i had the great pleasure of finally meeting Spaulding in the early 90s during one of his book tours in Atlanta…it was particularly great for me because we got to spend time and talk about the creative process and he sweetly and patiently answered my questions and gave me sound advice I use to this day…What makes this situation all too familiar and hard is I lost my sister to suicide around that same time. and to hear that he most likely did that as well….its sure brings up alot of memories and feelings of that event I went thru…, my heart goes out to his family. Unless you have been through this yourself, you really don’t know what it’s like dealing with all the unanswered questions and the stress of it all…
I send my best to his family and want them to know how his creative gift has touched so many and how he won’t be forgotten, I wish this had never happend to him or to any of you, it is a sad senseless,tragic thing and I hope you get the closure and peace we all deserve in this crazy world. Again I’m so sorry. My sincere regards.
I hate to add a third comment, seeming obsessive, well that’s the gist of Spalding anyway—-I will never forget the image of Spalding at the Walker Art Center in the lobby before the show. It was as if the scruffy smaller appearing man in a plaid shirt had been morphed into some very tall Ralph Lauren (he had said people mistook him for Lauren). He was magnetic and glamourous. A bit of a hypomanic high? Perhaps. But before I had seen him in person, I didn’t expect a particularly attractive man and he was so great looking. I am so upset. The new Spalding book I had looked for will not come. I am so glad to have seen him in person twice, to have actually talked to him. He asked me the standard pre-interview questions and I was so nervous I didn’t come up with very creative answers. In Sante Fe, he asked me several “How long did it take you do get here?” I described the trip from Albequerque. I should have said, “all my life”…..I had so wanted to be up on stage, to be chosen. It’s like what Spalding may have said at points. Well, I won’t blog up this machine more. Thanks for the outlet and the laughter Spald.
I just read the news that they found Spalding’s body and I feel that I have lost a kindred spirit. I would delight in seeing him pop up in a movie and I saw him perform live in Houston every time he was here. My sympathies to his wife and children as they begin their lives without him. He will be missed and we can only hope that his soul is finally at peace.
Today, I went to get the news paper from the stairs – I usually don’t even bother with the paper – but today I leaned down to pick it up and saw a picture of Mr. Gray – I thought “oh! I love Spalding Gray – what’s this all about!” I stood there in shock – I stood there in the sun with the paper opened out on the stair reading every word of an obituary in complete shock. Mr. Gray was a big part of my life – a past part of my life – in a weird sort of way I always felt like I really knew him – like he was my friend – he was my hero for admitting to wanting to commit suicide – even trying – but always finding a way not to…and even now I understand I utterly understand.
I just heard the horrible news on CBS Sunday Morning. As a fellow Yankee also struggling with depression, I found myself drawn to his vulnerable, yet charismatic personality he shared with the world through his work. Spalding… I pray you found peace finally. My heart is broken.
I had the pleasure of presenting Spalding Gray at my studio theatre in Portsmouth NH. This was in the 80’s. He was touring small towns in New England with INTERVIEWING THE AUDIENCE. He came into town on the bus. I met him and we went for a drink. He told me about his mother’s suicide…among other more forgettable anecdotes. I was amazed by how he immediately directed the conversation to such a deeply personal level. That evening he told the same stories to the entire audience. He interviewed several audience members. He asked one gentleman why he had fathered so many children…the answer was…”I love the smell of their heads.” It was funny, and at the same time very moving…Spalding was certainly moved by the visceral tactile truth of this comment. Spalding spent the night at the home of a community member who had a child enrolled in our children’s dance class program. The next day was our big recital….tutus….sparkles…sugar plum fairies. He attended and watched the entire proceedings…sober as a judge. After the show he attended a barbecue with the parents and kids. He seemed so entirely non-judgemental about the happenings. Here he was, an avant-garde theatre artist hobnobbing with little sugar-plum fairies….no problem. I was touched.
When it was time for him to leave for his next gig…in another small New England town… I picked him up to take him back to the bus station. Instead he asked me to let him off at the entrace to the highway. He’d decided to hitch hike. I tried to talk him out of it but he insisted. So I drove away leaving him by the highway in his trenchcoat…holding his suitcase…thumb out….
An unforgettable character. I’m glad to have had the opportunity to spend a day in his company.
Marguerite
I first met Spalding Gray in a dorm room, on a Thursday night. I had just received my first good pot experience the weekend before and had just received my first A on an English paper. Having the room to myself, I hit the play button on the stereo, and Gang of Seven’s finest artist began to describe his experience of writing Impossible Vacation.
The monologue reared up and integrated itself into all of the positive things I have ever told myself about my writing. From that point, if someone didn’t like what I wrote, they simply didn’t get it.
I took Spalding Gray wherever I went, and like a rare moment in radio where a song they play over and over is a song that I could never get tired of, the listening of Monster In a Box became ritual, an affirmation of the best that I had to offer. I made my parents and girlfriend listen to it (the parents were big Garrison Keillor fans at the time), and they laughed and reflected the same way that I did.
Occasionally, you run across something that hits right home; you’re open to it. It’s hard to explain how you know when this phenomenon happens because its potency is dependent upon your own filters of perception. But it happens, and you are moved beyond understanding. It was like that every time I heard a monologue by Spalding Gray. I felt the same way every time I heard the comedy of Bill Hicks. Something significant happened.
My father committed suicide in January of 2001. While I knew that there was nothing I could do about this, in his remains was a receipt for a gas station in the town that I lived. I always wonder what would have happened if he had stopped by and sobered up. His depression was accelerated by alcohol, and he had just jumped off of the wagon. Would I have been compassionate? Would I have turned him away in his drunken stupor?
Dad was a great storyteller, and generally a very funny man. His group made its living earlier in his life sharing the stage with James Brown, Ike and Tina, and Bill Haley and the Comets.
Spalding Gray was the embodiment of my father.
When I visited New York City in 1992, my girlfriend and I broke up, and yet it was one of the best experiences of my life. I think Spalding would have liked that.
Spalding has been on my mind since the tragedy, and I wrote the following. I’m now in the process of re-reading his books and rewatching his monologues.I want to write more on the subject.
Thank you.
—————————————
ESSENCE OF SPALDING; FLYING TO NIRVANA
SPALDING GRAY
1941 – 2004
by A. F. Waddell
His words were real: life feeding back upon itself; his props were basic: a folding chair, a wooden table, a notebook, a glass of water, a microphone. Energy seemed barely contained under his brown-to-gray hair, suntanned skin, plaid shirt, and jeans. Wait. Did he wear cords? I can’t remember. As I recall, he didn’t often stand up.
I first became familiar with Spalding Gray in the 1980s. I remember asking the Waldenbooks clerk: “Do you have Sex and Death to the Age 14 ?” He checked his computer. “No. But how about In Search of the Monkey Girl?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Essence of Spalding: add a dash of the metaphysical, a splash of the karmic; drench it in psychology and sharp social insight/satire; pour in organic, personal, stream of consciousness storytelling. Spalding intimately shared his life experiences with us. I never had the opportunity to attend a monologue performance, but devoured his books and filmed performances.
I was a budding, inhibited writer: astounded by Spalding’s honesty, wit, lack of inhibition, style, and lyrical descriptive ability. I identified with him: a weak boundary issue no doubt; too many too easily invaded. It’s been said that psychotherapy kills creativity: not Spalding’s.
I was unaware of Spalding and Kathie’s 2001 car accident, until Spalding went missing in January 2004. I was totally shocked. His life must have been hellish after his injuries and surgeries. Managable pre-existing depression must have gone ballistic. How ironical and sad that he’d at last reached a contentment in marriage and fatherhood, only to have his life slammed by a van on a lonely Ireland road.
One January night I dug through my videos and found Monster in a Box. I’d not viewed it in years. I turned off the lights and lit candles. I was once again enthralled by Spalding’s energy and words. And I couldn’t get my mind around the fact that he was likely gone from earth — hopefully, flying to nirvana.
In the last few years I ocassionally searched for his web presence and found nada. I imagined that he was too busy with life and love and art to be concerned with the relative banality of flickering cyberspace. I however learned that shortly before his disappearance, Spalding and dedicated fan John Bolland discussed the creation of spaldinggray.com.
I may go the way of Spalding Grey
Plunged into the cold waters of the East River
Polluted waters filled his lungs
As his thoughts still sought questions
“To be or not to be?”, until the end
Was relief found, another place more fair and forgiving?
Can he see those that are grieving?
A goldfish trapped in a round bowl
Unable to touch the hair of his childen
Or does he commune with the dead
Debating issues with Socrates
Can this be the right choice, not to be.
Are we given another chance?
To ply our efforts to be yet again
In a place where the mundane is far away
And peace is found without judgement?
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i had the great pleasure of finally meeting Spaulding in the early 90s during one of his book tours in Atlanta…it was particularly great for me because we got to spend time and talk about the creative process and he sweetly and patiently answered my questions and gave me sound advice I use to this day…What makes this situation all too familiar and hard is I lost my sister to suicide around that same time. and to hear that he most likely did that as well….its sure brings up alot of memories and feelings of that event I went thru…, my heart goes out to his family. Unless you have been through this yourself, you really don’t know what it’s like dealing with all the unanswered questions and the stress of it all…
I send my best to his family and want them to know how his creative gift has touched so many and how he won’t be forgotten, I wish this had never happend to him or to any of you, it is a sad senseless,tragic thing and I hope you get the closure and peace we all deserve in this crazy world. Again I’m so sorry. My sincere regards.
I hate to add a third comment, seeming obsessive, well that’s the gist of Spalding anyway—-I will never forget the image of Spalding at the Walker Art Center in the lobby before the show. It was as if the scruffy smaller appearing man in a plaid shirt had been morphed into some very tall Ralph Lauren (he had said people mistook him for Lauren). He was magnetic and glamourous. A bit of a hypomanic high? Perhaps. But before I had seen him in person, I didn’t expect a particularly attractive man and he was so great looking. I am so upset. The new Spalding book I had looked for will not come. I am so glad to have seen him in person twice, to have actually talked to him. He asked me the standard pre-interview questions and I was so nervous I didn’t come up with very creative answers. In Sante Fe, he asked me several “How long did it take you do get here?” I described the trip from Albequerque. I should have said, “all my life”…..I had so wanted to be up on stage, to be chosen. It’s like what Spalding may have said at points. Well, I won’t blog up this machine more. Thanks for the outlet and the laughter Spald.
That was me, again, up there.
I forgot to say he had a white linen suit on at the Walker. It’s important to my image. Ok enough, I know.
I just read the news that they found Spalding’s body and I feel that I have lost a kindred spirit. I would delight in seeing him pop up in a movie and I saw him perform live in Houston every time he was here. My sympathies to his wife and children as they begin their lives without him. He will be missed and we can only hope that his soul is finally at peace.
Today, I went to get the news paper from the stairs – I usually don’t even bother with the paper – but today I leaned down to pick it up and saw a picture of Mr. Gray – I thought “oh! I love Spalding Gray – what’s this all about!” I stood there in shock – I stood there in the sun with the paper opened out on the stair reading every word of an obituary in complete shock. Mr. Gray was a big part of my life – a past part of my life – in a weird sort of way I always felt like I really knew him – like he was my friend – he was my hero for admitting to wanting to commit suicide – even trying – but always finding a way not to…and even now I understand I utterly understand.
I just heard the horrible news on CBS Sunday Morning. As a fellow Yankee also struggling with depression, I found myself drawn to his vulnerable, yet charismatic personality he shared with the world through his work. Spalding… I pray you found peace finally. My heart is broken.
I had the pleasure of presenting Spalding Gray at my studio theatre in Portsmouth NH. This was in the 80’s. He was touring small towns in New England with INTERVIEWING THE AUDIENCE. He came into town on the bus. I met him and we went for a drink. He told me about his mother’s suicide…among other more forgettable anecdotes. I was amazed by how he immediately directed the conversation to such a deeply personal level. That evening he told the same stories to the entire audience. He interviewed several audience members. He asked one gentleman why he had fathered so many children…the answer was…”I love the smell of their heads.” It was funny, and at the same time very moving…Spalding was certainly moved by the visceral tactile truth of this comment. Spalding spent the night at the home of a community member who had a child enrolled in our children’s dance class program. The next day was our big recital….tutus….sparkles…sugar plum fairies. He attended and watched the entire proceedings…sober as a judge. After the show he attended a barbecue with the parents and kids. He seemed so entirely non-judgemental about the happenings. Here he was, an avant-garde theatre artist hobnobbing with little sugar-plum fairies….no problem. I was touched.
When it was time for him to leave for his next gig…in another small New England town… I picked him up to take him back to the bus station. Instead he asked me to let him off at the entrace to the highway. He’d decided to hitch hike. I tried to talk him out of it but he insisted. So I drove away leaving him by the highway in his trenchcoat…holding his suitcase…thumb out….
An unforgettable character. I’m glad to have had the opportunity to spend a day in his company.
Marguerite
I first met Spalding Gray in a dorm room, on a Thursday night. I had just received my first good pot experience the weekend before and had just received my first A on an English paper. Having the room to myself, I hit the play button on the stereo, and Gang of Seven’s finest artist began to describe his experience of writing Impossible Vacation.
The monologue reared up and integrated itself into all of the positive things I have ever told myself about my writing. From that point, if someone didn’t like what I wrote, they simply didn’t get it.
I took Spalding Gray wherever I went, and like a rare moment in radio where a song they play over and over is a song that I could never get tired of, the listening of Monster In a Box became ritual, an affirmation of the best that I had to offer. I made my parents and girlfriend listen to it (the parents were big Garrison Keillor fans at the time), and they laughed and reflected the same way that I did.
Occasionally, you run across something that hits right home; you’re open to it. It’s hard to explain how you know when this phenomenon happens because its potency is dependent upon your own filters of perception. But it happens, and you are moved beyond understanding. It was like that every time I heard a monologue by Spalding Gray. I felt the same way every time I heard the comedy of Bill Hicks. Something significant happened.
My father committed suicide in January of 2001. While I knew that there was nothing I could do about this, in his remains was a receipt for a gas station in the town that I lived. I always wonder what would have happened if he had stopped by and sobered up. His depression was accelerated by alcohol, and he had just jumped off of the wagon. Would I have been compassionate? Would I have turned him away in his drunken stupor?
Dad was a great storyteller, and generally a very funny man. His group made its living earlier in his life sharing the stage with James Brown, Ike and Tina, and Bill Haley and the Comets.
Spalding Gray was the embodiment of my father.
When I visited New York City in 1992, my girlfriend and I broke up, and yet it was one of the best experiences of my life. I think Spalding would have liked that.
Grant Robinson
Did anyone catch the Fresh Air tribute to Spuddy?
“I’m not a nice person, Terry.”
What a refreshing look at life. I can be mean and still be myself.
Spuddy, you may think you weren’t nice, but you were nice to me. I don’t need more than that.
Hello everyone,
Spalding has been on my mind since the tragedy, and I wrote the following. I’m now in the process of re-reading his books and rewatching his monologues.I want to write more on the subject.
Thank you.
—————————————
ESSENCE OF SPALDING; FLYING TO NIRVANA
SPALDING GRAY
1941 – 2004
by A. F. Waddell
His words were real: life feeding back upon itself; his props were basic: a folding chair, a wooden table, a notebook, a glass of water, a microphone. Energy seemed barely contained under his brown-to-gray hair, suntanned skin, plaid shirt, and jeans. Wait. Did he wear cords? I can’t remember. As I recall, he didn’t often stand up.
I first became familiar with Spalding Gray in the 1980s. I remember asking the Waldenbooks clerk: “Do you have Sex and Death to the Age 14 ?” He checked his computer. “No. But how about In Search of the Monkey Girl?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Essence of Spalding: add a dash of the metaphysical, a splash of the karmic; drench it in psychology and sharp social insight/satire; pour in organic, personal, stream of consciousness storytelling. Spalding intimately shared his life experiences with us. I never had the opportunity to attend a monologue performance, but devoured his books and filmed performances.
I was a budding, inhibited writer: astounded by Spalding’s honesty, wit, lack of inhibition, style, and lyrical descriptive ability. I identified with him: a weak boundary issue no doubt; too many too easily invaded. It’s been said that psychotherapy kills creativity: not Spalding’s.
I was unaware of Spalding and Kathie’s 2001 car accident, until Spalding went missing in January 2004. I was totally shocked. His life must have been hellish after his injuries and surgeries. Managable pre-existing depression must have gone ballistic. How ironical and sad that he’d at last reached a contentment in marriage and fatherhood, only to have his life slammed by a van on a lonely Ireland road.
One January night I dug through my videos and found Monster in a Box. I’d not viewed it in years. I turned off the lights and lit candles. I was once again enthralled by Spalding’s energy and words. And I couldn’t get my mind around the fact that he was likely gone from earth — hopefully, flying to nirvana.
In the last few years I ocassionally searched for his web presence and found nada. I imagined that he was too busy with life and love and art to be concerned with the relative banality of flickering cyberspace. I however learned that shortly before his disappearance, Spalding and dedicated fan John Bolland discussed the creation of spaldinggray.com.
http://www.afwaddell.com/spalding.html
I may go the way of Spalding Grey
Plunged into the cold waters of the East River
Polluted waters filled his lungs
As his thoughts still sought questions
“To be or not to be?”, until the end
Was relief found, another place more fair and forgiving?
Can he see those that are grieving?
A goldfish trapped in a round bowl
Unable to touch the hair of his childen
Or does he commune with the dead
Debating issues with Socrates
Can this be the right choice, not to be.
Are we given another chance?
To ply our efforts to be yet again
In a place where the mundane is far away
And peace is found without judgement?
Writers and Depression
This was sparked by news of the January disappearance of Spalding Gray. Joho the Blog has more on Spalding Gray.Depression and the Writing Life