Clayton Riley 1935-2008
This isn’t one of those blogs where I bemoan the fate of
civilization because of the dominance of technology. I’m only observing our uneasy evolution
because of it. The internet and social
networking sites are continually upgrading ways for people to connect. (Yes, I
know it’s ultimately about making money.) And it seems to be working. But sometimes I notice that what may seem
like connection is such an awkward, discomforting thing as to be un-nameable. It’s
the difference between shaking hands with an old friend and shaking hands with
Robbie the Robot. Still…
What brings me to this is death…and James Baldwin, of
course. I recently tried to track down
an old friend, Clayton Riley, a playwright, director, cultural critic,
biographer, radio personality. Clayton
was a one person cheering squad for African American culture, a walking history
book of theatre, jazz and baseball. But
what I discovered was that he’d died in 2008. If I still lived in New York City
I imagine I would have known when it happened; although despite his
pre-eminence I can’t yet find a NY Times obit.
But surely I would have bumped into a friend on the street who would
have known.
Like the last time I saw Clayton…we bumped into each other
on West 12th Street and 6th Avenue. We stood for close to two hours talking about,
well, theatre, jazz and baseball. I told
him then I was starting work on a play about James Baldwin with our mutual friend Harry Waters Jr. He was ecstatic…but he was an ecstatic as a
person, made highly emotional by any bits of discovery. He said how long overdue such a piece was and
he thought I was just the one to do it because he felt I was respectful of
Baldwin’s brilliance, not afraid of his gayness nor cowed by his international
reputation.
In the same conversation he told me about some new recording
artist he loved, asked me about sales figures for my vampire novel, told me how
Long Island had changed in the previous decade, reported on the Yankees and the
Mets and wanted to know the last time I’d seen Morgan Freeman.
Back when I still lived in NYC I used to get up early and
trek down to WBAI to sit in on the radio show he hosted. It was always the most erudite moment in my
day. I’d bring in an album I thought he
may not know (Joan Armatrading or Alive) and we’d talk about the music, the
culture from which it sprang (British/Caribbean or feminist/jazz). There was no topic for which he did not have
a background story (tangential or not) which illuminated or expanded what you
thought.
He was one of the first of my friends to read my vampire
novel, The Gilda Stories. He started his
response with: “I don’t know much about vampires or lesbians.” Then chuckled as he said, “Except you, of
course.” He proceeded to give me
extensive feedback on the historical context of my book, the places where the
mythology worked or didn’t, how to better shape the ending and then asked if
there would be more sex.
We spent so many hours together in theatres I can’t walk
into one without thinking of him even now.
I toiled away at the Frank Silvera Writers Workshop to which he'd invited me, where I met my first playwrights. I worked on a production of his epic play, “Gilbeau,” (featuring the
magnificent singer/actor, Novella Nelson) as well as on a fantastic chamber
piece, “On the Lock In,” by one of his friends, David Langston Smyrl, which we staged at the Public Theatre and in clubs around
NYC. I began my theatre training with
him in those intense and fulfilling moments of rehearsal and production,
critique and commentary.
One imagines friends like this are just there, in the world
always. Clayton was a prodigious thinker and talker, rhythmic, funny, righteous,
who affected the lives and careers of a coterie of theatre folk (including
Morgan Freeman) who were haunting the boards in the late 1970s and early
1980s. The heyday of Black theatre was
waning but the energy and talent remained, in part because people like Clayton
were there to keep stoking the fire and encouraging us to believe in our talent
and worth.
So I discovered he’d passed on--four years late and am left
with a very empty space. There’s really
no way to connect with his family that has meaning for them; they have no reason to remember me from
among the dozens of people who followed him around to listen to his wild words
and share his ecstaticism. (Although I think of his beloved daughters and wonder if I'll bump into them one day.)
So I’m using
the internet to mourn. I’ve made Clayton a
research project, looking for articles by and about him, photos, anything to
help me think about who he was and honour our friendship. Sort of like a memorial service without the
overrun of homemade baked goods.
It’s difficult to imagine the upcoming reading of “Waiting
for Giovanni” without Clayton. I was so
excited to have him finally hear what had come of that long ago conversation on
the West Village street corner. But the
reading will happen, actually close to the anniversary of his passing. I’ll imagine Clayton standing at the back of the theatre,
his elegant, lyrical posture, one of his ubiquitous caps, a darting gaze and glittering smile, eager to give me
notes.
His
family created a fund in his name for students: Donations can be sent to the
Clayton Riley Theater Fund at Sarah Lawrence College, Bronxville, NY 10708.
Attn: Carmen Ashhurst. Susan, Norman & Mark Riley
