That’s a crucial distinction. Now, the BPC has what you’ve described as a favorable real estate position. Without prying into anything that’s private business, how does the BPC differ, in any way that may help it survive?
We own the building; we’re built into it here. Having lived through the institutionalization of two of our anarcho-poetic institutions –- the St. Mark’s Poetry Project, living through creating bylaws with Allen Ginsberg, and then with the Nuyorican, changing from what had been called El Puerto Rican Actors’ and Playwrights’ Workshop in order to be an appropriate nonprofit organization –- I figured that the next move was to have a place that was a bar as well as a performance space and a workshop space and a school. The only way to do that was to play the game from scratch, and so I spent two years working in real estate and one year working in construction to get this place up and going. And now I get to be Poet Guy. The thing that is astonishing me the most is the way that the employees here have become major participants, as artists and also producers and promoters of events. There’s a lot of collective programming from the people who work here, and I think it’s a big ha-ha on the capitalist structure. They’re pouring coffee, and they’re running a sound system, and they’ve got job-jobs, and yet the job-jobs are at the same place where they do their own performances and book other acts themselves.
One of your bartenders once told me everybody who works here is a poet. Hiring people who are all engaged in the arts themselves, and who have a stake in the place -- that’s very different from the way a lot of other institutions work. Is it an exportable model?
I think the artists in New York City are a source of untapped wealth that the city needs to exploit. What this place does is say, “OK. You’re a poet; you’re going to be a bartender? Why not be a bartender at a club where they serve poetry?” But likewise, people say “Where are the art programs for high school kids?” The city’s cut them out. You know where they are? The art programs for kids are walking along the streets trying to get jobs, going to auditions, or painting their paintings in their lofts, and not having a gallery. An easy “do” would be to put the artists to work and let the schools be the beneficiary of their art. I worked for the CETA [Comprehensive Employment and Training Act] Artist Program in the late ‘70s, and I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing now if I hadn’t got the idea that there is a utility, in the society at large, in the arts.
I think an arts-based economy is a very American idea, and I think there are good reasons why the First Amendment in our Bill of Rights is the one about free expression. They didn’t hold that for later; they got that first. And yet the voice of Capital is saying, “Yeah, try paying the rent with that.” Those two principles are always at war in this culture: expression vs. Kapital.
This is the place –- this is why you’re doing this here. The Lower East Side is the place where we should realize the utopian ideals, and let’s see what happens. We’ve got all the artists here; it’s a great draw; for people who want to drop in and check it out, I hope we can exist long enough so that we can build those kind of bridges. That’s what the scene is learning from the horrific triumph of capitalism. We have a choice, as the Firesign Theater says: “You can live it or live with it.” Now, if we’re going to live it, then we’re going to become pawns in the system. If we live with it, it means we’re going to build bridges to it, stay as much as we can true to our own beliefs, but let everyone know that they’re invited in to the Bowery Poetry Club at any time to come and see what’s going on. I do care that it’s accessible, because I think that once people have an opportunity to see what goes down, it’s going to be hard to go back to sitcoms. I agree that the concept of a poetic economy seems absolutely alien to Bush economics, and yet I relish the chance to fight this battle. We’ve got a great support system, and this place will not sell out, because we’ve got the building. And I’m hoping that the neighborhood as a whole can throw off the chains. (That’s a pun.)
I think the real danger for the East Village is, there might be a lot of people moving in here who don’t understand the need for wildness. They don’t mourn Hunter Thompson. They don’t mourn the ‘60s culture. There’s something there to preserve and capture.
I’m with you there. I live in Tribeca, but I spent many years here, and my roots are here, and I’ve never lost a connection with here. So, to me, this is the place. This is where it happens, where we’ve thrown out the anchor for the Poem. It’s not moving, in the midst of all this transience; it’s holding on to the values that may not seem to be the values of the culture at large, but in fact are the essence of those values. The individual imagination and the flesh are not spoken of in polite conversation, but they were the reasons why this country was founded. They are built in to the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, and if they’re not to be expressed and lived on a daily basis, we’ll have lost the soul of the country. So it’s a big deal for me that this place exists. At the same time, if it ain’t fun, it ain’t worth doing. And that’s why the invitation is extended to come on over and hang out. It’s fun.
That’s great; and in inviting in people who may be new here, what would you describe to them as the things to try to pick up if they’re going to live here, and live creatively here, and accept that invitation in the best sense of it?
I think there’s a sense of openness, of exploration, of not putting yourself in the center of the world, but instead, putting the world in the center of yourself. As Gwendolyn Brooks said, “Conduct your blooming in the whip of the whirlwind.” Take the time to smell the poetry!
