling is Hannah\u2019s brief recollection of the legendary Times Square Show. An art exhibition held in the summer of 1980 and organized by a loosely affiliated collective known as Colab inside an abandoned massage parlor on\u00a0Forty-First\u00a0Street, this show is now widely credited as introducing the mainstream art world to a generation of scrappy artists, such as John Ahearn, Haring, and Jenny Holzer, who mostly worked on the street or in bars and subway stations. In Hannah\u2019s description, the exhibition is, quite simply, \u201ca chance for all of us to see what everyone else is doing \u2026 We only see each other at scuzzy nightclubs.\u201d These are reality checks on a decade for which there is seemingly no limit for nostalgia, and they are refreshing. Hannah\u2019s documentation further muddies history: throughout all of these events, the author is often inebriated to the point of debilitation, guzzling Pernod and Jack Daniel\u2019s and white wine and anything else a friend or acquaintance places in front of him with disturbing urgency.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Hannah in 1981 with the art critic Rene Ricard. Photo by Michael Markos.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cA lot of it was kind of painful,\u201d Hannah told me. \u201cIt was cliquey. It\u2019s not as though everybody liked each other. There were a lot of bad vibes. A night at CBGB\u2019s\u2014not all the bands were good, and not all the people were nice, and you wake up with a terrible hangover and couldn\u2019t really remember what happened. It was just kind of chaos in a way.\u201d<\/p>\n

As Hannah\u2019s book progresses in real time, there is a kind of foreboding awareness that the kind of life New York represented in the seventies\u2014a dirty Eden of three-hundred-dollar-a-month lofts\u2014was fleeting. New York has a tendency to endlessly devour its history and replace it with something shinier and more expensive, and Hannah seemed to have an awareness from a young age that just as the past decades were long gone, the one he was living in would soon be too. In April 1974, at another Television concert, Hannah spots a pale, weary figure who \u201clooked like he hadn\u2019t eaten in months,\u201d sitting at a cordoned-off table with a \u201cslightly chubby black-haired guy with a Long Island look about him.\u201d This turns out to be David Bowie and Marc Bolan (\u201cAlready past his prime!\u201d), \u201ctwo mods come to check out the New York underground,\u201d as Hannah describes them\u2014in other words, two geezers checking in on what the kids are up to. Later, in 1976, while reading John O\u2019Hara, Hannah eats lunch at Artists & Writers on West Fortieth Street, one of O\u2019Hara\u2019s old standbys, which by the seventies had become, as Hannah writes, \u201ca faded restaurant off Times Square. There\u2019s a dusty suit of armor in the corner. Try to imagine it in its heyday. It\u2019s hard to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hannah knew that his New York could never last, and the changing city would take Hannah\u2019s reckless lifestyle with it. There is no shortage of sex and rock and roll in this book, though most of it is viewed through the bleary eyes of a brutal hangover. (\u201cI thought it was kind of thrilling to treat myself as if I had no worth,\u201d Hannah told me. \u201cI could so easily not be here now.\u201d) In the book, detached realizations about his lifestyle\u2014\u201cReading about alcoholism in Time<\/em> magazine. I fit the profile\u201d\u2014give way to more intense reflection\u2014\u201cIf I admit I\u2019m an alkie, then I gotta quit.\u201d Eventually, Hannah winds up, after the collapse of a relationship, \u201cin a semi-comatose state,\u201d subsisting on vodka alone and declaring that \u201cif anyone was going to hurt me, it would be me doing the hurting.\u201d<\/p>\n

In 1980, he quits drugs and alcohol. On December 8\u00a0that year, John Lennon is murdered, and a final spiritual blow is dealt to the decade of Hannah\u2019s youth. In May 1981, a sober Hannah has his first solo show at a gallery, and with the onset of adulthood, the book ends.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I was seventeen, I didn\u2019t know I was an alcoholic, and by twenty-eight, I did,\u201d Hannah said. \u201cI kept thinking in my twenties, Well, maybe it\u2019s something else. Maybe I\u2019m crazy. Which was kind of appealing. I was drawn to a lot of self-destructive people, so in that regard I thought, You\u2019re probably doing the right thing. By the end, I thought, You\u2019re just not going to live that much longer. And l looked at the corner of my studio, and there was a stack of paintings. Not that many paintings. Fifteen maybe. And I was thinking, You know, if you die, that\u2019s it. No one\u2019s ever seen them, and it\u2019s not going to be like James Dean or something, where the whole country is in mourning. It\u2019s going to be the few people you know and your family. And they\u2019re going to go, \u2018Oh, what a waste.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Hannah’s original notebooks from the seventies. Photo by Jessica Purcell.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

But Twentieth-Century Boy<\/em>\u00a0is not really a book about addiction or recovery, though the presence of both provides Hannah with a narrative arc. It\u2019s more of a farewell to an entire era of decadence. Hannah sets out to become a serious artist, and despite his efforts at self-destruction, and much to his surprise, by the end of the book, he succeeds. \u201cSometimes I was surprised at how little I\u2019ve changed,\u201d Hannah said, on the subject of rereading his diaries. \u201cOther times, I would shake my head and think, God, what an asshole. But I was surprised how well it all worked out, in a kind of shambling way. You can have a plan, but then your plan doesn\u2019t work, and then something else happens. But just kind of inadvertently, the plan worked.\u201d<\/p>\n

As we were finishing our conversation, I asked Hannah if he still kept a diary, and he said he did, motioning to a bookshelf full of thick binders labeled on the spines with spans of years leading up to the present. The original diaries, the ones covered in the book, were sitting inconspicuously in a stack by Hannah\u2019s couch, beaten and tattered but still here, extraordinary remnants of a different city.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

M. H. Miller is a writer and the arts editor at <\/em>T: The New York Times Style Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  In the last decade, a cottage industry has sprung up around wistful recollections of New York in the seventies, from memoirs authored by people who lived through it, like Richard Hell (2013\u2019s I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp) and Patti Smith (Just Kids, which won the 2010 National Book Award for Nonfiction), […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1420,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[33267,1531,30419,12022,19654,33268,2553,852,9330,11066,670,54,10657,33269],"class_list":["post-122571","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-city-on-fire","tag-david-salle","tag-duncan-hannah","tag-fairfield-porter","tag-garth-risk-hallberg","tag-i-dreamed-i-was-a-very-clean-tramp","tag-julian-schnabel","tag-patti-smith","tag-rachel-kushner","tag-richard-hell","tag-salvador-dali","tag-television","tag-the-flamethrowers","tag-twentieth-century-boy"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nDuncan Hannah\u2019s Seventies New York<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"There is no shortage of sex and rock and roll in Hannah\u2019s diaries, though most of it is viewed through the bleary eyes of a brutal hangover.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/03\/13\/duncan-hannahs-new-york\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Duncan Hannah\u2019s Seventies New York by M. 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