PAINTER DAVID REMFRY RUBBED ELBOWS WITH QUEEN ELIZABETH, AS WELL AS ANOTHER, EVEN MORE ILLUSTRIOUS QUEEN

The British painter David Remfry is justly famous for his delicate watercolor renderings of dancers in the act of dancing. His paintings are for the most part an upbeat, optimistic celebration of the vitality of life, and we were able to view several of his large, life-size canvases in what seems like their natural setting of his high-ceilinged, light-drenched studio at the Chelsea.

Among his many honors, we were most curious about one in particular: his status as a knight of the British Empire.  David says he hasn’t actually, technically, been knighted, just made a “Member of the British Empire,” which is one of the orders of knighthood.  But we’re Americans, and so can’t be expected to know the difference.  All we know is that the Queen showed up in person to confer the honor, and so we are duly impressed.

            As we were sitting down to talk with David, we noticed a small portrait of another famous British queen, the Naked Civil Servant himself, author Quentin Crisp.

Did you know Quentin Crisp when he lived at the Chelsea Hotel?

Yes, I did, though I didn’t live here at the same time, and I knew him before that too.  I was teaching a drawing class in London about 35 years ago, when I saw his picture in a book of available models.  I hired him and painted him.  He was a good model: he adopted impossible poses, but was able to hold them.  Years later, when I had a studio on 26^th Street, I called him at the Chelsea Hotel and asked him if he remembered me and if he’d like to sit for me again.  He said sure, on the condition that I buy him lunch.  Quentin loved New York.  He felt that everything is better here: the people are beautiful, and he could be flamboyantly gay and no one would bother him.  I used to take him to the Empire Diner on 10^th Avenue.  He was very frail and elderly by that point.  A woman name Bea Lyons used to play standards on the piano there, and one time she came to our table and asked Quentin if he had any requests.  “Yes, I’d rather you didn’t play,” he said.  The poor woman’s face fell when she heard that.  “I don’t mean to be unkind,” Quentin said, “but I just don’t like music.”

Tell us about your childhood.  How did you become interested in painting?

Do I have to?  I was born in Sussex, England, then after that my family moved to Calcutta, India for a time.  I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember.  Even from early childhood, I said I was going to become an artist.  I could simply think of nothing elsea I wanted to do.  No one in my family was an artist; I had no role model.  My parents never even took me to a museum.  It was all in my mind.  I was completely self-motivated.

Have you always painted in watercolor?

Watercolor is considered a whooses medium.  The watercolorists of the 17^th and 18^th century are unsurpassed, and besides, oil paint smells good.  I trained in oil, but got into water by accident.  What happened was that I contracted a viral illness called a sarcoid, and as a result developed the most chronic form of arthritis.  I couldn’t paint for 8 to 9 months; all I could do were little drawings.  But then this guy from LA called and said he wanted to do a show.  I did a mental calculation of what Americans were like and it didn’t include patience, so I decided not to mention my illness.  All I could do to was work in watercolor, which is less strenuous.  After that I was hooked.  It runs away with you.  I like the fact that lots of accidents happen in watercolor: runs and drips.  When I moved to New York, I started to produce larger works.  People here aren’t afraid of scale.  You see that sign on my wall?  [David points to a small bumper sticker that says “Say Yes”.]  I keep that there for inspiration.  It’s a very American sentiment. (Photo: David with his painting of Amy, the daytime phone operator.)

Tell us about your interest in dancing.

It’s a terrific vehicle to get people embracing, and a great metaphor for life and all kinds of things.  Principally for life—we often speak of the Dance of Life—but there is also the Dance Macabre, the Dance of Death.  Most of my work is upbeat, though when I lived in England it was a bit darker.  Club life in England is more violent than it is here, especially in the north of London.  [Ed. Note: David’s painting that hangs in the lobby represents a scene form a club in England.]

            Lately, I’ve been sketching in a place called the Triangular, which is a tango bar.  The Roseland used to be terrific, but I no longer go there.  Often I get people to dance here in my studio, which has proved fairly easy to do.  I pay people if I can, a small amount.  I feel people should get something, though of course I’m getting much more.  If they don’t want money, sometimes I’ll promise them a drawing, though in the end I might not want to part with it.  I’d rather just pay them. (Photo: David's painting of a few former residents.)

Were you aware of the Chelsea’s history before you moved here?

Yes.  A friend of mine named Patrick Hughes—he’s the artist who painted the oil of rainbows over the elevator in the lobby--lived here for 4 years in the 80s.  He said, “Don’t ever say I recommended it to you!”  I called Stanley and he said he didn’t take reservations, but we should just show up and he’d see what they had.  Caroline and I showed up at 10 at night with 18 pieces of luggage.  This was in 1995. Caroline, who is Irish, won a green card on the lottery, and so there was no reason to go back.  I got my green card much later through more traditional channels.

Does the Chelsea have a creative spirit?

It’s certainly very conducive to creativity.  I can see how people could be sidetracked by the energy, but I’ve never been happier.  It’s hard to say whether living at the Chelsea has affected my direction or output.  People ask me how they can become a painter and I must confess I’m at a loss as to how to respond to that.  I’ve always had the motivation to paint, no matter where I’ve lived.

Do you see more collaboration or competition at the Chelsea?

I don’t see either.  My interactions are more in the spirit of a passing camaraderie.  I run into the the painter Robert Lambert and the poet David Lintner downstairs and we have exchanges from time to time, teasing each other and such.  It’s not unlike a village.  You can engage if you want, but you don’t have to.

What was it like painting Bonnie [the night telephone operator]?

She didn’t dance, she just stood there.  But she has the most extraordinary face.  She said, “Better be quick, because I have an exploratory operation coming up.”  Sure enough, one day she didn’t show up for our appointment.  Caroline and I went to visit her often in St. Vincent’s.  While she was unconscious, the nurse said her feet were starting to turn in, so I bought her a pair of converse in gaudy colors so her feet could have some support.

            On the night of the fire [that gutted Bonnie’s room] we were on our way to the restaurant Beppe.  We could smell the fire and we meant to call from the restaurant and see if everything was OK but we forgot.  When we got back to the hotel we ran into [the photographer] Julia Calfee, wringing her hands and saying Bonnie’s killing herself with alcohol in El Quijote.  We went up to our apartment and found that the firemen had smashed in the door.  Luckily they hadn’t sprayed any water in the apartment, since I had several of my canvasses stored there.  After securing the apartment, we went down to the El Quijote and comforted Bonnie. (Photo: David with his painting of Bonnie, the former night time phone operater.)

What other Chelsea characters have you painted?

Dee Dee Ramone.  I tried to anyway.  He wouldn’t be still for long.  When he had had enough, he told me to come downstairs and look at a painting he had done himself.  When he opened his door the smell of acetone hit me so hard I had to take a step back.  I don’t know what he had been doing in there!  He had been gone for two hours, so the room should have aired out.  He had painted a sort of rendering of the hotel.  [Ed. Note: This was the painting that Dee Dee did for his novel, Chelsea Horror Hotel.]  It was terrible, but I didn’t want to say anything.  He had apparently had a falling out with the fellow in the guitar store downstairs, and so over his shop he had written the words, “Crappy Guitars.”  [David chuckles]

Any other Dee Dee stories?

One time Dee Dee was coming down the stairs screaming at the top of his lungs at Stanley Bard, and Stanley turns around and says, “Dee Dee, why are you yelling?”  And then Dee Dee started whispering.

            Another time, Dee Dee told me that he was mad at his next door neighbor [Ed. Note: luckily, not us!] and so he poured honey under his door in order to attract roaches.

What was it like being knighted?

[Ed. Note: as mentioned above, it was, technically, another sort of honor, but why quibble?]  Someone called me and asked if I would reject the honor if offered.  I said, no, of course not.  I stood before the Queen together with a bunch of people who were far more worthy than I.  It’s nonsense, it means nothing, but as long as you’re aware of that it’s great.  My father attended the ceremony, which took place a few years before his death, and I believe he was rather proud.

Do you still run up and down the Chelsea stairs for exercise?

No, I’ve gotten lazy, and now I just go to the gym.