In 1995, I moved to the East Village, in New York City, where I would sometimes eat by myself at the Cooper Square Diner, on Second Avenue. There I would occasionally see a fantastical, almost Edwardian-looking elderly person, often alone as well, staring straight ahead, chin up, and wearing a wide-brim fedora, billowing scarf, mascara, rouge, and a large brooch on his lapel. One time we were the only two diners in the restaurant, sitting close to each other, and I asked if he’d mind if I drew him in my sketchbook. “Not in the slightest,” he said. As I sketched, I would ask him questions, mostly to break the awkward silence, and I was a bit floored by his hilarious, thought-provoking answers, which I would transcribe onto the portrait. After I finished, he asked if I would pay for his lunch, which I gladly did, and with a slight nod, he left. The waiter asked to see my drawing and enthusiastically told me all about Quentin Crisp, his book The Naked Civil Servant (which I would promptly read), and his storied past. Over the next few years I would see Quentin around the neighborhood, and draw him from time to time at the diner. I would sometimes walk him to the deli so he could buy some tea, or escort him to his door, on East Third Street. “The safest street in Manhattan,” he’d proclaim, and then add in a low whisper, “because of the Angels,” gesturing toward the Hells Angels headquarters across the way. Every now and then I would spot him crossing Second Avenue against the red light, arm outstretched in front of the screeching, horn-blaring traffic. “Aren’t you afraid they might run you over?,” I asked one time. “They wouldn’t dare,” he said dryly. The last time I saw Quentin, in 1999, he looked more fragile than ever and seemed uncharacteristically worried about his health. He was about to go to Britain on a national tour and joked that he was afraid he wouldn’t make it back to his beloved East Village (which, prophetically, came true, as he died the following week in Manchester, aged 90). I walked him one more time to his door, and with one last nod of his head he was gone.
