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Leslie Barany, R.I.P.
Well, Les, I guess that’s that. Despite your ironclad constitution, your incredible resolve, your rock-solid willpower and your superhuman strength, you managed to do yourself in. Actually it was the cigarettes. But whatever. We met in ’94 when I edited Seconds Magazine. A publicist pitched me a Giger interview and of course I said Yes. Turns out you were his agent. Everything had to go through you. First we had heated discussions, then arguments, then fights, and it escalated from there. The project almost crashed but we managed to reach an equilibrium, and that Giger piece emerged as one of the magazine’s finest features. Steven Cerio conducted the interview. Eventually he became our art editor and a good friend of yours, despite y’all’s many fights. Regardless of our mutual pushiness and aggressiveness, you and I liked each other so we stayed in touch. You arranged for me to interview a number of your Barany Artists. You and I saw each another socially, ran into each other at openings, started hanging out, getting high together et cetera. Hey, remember that time when I was putting Marilyn Manson on a Seconds cover, and you said you’d get Giger to embellish the photograph, but you tried to substitute one of your hacks who you said was “Giger approved,” and we almost killed one another straightening things out? Nonetheless, we still liked each other, even more because we both relished problems and we both liked to fight. Well, before ya knew it, we were real good friends. We locked horns, sometimes viciously, whenever we were involved in the same project, but when the workday ended we re-entered our little mutual admiration society. Looking back I can honestly say that you helped me very much, turned me on to some useful people, and gave me some great ideas. As time wore on, we came to defend each other right or wrong. I defended you when you did some pretty sketchy stuff or picked some really unnecessary fights. Didn’t matter; in my book you could do no wrong. I’d come to appreciate your snarly, fearless demeanor. Needless to say, you backed me even if I did something super stoopid, which happened occasionally. Good friends morphed into great friends, which morphed into that kinda love only psychos understand. You were part of my inner circle. You understood my work and offered valuable insights. You were a real fan as well as a friend and I cherished that highest of compliments. I figured you were the cat’s meow and I dropped your name whenever I thought it would help me. I heard that you dropped mine now and then. When I was a contributing editor at Juxtapoz, we did a Giger cover story. Remember how that went? You insisted on selecting the cover image. Management objected. Your threats didn’t sit well with Robert Williams. You and I went to war once again. You lost that one, but you weren’t done yet. You threatened to sue over photo-credit issues. I actually backed you on that. We settled with the aggrieved parties, and you and I resumed partying. I don’t even hate you for introducing me to a particular hooker with whom I developed a long relationship that led to disaster. All I said was Please, Les, don’t introduce me to any more chicks. I think my favorite moment of our long friendship occurred the night you introduced me to Norman Spinrad, at Lit Lounge. Another great moment was hanging out on the Brooklyn waterfront at 3 A.M. with Robert Lund. And I liked dropping by your sister’s place when you were there. As an aside, I generally didn’t like your friends or most of your many clients. But I enjoyed observing you in action, seeing how badly you treated them, how you drove them and pushed them to their limits. You always came out on top. I loved that side of you. A real ball-buster. I was beyond flattered when it came time for you to put out your own book, Carnivora, and you asked me to be the editor. You assembled a fabulous talent line-up for that, a testament to your connections and conniving. We had a blast! You did some really big stuff. You worked with Hollywood. You worked with some of the biggest artists of the time, with museums, with Madison Avenue, everything. And internationally, to boot. You made a lot of money. You earned it! Les, you were a one-person bureaucracy, a fireball of fortitude, hilarious, smart, able to come up with the solution to any problem in an instant, and you were a ladies’ man, which is of major importance when I pick my pals. You were a perfectionist. I really miss you. I visited you frequently when you were getting sick, always buoyed by the prospect of an improvement that never quite arrived. I watched you fade and wondered where you got the audacity to defy convention and go on like nothing was wrong. Chemo treatments that would kill the average person didn’t seem to affect you. We continued going out to dinner, watching movies, arguing, like nothing was wrong. I’d never seen someone remain so positive while walking on thin ice. When I knew the end was near I remember kissing you, and how terrible I felt about the one-sided nature of that emotion. I remember when you went to the hospital and I would come up to see you and we talked as if your future was boundless, and I was like, “How does this guy do it?” I hope my own composure is as stiff when the Angel Of Death points at me. Then, just like that, you were gone in a cloud of smoke, so to speak. So long Les, it was fun while it lasted. Really! I am so proud of my daughter Christine, who did everything she could to help you in those dark hours, who managed your medical affairs and much more, who battled with experts, friends and family members in order to protect you. She hung out at the hospital with you during most of your stay. She slept there. When the final farewell was spoken, she held you hand. After all you did for me, I kinda feel like she was my way of repaying you, convoluted as that might seem. By the way, where were all your other friends at those moments? How about the ones who stand to cash in most handsomely? Were they holding your hand when you died? No doubt that from your current celestial perch you’re looking down and seeing several vultures, I mean friends, circling your considerable estate, salivating at the prospect of getting some scraps they can turn around and sell. In conclusion, I love ya and miss ya, and what a mess you left but hey your life was complicated so why shouldn’t its ending be as well? I don’t know if Goys are allowed into the Jewish heaven but if they are I’ll come and see you and we can pick up on one of those arguments that never really got resolved. Until then, rest in peace. Bonita Springs, Florida
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