A Year On Earth With Mr. Hell

By Young Kim

A controversial but highly acclaimed memoir by writer Young Kim, A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell, traces her intense relationship with pioneering punk rocker

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fashionbeast Editions
• Release date: Feb 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985378115

Book preview

1

It was quite cold. Cold enough for a shearling coat. I wondered if he would be waiting outside the restaurant. Lurking would actually be a better word, a word he often used to describe himself. He had a curious practice of waiting outside a place instead of waiting inside, sitting at the bar having a drink or something, as most men I knew would have done. If he had been smoking, that would have made sense. But though he did smoke, I never caught him smoking as he waited. I had a theory from the beginning about why he waited, and smoking had nothing to do with it. If I was right, he’d definitely be waiting around, looking shady.

Though it was only 9:35, the streets were almost empty on this Thanksgiving Eve, so I had a clear view. As I walked the last block from the opposite side of the street and approached the Knickerbocker Bar and Grill, I saw he was there, half exposed under a pool of light from the restaurant’s awning, in a flapping coat cut like a trench, creating a kind of sweet seaminess that made me suppress a smile behind the rust-colored fur of my coat collar. Our eyes met and lit up as I neared him. He gently led me away from the light, leaned over, and started to kiss me hungrily, while clasping me closely and bending me back. I want to kiss you on the lips, he had written the day before. The odor of cigarettes bothered me, but somehow its repellent nature perversely made it more erotic.

I started to go into a series of pleasurable little shocks with each flick and probe and lick, and the thrilling searing shot through my nether region as it went wet. It reverberated through my entire body and I thought, for once in my life, that I might swoon. I was grateful for his strong grasp. When it ended, I felt beautifully shell-shocked and walked carefully and slowly around to the entrance of the restaurant, as I felt I might collapse. He shyly apologized for mussing my makeup. There wasn’t much to worry about, I reassured him. I had deliberately not put on a strong-color lipstick, so that it would not leave a telltale mess. I had anticipated all this. You look beautiful! he whispered delightedly, and gallantly opened the door for me to enter. Opening doors was new, and I definitely noticed. Our encounters before had only been just

that—casual,

friendly, with practically no acknowledged

flirtation—and

a display of rather poor manners on his part compared to what I was used to from other men. This was the first night to promise more, and he obviously knew what to do to make it happen. After all, he was no tyro in seduction.

The restaurant was practically deserted but warm and cozy, as he had predicted. It was softly dark but not so dark that you couldn’t see or read things. Just a warm, friendly dark. A darkness that would leave you alone but didn’t abandon you. Christmas decorations were already

up—strings

of fairy lights and a giant artificial tree. Not a conifer but a kind of gnarled oak. Still shaky and feeling weak, I let him lead the way. He pointed to a horseshoe-shaped booth to one side and declared that he loved sitting in booths. When he glanced over questioningly, the proprietor of the place, who knew him well, nodded for him to take it.

I unbuttoned my coat and casually revealed my dress to him: panne velvet with an Art Nouveau-style print in burnt orange, black, white, pink, and pigeon grey that a friend who had grown up in Moscow had crowed was like a Russian fairy

tale—

Baba Yaga

.

It had puffed half-sleeves, a peplum, and most

important—which

I knew was a deliberately suggestive

touch—a

long exposed zipper with a big glossy silver pull down the front of the dress from the neck to the hem at my knees. I wore heels that looked like they were covered in gold leaf to match it and the coat, and a pair of clicking and glittering earrings shaped like dark red blossoms and leaves.

Little did he know that I had enjoyed thinking about all this for weeks, checking the weather and planning everything down to my lingerie and a bath with scented salts. I piled the coat and a little shopping bag with a gift for him from Paris at one end of the banquette and slid down to the middle to sit close to him. The booth was big enough for six. He got up and put his coat on the pile as well and then sat silent, contentedly looking at me. For his benefit, but also to check that nothing was seriously amiss, I took out my mirror and slowly reapplied the red-orange lip gloss. The same red-orange echoed through everything from my nail lacquer to my underwear. My favorite color.

The waitress, an efficient-looking woman, came over and handed us the menus and offered water. She mentioned it had been very busy earlier and that because of that, a couple of things were no longer available.

The service is one of the things I love about this place, said Richard. "I haven’t been coming here that

long—only

the last six or seven years. I like it, and it’s quiet. I asked when I called to reserve what time it would be quiet."

It reminds me of a restaurant in the Catskills or something like that.

Really? The Catskills? I think it looks like old New York.

Maybe. I haven’t been there since I was a small child and I only went once or twice, but it’s my idea of what the Catskills are like. Old-fashioned, especially with all these lights and that tree.

I don’t know about that tree, said Richard, casting a doubtful look.

Oh, I don’t mind it.

Would you like a cocktail? he asked happily. I don’t normally drink cocktails because I find them too sweet. I also lived with a European oenophile who couldn’t handle hard liquor (he would literally go

insane—jumping

up and down, pinching people). But I like the tartness of margaritas and it seemed not joining in would ruin the festive mood, so I agreed. The drinks came quickly. I took my time sipping mine, finally starting to recover. Gazing at me, he said, I want to kiss you again! My mouth dropped open slightly; I’m not comfortable with public displays of affection. But I’ll have to control myself, he added, ruefully.

He brightened as he opened the menu. What should we have?

You can get a steak but I don’t want a second one. They’re too big. You’ll just have to give me a bit of yours. The last time we’d come, I’d been aghast at the size. You’re so royal! he teased. You’re too proud to take leftover steak home?

I laughed. Besides that, I’d like some vegetables. But you go ahead and decide. He studied the menu. Do you like oysters?

I love oysters, I replied. I love the taste, but they also represent something romantic to me, not just because they are known as an aphrodisiac but because I love the whole ritual of sharing a platter of them and dropping the quivering flesh down one’s throat.

We settled on steak with creamed spinach, and broccoli instead of potatoes. Neither of us liked potatoes much. "I hope it isn’t too much

food—we

don’t want to be too full, he mused, and gave me a meaningful look. How do you like your steak?"

I like it bloody.

Good, I like it rare too.

He waved the waitress over. So, we’ll start with a dozen oysters. What kind do you have? The waitress told us there were Bluepoints from the East Coast and Humboldt Gold from the West Coast. One was briny, the other sweeter. Richard pondered. Why don’t we get half and half? I suggested. How do you want the steak? the waitress asked. Rare, he answered. Bloody! I piped in. The waitress took the order. Everything was fine.

The oysters arrived with a basket of sliced white bread, a plate with lemon wedges, and a small bowl of vinegar and shallots. Should I put the lemon on? he asked. I smiled as he squeezed the lemons one by one with gusto onto all the oysters, then piled all the rinds onto the plate. Like many men, he was careless with his shirt cuff. It skimmed dangerously near the oysters. I gently folded it back. You don’t want it trailing into the food. He made me laugh by energetically rolling up both his sleeves to the elbow. You don’t have to do that! I protested. He looked like he was about to wash the dishes.

I tipped one into my open mouth. It was delicious, but we needed white wine. I’d like some white wine.

Yes, I’ll have what you’re having, he said. I knew he wasn’t a big drinker. Alcohol doesn’t mean the same to me anymore, he’d told me. But I have a surprisingly strong head and I like a good buzz. I was going to order a bottle. I chose a Pinot Grigio and we picked off the oysters one by one, washing them down with the cold wine. There were thirteen instead of a dozen. When he refused to take the last one, I placed it on his plate.

The enormous steak arrived soon

after—nice

and bloody, on a big bone. There was a bowl of creamed spinach, and in another bowl was what looked like an entire head of broccoli cut into four enormous pieces. He served me some of the steak and I chose a piece of broccoli. It was simple but very good. Staring at me, he exclaimed with feeling, I could eat you up!

We started talking about art exhibitions in town. I hadn’t had time to see much except for the Picasso show behind Gagosian’s bookshop on Madison Avenue. Maya Picasso’s collection, presented by her daughter, Diana, whom I knew. What period is it? he asked.

It’s from the thirties to 1971, a couple of years before he died. But it’s mostly thirties, which is my favorite period. Every work is amazing.

My favorite period is Cubism and then toward the end, the period with Jacqueline. He pronounced Jacqueline in the American way: JACK-el-en. It took me a minute to understand.

"Ah, Jacqueline," I said, pronouncing her name in the French way: Zhack-LEEN.

Oh, is that how you pronounce it?

Yes.

There is also the Agnes Martin show at the Guggenheim.

I didn’t have time to see that, but I saw it in London. It was excellent.

I just found a book at home about Picabia and I’ve been reading it.

Oh, that’s right. The Picabia show just opened, didn’t it? I want to go see it, but I haven’t had the time. I’ll see it when I get back. I saw the show in Zurich already, but the pictures in the press of the MOMA show look different, and really good.

You saw it already? He rolled his eyes. It was funny and somehow endearing to sit with someone who didn’t travel much. Most of my

friends—gallerists,

curators,

artists—travel

constantly internationally, at least between the US and Europe. It is normal for me. I didn’t know it was a show that originated from somewhere else.

Yes. But I don’t think the show is exactly the same here. Superb artist, Picabia. And an artist who has come into fashion only relatively recently.

He was a real nihilist. These Dadaists. They were into Nietzsche, which you might not have expected, Richard explained enthusiastically. He loved nihilism. After all, his Blank Generation was the ultimate nihilistic punk anthem; it had inspired Malcolm and led to the Sex Pistols’ version of the idea, Pretty Vacant.

Yes, well, they’d lived through the horrors of the First World War. That’s why they created Dada, a nonsense word. But he was also known as a prankster. I loved that about Picabia. Malcolm had been a prankster and troublemaker too. "I love his film, Entr’acte. Have you seen it? You must have."

He wrinkled his face, thinking. What’s it like?

It ends with a coffin speeding down a road with a crowd running after it, and when it falls to the ground, a man pops out with a wand and taps each of the others and makes them disappear. It was made with the filmmaker René Clair.

"I think it sounds

familiar… Picabia… he’s

fascinating. Yes. He did many things.

Hmmm… maybe

that’s it! I don’t think I told you this, but The New York Review of Books asked me to write for their

blog—they

have all their writers write for it."

That’s wonderful!

"But I have to find a subject. Maybe I should write about Picabia. Do you like The New York Review of Books? I love it."

I’m aware of it, of course, but I haven’t read it that often, to be honest.

You have conservative taste in literature, don’t you? As a writer and poet, he was much better read than me in the realm of literature.

Yes. I read mainly nonfiction. I don’t read much contemporary fiction. I like the classics, like Victorian literature. More recent is probably the Ian Fleming James Bond books, which is not recent at all. The only contemporary fiction writer I really love is Ian McEwan.

Allen Ginsberg used to live in my building, but no one really talks about him anymore. He was so big in the past. I remembered that Richard had introduced Malcolm to Ginsberg, thinking he might be able to help with Sid Vicious’s murder rap. The photographer Bob Gruen had explained this to me when he showed me a picture he’d taken of Malcolm with Ginsberg at an event they were all at. Ginsberg had a lot of experience with the law, and in fact sent Malcolm to the famous criminal lawyer William Kunstler, whose grandchildren I had gone to school at Yale with.

There was a show at the Pompidou last summer about the Beats, I said. And he was an important part of it, with Kerouac and the others, as you can imagine.

I used to like Isak Dinesen years ago, but when I read her writing again later, I didn’t like it as much, Richard said. I’d told Richard I was returning to Kenya for the holidays. My friend Dodo, whom I would visit, lived in Karen, a suburb of Nairobi named after Karen Blixen, Dinesen’s real name.

I know Peter Beard a bit, I offered. I knew Richard would know him. Peter was a famously glamorous man, and a friend of Isak Dinesen’s toward the end of her life.

"He was hanging around Carole Bouquet when we made the film Blank Generation."

"Yes, I know. They had an affair. I met him in Paris when he picked me up at a museum. So charming."

We turned to films. "I saw The Love Witch when I was in Denver for the weekend. I couldn’t believe it was already playing there," I said. It had just opened the past weekend but he had told me about it earlier, as he’d been to a press preview screening and really liked it. I trusted his taste and there had been a good review in The New York Times.

You saw it already! It was playing in Denver? What did you think? Richard asked, surprised.

"Umm… I’m

not sure. Interesting. I guess it’s very Russ Meyer. I thought it was well done but I didn’t particularly like it. I found it rather ugly. All the characters. I know it is deliberate, but it’s not my thing. It’s very lurid."

"Yes, Russ

Meyer… and

‘lurid’ is a good way to describe it."

Do you know Malcolm tried to make a film with Russ Meyer?

"Yes, Who Killed Bambi?"

"That’s right. There is a passage in one of Meyer’s

biographies—it’s

hilarious. I showed it to Malcolm and we laughed together. Apparently they were both on a flight and Russ Meyer refused to sit near Malcolm because he was wearing bondage trousers and he felt that if there was any turbulence, he’d get all tangled up in the straps!"

As the meal wound down, he looked at me seriously with concerned eyes and said, We were going to talk about certain things. I looked back at him evenly and answered, I don’t think there is anything I need to tell you. I think I’ve told you everything I need to since Sunday, unless you want me to elaborate.

"I have a

girlfriend… What

do you think?" he asked.

I don’t care, I answered with a big shrug. Malcolm had a girlfriend when I first met him. Why should I care? I thought. And if I did, why would I be sitting here? I think she might

care… but

that’s not my business or problem. I didn’t feel any guilt. I hadn’t been the one to start the flirtation. He was the one who had been auditioning, as he’d put it. Plus I didn’t know what kind of arrangement they had. Presumably she was the one responsible for breaking up his twenty-year marriage. I had met his former wife, a lovely woman. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking at

him—a

man I was ready to sleep

with—to

be a potential boyfriend. Actually, I wasn’t sure what I wanted, which was unusual for me. I was intrigued and just wanted to enjoy myself. Richard promised an exciting erotic adventure. Don’t worry, I reassured him. There are no strings attached.

He seemed satisfied. The waitress brought us a dessert menu but we waved it off. I brought some chocolate from Paris anyway, I mentioned. It always takes me forever to eat anything. I’d bought several bars just before I returned to New York a few weeks earlier and I’d hardly made a dent in even one. You think of everything! he remarked. He asked for the check. When the waitress brought it, he held up his hand and insisted on paying. Though I consider this normal and to be

expected—I

certainly have never been on a date with a man, even when I was a student, and

paid—I

was moved by the grand gesture. It was a grand gesture from him. We’d always split the bill before, and I knew it wasn’t an insignificant sum.

Outside it was even quieter than before. Eerily quiet for Downtown New York. We walked down the street toward his place. I had made it clear I didn’t want to bring him home with me. I explained that the staff in my

building—all

male, macho and

old-fashioned—could

treat a single woman with a lack of respect. I’d had a few unpleasant and unwarranted experiences since Malcolm died. If I looked loose, it could get worse. What a woman would understand right away seemed difficult for a man to fully appreciate. Without thinking, I slipped my arm into his and drew up tight to him as we walked across the avenues. There was something about him that pulled at my heartstrings.

I knew he lived in an old tenement building where a lot of poets had lived. I’d lived in a similar one, years ago, when I was trying to save money after I left law school, before I moved to Paris to study fashion. My father had helped me move in my few things. When my mother asked him what it was like, he’d replied, Nothing special. Talk about an understatement. Richard’s building was predictably decrepit and a fourth-floor walk-up. In spite of his smoking, he clambered up the four flights with no problem.

You’ve probably never seen an apartment like this, he said, as he opened the door, with a bathtub in the middle of the kitchen. He was right. Even in the place I’d lived, the bathtub had had its own

room—fortunately,

as I’d shared the place with two guys. But there had been no sink in the bathroom. We brushed our teeth in the kitchen. He loved his apartment, he said. It was an oasis in the city. He’d lived there for decades, a few years after he first moved to New York, probably around the time I was born, and as far as I could tell, he’d never done anything to it. Plaster and paint were cracking everywhere.

But what did I care? As long as the bed was clean, and nothing crawled on me, it didn’t really matter. Anyway, it was tidy in its own way: neat rows of spices and condiments on the kitchen shelf, towel hanging where it should. No clutter. I could tell, too, from the number of windows, that there would be plenty of light during the day, and decent air circulation, a rarity in any big city.

The kitchen led into a small sitting room. There was a love seat next to the entrance of the bedroom with a card table in front of it that held a hardcover book on Francis Picabia. Opposite, against the wall, was a small table by a window for eating or writing. At a right angle was a door that led to another small room. The last wall was entirely lined with bookshelves, as was one wall of the bedroom.

I took off my coat and put it down on the table. Taking the small plastic shopping bag, I pulled out a large white paper envelope marked Charvet. It was from the most exclusive men’s tailoring shop in Paris, on Place Vendôme. I looked at him with anticipation as I handed it to him, instructing him to open it. He pulled out a fine white muslin handkerchief bathed in my perfume. A hanky! he announced. The word was so colloquially American, and so far removed from Place Vendôme, that I was taken aback by amusement. He started to laugh as it shook open and he could see the word dirty, in neat cursive, written with a hot pink marker with his initials noted in the bottom corner. It was a word he liked to use. Not only because he reveled in it, but also, I suspected, to provoke me. (He’d stressed that he loved dirty sex, assuming mistakenly that I was easy to shock.)

Reviews for A Year On Earth With Mr. Hell

[Eric Shaw · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Beautifully written, and a profound found peek into a unique world rife with culture.