15 October 1977 (Hey Joe)

Sat. 15 October 1977

I must, I absolutely must sit down for a few moments and explain some of the things that have happened.

Last weekend T was in town. We spent a day together and my mind was really in another place. Why? Because I received a postcard from Tony. He was in town. I was so amazed. Seeing him was nice. I still love him an feel affection but it wasn’t lust. He may have felt that for me. When he was here I felt a stir but now that he’s gone, it’s out of mind. There’s a reason for it.

I saw him for the last time at the Eugene Hotel. I walked home and passed by a certain young man on the street. Now I have seen this beautiful slick walk by my new residence several times and Lukas or Rhone would call out: “Eva, he’s walking by again.” I never got a look at his face as he swiftly walked by – black leather jacket, black pants and shoes, black hair, white skin, a city person.

Well – here he was on the street and he said “Hi” and I couldn’t let him escape my presence. His name is Joe, 21, from the East Coast. He is really beautiful and I am dazed in his presence , even though I am not sure I have lust for him. But when do I, a-sex me? But he’s the best turn I’ve had in some time. There’s a note to this of course – he leaves tomorrow for SF – isn’t that sad? It’s hard to find American me who I like/ who like me.

(To be continued. I met Joe more than once. If you’re reading this, Joe, please find me. I have something to tell you.

All that black is something called “edgy” - marketed and pitched. But back in Eugene in the 1970’s, Joe was a stand-out. )

October 4 1977

October 4, 1977

You know that when I am ill I just don’t feel like writing a thing. I’m feeling better now. This cocktailing thing goes nowhere. I like the hours though. But I don’t believe this job will get me back to Britain.

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately – dreams seem to take place in Yugoslavia and Greece. They are nice dreams, all about lust and happiness from material things.

Tuesday September 25 1977

Tuesday September 25 1977

I get tired job hunting. I know I’ll get tired, working. I will start at AsiaGardens tomorrow. So I am staying in Eugene. I shall write everybody after the first night of work. That will determine how I really feel about it. I hope I will like it and be satisfied there. It would be good to work there for just now too because it is money. I understand that the tips are not thrilling. A lot of walking. Black skirt, white shirt. Gee, all I need is my black tie and I shall have one of my favorite outfits, so military. So stern.

Now I must: move into the house, get the couch from Mao House, get my stuff from Ashland, plus coffee, tea and stereo.

And think about what I ant to do art-wise. Do I want to paint? But then what about The Chelsea girls? What about drawing clothes for a store?

Listening to Velvet Underground. Go to the library a lot.

It’s already raining a ton in Eugene.

Asia Gardens was my first cocktail waitress gig as I had just turned 21. I felt like I was a throwback anyway, in a time-warp, suitable in bleached hair. I told myself this whole thing was happening in the 50’s and it was a way to survive and amuse myself too.

A friend brought up this Rodchenko the other day. I’ve looked at my steal so long, I had forgotten the look of the original. I used the same image for a cover of a fanzine I made in the early 1980’s in San Francisco called Bitchrock.

The word Bitchrock was called out at me in confusion by teenage Latino kids in the Mission. They threw rocks at me - but were not sure what to call me when they saw me up close and personal. “You…. Bitchrock!” was what they came up with.

Bitchrock had 5 issues and was eventually distributed by DJ avenues across the country. It was filled with record reviews and clubbing concerns. Places like the Stud advertised and supported this venture. At the time I worked for Aquarius Records and was their Independent/Punk buyer.

Note the cover was the "Love & Misery" issue! By 1982 I already realized that San Francisco promised much by its sheer beauty and in general, did not deliver. It is the place to storm the hills alone in the longing, not in the having.

People ask me if my collages and painting have ANYTHING in common. Yeah, there’s one thing - The Russian Avant-Garde.

Tornadoes 1, 2 and 3, oil on canvas, 30 x 40 inches

I painted them at the Art Students League of New York in 1986 or 87. 

Who knows why we paint what we paint. In the back of my mind was Kandinsky’s quote about the power of an angle meeting a circle, that it was like God’s finger touching Adam as painted by Michelangelo. Right.

I had a lot of fun painting them. They all sold to one collector and with that money, I took a trip to Greece - 3 weeks on the islands for 1600 bucks!

Anonymous Woman No. 11 and Target No. 58

These 2 pieces share the same source sheet, from a double page spread of Garbo. I used only a slice of her face for the Target. But I never threw away the other bits, which later provided the framework for the Anonymous Women piece. It’s my belief that only a girl from the sticks would create the AW; old, abandoned and haunted is where I am from.

September 24 1977 Continued

September 24 1977 Continued

And thank God I am leaving Granddad. I love my Granddad and yes, I still respect him. But he is getting worse all the time. He is old. I feel bad about the whole thing.  Before I moved here, I knew him in a distant sense. I knew he had old ideas but I was not confronted with them. He didn’t know my lifestyle either. I reckoned he saw me as his only granddaughter who went to a regular university.  And she was doing well at it. She had been to Europe to work. He must have had some respect for me. Now I don’t really know what he thinks of me, save unmarketable in the job market. He can’t understand why I don’t type. But the reason I am not marketable in Southern Oregon is not simply that I don’t type (and I do actually – my term papers). It digs down to my personality, my view of the world, the way I look, what I’ve already done, my sanity. But it was incommunicable to Granddad and it separated us as more time went on. Maybe I was around him too much. I really don’t know if he feels that way. He is alone for the most part. I think he thinks I am overactive – and I am. Well so what if I still drink coffee, sleep in ‘til 930, in bed at 3. So what if I paint my face and wear all black clothes when I am on the streets at night. So what.


He may have been old then but my grandfather would live another 15 years. I am grateful for every second I had with him. Here we are in Ashland around 1982.