I was maybe a bit of a bad girl at the time but I still had my innocence. I was 23, flatchested but with hips, rocking sexy librarian glasses and logger boots. Very little makeup and lots and lots of cash in my pockets. Easy come, easy go. You know the way.
I loved him, the way all little proteges love their mentors, the way every little sparrow loves the hawk. He was bad, too, and dark and so, so smart. He was tall and pithy and often wore things shredded and stitched by his own hand. He was tres punk rock and we kept running into skulls again and again and again. Buckles. T-shirts. Paintings.
This was years before the beauty of Dia De Los Muertos caught me, and the imagery, with its starkness and potential for pretension, meant little. So I asked him, ‘What’s with all the skulls?’
‘Well,’ he said, with one of his classic nonplussed bon mots, ‘First we had the bomb. Then we had the hole. Now we have the virus.’
And it was just one of these moments that we all have, that I cannot explain to you but you know all about anyway, when a few words distill down the essence of our absurdity, our futility, and our relentless joy in the face of it anyway