DENNIS HOPPER: A REMEMBRANCE

Dennis and I met through a mutual friend, both of whom had an interest in emerging artists.  Dennis collected unknown artists such as Lichtenstein and Warhol, while our friend collected Johns, Stella and Bengston. 

On a particular summer day when we were both in our early thirties, we gathered in a patio bordering our friend’s tennis court and quaffed beer and ate nachos.  Dennis challenged me to a tennis game.  I was a moderately adequate player.  However I didn’t know that Dennis was a very good player. 

The game commenced and he played with a racket in one hand and a can of beer in the other whereas I, determined to do my best, smashed balls back.  I was a head taller than Dennis and in my hubris thought I could overpower him.  With laid-back insouciance, he commenced to take me down one set after another.   He never broke a sweat while I looked as if a waterfall had poured over me.

He forgave me for my lousy game and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking about art – never about film or the film industry.  It was another time and another place.