Karl Bissinger

A Village Friendship

By Phyllis Eckhaus

I think what’s key to freedom is the belief—or more accurately, the illusion—of personal agency. I’ve often joked about what a great boon it would be to my mental health and happiness if I could start every day by losing—and then finding—a piece of my costume jewelry. Distressing as it is to lose something, finding it brings a sense of confidence, well-being, and an “all’s right with the world” conviction completely out of proportion to the loss.

But this fantasy lifehack seems like a frivolous lifestyle aid. It has none of the rootedly radical moral intensity of my late friend Karl Bissinger’s real-life hacks to maximize his sense of freedom.

Karl—who adored Samuel Beckett’s playful yet ruthless takes on the human condition—was himself playfully profound, a master of the subjunctive. “Work as though you had hope,” he would declare…and he embodied “live as though you were free.” An out gay man even with his World War II draft board, he made his own rules according to his robust and discerning conscience. Overcoming fear, he could make the grand pacifist gesture, inserting himself to bring a full military parade to a screeching halt or defying security to unfurl a huge banner on the White House lawn. He daringly risked decades of imprisonment by counseling Vietnam-era young men on how to evade the draft and overseeing an international underground network for troops fleeing the military.

Yes, Karl had privilege. He grew up white, male, rich and charming. He was a tiny man, yet handsome, healthy, athletically graceful, and physically strong, even in his nineties. I would be hard-pressed to ascertain how much of his sense of freedom he owed to privilege and how much to sheer moral bravery. But for sure, both propelled him to live a large free life, framed by conscience.

Karl never doubted he was supposed to matter in this world. And he never doubted I was supposed to matter, too. He loved smart women, and to him I was a gift, just as he was a gift to me. We lit each other up. And his regard made me more free.

We started going to movies together while we were both walking wounded. Karl’s last remaining best male friend was dying and my mom was enduring chemo. Then Karl—a connoisseur of ultra-discounted “comp” tickets—turned me into a theater junkie. To purchase tickets for a pittance and have Karl enthusiastically join me was a joy.

Karl got me over my kitchen trauma. My parents had mocked me whenever I tried to cook: “What are you clutching in your hot little hands?” they’d taunt, leaving me trembly at the prospect of someone watching and judging my culinary efforts. But I loved and felt comfortable cooking for Karl, who would come over for risotto and hang out, he wearing my slipper socks.

Karl mused how it was too bad we couldn’t have known each other when he was younger. “No,” I said, “You’d have been too busy going to parties. You wouldn’t have had time for me.” He acknowledged I was right.

Karl and I both yearned to be well and effectively used. Neither of us had conventional ambitions, a driving artistic vision, or the will to power. Instead we were both always on the lookout for the chance to make a difference. I thought of us as altruistic flotsam, hoping to drift into niches so fitting we would adhere.

In his prime, Karl excelled in emergency missions. He fetched Julian Beck and Judith Malina’s toddler from Brazil when they and their whole Living Theater troupe were jailed there for marijuana possession.

When I told Karl about a mystery bug that had so sickened me I had lain nauseated on my bathroom floor, he declared that “of course” if it happened again I would call him to come to my rescue. “Of course,” I agreed, lying. By the last few years of his life—we became friends in 1998 and Karl died in 2008—his rescuer days were over.

Karl yearned to merge art and politics. It’s part of why he loved Grace Paley, the Living Theater, the Bread and Puppet Theater, and Edward Albee, whose acidic takes on family power dynamics deftly transformed into critiques of American imperialism.

It’s also why Karl, once a famous photographer, would sometimes give his photographs away to a good cause. In the late 1940s, he had taken an amazing triptych of photos of avant-garde playwright Jean Cocteau, and the War Resisters League asked for prints to give to someone as a special gift. Karl, officially modest about his photography, handed them over. But when he learned the prints were moldering in the giftee’s drawer, he was so upset he sneaked over and snatched them back.

I wanted a Karl photograph but I was trapped between his airy pretense of modesty and my knowing the value he secretly placed on his work. When Karl needed pricey noise-cancelling headphones I bought him a pair and suggested he reimburse me with a photo print. At the time, he ignored my request.

Until Karl’s book, The Luminous Years, was published in 2003, the peace movement crowd had known nothing of his previous life as a famed jet-setting photographer. The only photo by Karl in evidence in his Westbeth apartment was unframed and unsigned, a shot of the French author Colette taped to his bathroom wall.

Colette—with her transgressive, sensual and exquisite prose and life-story—was an idol of Karl’s. He told me how devastated he was to arrive at her Paris apartment to discover she was stuck in bed, recuperating from surgery. Karl threw up his hands and told her English-speaking husband Maurice that there was no point in his taking photographs: he’d have to shoot from a distance, and his photos would look just like anybody else’s.

Colette did not speak English, but in Karl’s telling, she immediately understood and announced to Maurice that Karl was an artist and “we must accommodate him.” She let Karl rest his lighting equipment on her legs to allow for portrait shots.

In Karl’s bathroom wall photo she is looking straight at him, one artist recognizing another. One day I showed up and Karl had taken down that photo to give it to me, along with some of his favorite books. He casually remarked that it was a vintage print, developed in 1948, so if I should ever want to sell it, it might be worth something.

Now properly signed and framed, it has a permanent place of honor on my living room wall. As I sit on my couch, Colette gazes directly at me.

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This concludes part 2 of a 3-part series, which concludes in our November issue. Click here for Part III.