Richard Hell

Richard Hell first came to public attention in the mid 1970s as an originator of punk. His music albums include Blank Generation and Destiny Street. In 1984 he retired from music and resumed his original ambition, which was to write books. He is the author of numerous such works of fiction, poetry, essays, notebooks, and autobiography, including The Voidoid, Across the Years, Artifact, Go Now, Hot and Cold, I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp, Massive Pissed Love, and What Just Happened. He’s also co-author of several collaborative books, including, with songwriter and musician Tom Verlaine, the collection of poems Wanna Go Out? (published under the heteronym Theresa Stern), and with the artist Christopher Wool the book of image-texts Psychopts.

When Bob Dylan invokes Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud’s relationship in “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go,” it’s as the ultimate intensifier of a relationship gone bad. Paul Vaughn, assuming the role of Verlaine in Richard Hell’s novel Godlike, acts as the steward to sixteen-year old poetic “seer” T., this novel’s Rimbaud, as he spelunks the underground poetry scene of New York in the 1970s.

You have to see this show or you will regret missing it. I’m not aware of anything much like it at any time recently or otherwise.
Installation view: Christopher Wool: See Stop Run, 101 Greenwich St., 2024. Courtesy Christopher Wool.
Nothing is for sale and the exhibition space is a very large, abandoned, stripped-raw office deep in the Financial District. It’s a derelict, grungy, lightly graffitied, semi-unpainted vacancy on the nineteenth floor, alive with light from countless large windows looking out in three directions over the New York Harbor and some of the most historically significant land in the city. It’s like being a kid again.
Installation view: Christopher Wool: See Stop Run, 101 Greenwich Street, New York. Courtesy the artist.
I dropped out of high school to be a poet, so I needed to try to teach myself, by reading and writing, how to write. My first big insight was that poetry is metaphor (is that a metaphor?), in metaphor’s broadest sense—the evocation of something by invoking something else. Life is a dream, or death as sleep, and “even your shoulders are petty crimes” or “the hum-colored cabs.” Do those last two count as a metaphors?
Falling Asleep

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