Gerard Malanga Thrives on Solitude

NEW YORK—Gerard Malanga played a starring role in Andy Warhol’s happening Factory scene in the ’60s—often called Warhol’s most influential assistant, he silk-screened essential works, starred in and helped direct several films, and even selected the Pop supernova’s first motorized movie camera—but when it comes to his own work, he’s always preferred solitude.

Over the past four-plus decades, the New York–based polymath has amassed an extensive body of poetry, film, and photography, represented in two volumes—2001’s No Respect: New & Selected Poems 1964–2000, from Black Sparrow Press, and 2003’s Gerard Malanga: Screen Tests, Portraits, Nudes 1964–1996, from Steidl.

ARTINFO talked with Malanga about fame, collaboration, and the "studio" in his brain.

Gerard, you said in the Guardian in 2002 that Andy Warhol “got subsumed from the early 1970s by too many people with too many ideas of their own,” and you’ve also said that your own fame made writing poetry more difficult. Do you believe that writing and creating art are solitary endeavors? Or do you find yourself getting inspiration and support from the artists and writers in your life?

Actually I don’t equate one with the other. I wasn’t working with Andy in the 1970s. My association was earlier. I can only conclude what I observed from a distance. The dynamic certainly changed. Andy’s operation was run more like a business. In fact, it was a business. I don’t think Andy had a problem with that. He was in awe of power and I’m sure he felt quite comfortable with it. “Bringing home the bacon” was one of his favorite catch phrases from that time.

I don’t think my own fame—whatever that is—made writing poetry more difficult for me. As a close friend at the time, Rene Ricard, once said, “Gerard, your life is existing without you.” Well, that’s true. Succinctly put. It’s always been easy for me to retreat into other realities and experiences. I’ve never felt the need to have my finger on the pulse. I’ve always believed my writing thrives on solitude, but solitude is something you create for yourself. It’s by looking inside yourself that solitude can emerge. Photography, on the other hand, is a different dynamic. It’s extroverted by nature. You’re engaging with people, unless it’s landscapes you’re pursuing. I don’t shoot landscapes, and photography is certainly not a solitary endeavor. You’re only in one place at any one time, as you’re rapidly moving until the one still moment—that split-second even—when you’re taking the picture.

I’m at a point in my life now where I find little, if any, support from other artists and writers. But the few friends I have mean an awful lot to me, especially when death suddenly intervenes and a friend is plucked away except for the mementoes and memories. I grieved over the loss of my friend Mimmo Rotella, who died last year. He had a long life, and I was honored and humbled in his presence. Daido Moriyama is someone whose friendship I thrive on whenever we get together. He is one of Japan’s preeminent photographers and we share a lot in our photography together. We’ve even gone out on photo jaunts in Tokyo. It’s kinda like the way the Post-Impressionists used to set up their easels side by side, working off each other’s energy. Now that’s fun.

You’ve been extremely prolific over the years, and in a wide range of mediums: photography, film, poetry, etc. How do you balance your different pursuits? Do you have a number of different projects going at any one time, or do you become engrossed in one before moving on to another?

When I was younger I could handle doing more than one thing at a time, whether it was writing or taking pictures or filming. Now I find myself doing less of any one thing at the same time. Sometimes I’ll go for months on end doing nothing. That’s okay too. It allows me time to focus on what’s next to do. It’s recharging my batteries. I don’t really balance my activities. When I finally decide to engage myself in something I’ll usually stay with it until I can’t take it any further or there’s something in what I’m doing that tells me it’s time to stop. Sometimes it’s best to know when to give it a rest.