Cherry Vanilla

Norman Fisher collected art.  But, much in the way Andy Warhol did, Norman also collected artists.  And I was lucky enough to be among them.  He paid my rent a couple of times, and gifted me the first black cashmere Halston hoodie anyone had ever seen.  He also managed to pull me out of a deep, dark depression one Christmas by having an eight-foot tall, fully decorated, live Christmas tree, along with an overflowing basket of gourmet goodies, delivered to my fifth-floor NYC walk-up loft in Chelsea.  Not to mention my London punk-rock years, where I got to live in a gorgeous Victorian flat on Redcliffe Square, thanks to Norman's art-world connections.  

While hanging out at Norman's notorious Manhattan salon, along with an array of both starving and accomplished artists -- often including William Burroughs, Philip Glass, Lance Loud, Patti Smith, Richard Serra, Dickie Landry and more -- it would not be unusual to be seated on the sofa between the latest Vogue supermodel and some totally S&M attired creature, conversing from behind his full black leather mask, metal-spiked harness and nipple-piercings.  To say Norman's social circle was eclectic, would be to put it mildly.  It was the 1970's hippest and most exclusive collection of New York A-list undergrounders, gathering almost daily at Norman's busy buzzy penthouse high above Abingdon Square in Greenwich Village.  And I always felt so privileged to be included.

Though I inquired of Norman many times what I could do for him in return for his friendship and generosity, the only thing he ever asked of me was to introduce him to David Bowie, which I did, and that I occasionally recite for him his favorite poem of mine.