Winter of 1974. I was sharing a gloriously spacious and sunlit flat in the center of town on the Brouwersgracht (Brewer's Canal) with my best pal Bob (a/k/a Bobolink). A workmate of Bob's had suggested that he set up a dinner party for her friend Derv to meet Bob, as she thought they'd hit it off.
Derv, bewhiskered and bespectacled, showed up with his kinda/sorta boyfriend. This was Djzak. The above photo not only makes it clear what a beautiful man he was, but also obviates my telling you, Dear Reader, what came next.
But I do want to tell you about the next time I saw Djzak after that early December dinner party. (and by the way, I don't think Bob and Derv ever saw each other again)
Bobolink was off somewhere for a couple of weeks. Christmas eve evening and I'm snug up in the loft bedroom up above the kitchen at the back of the house. All was calm. All was bright. I'm reading a book. It's quiet. Then, from the front of the flat, the faint sound of the bell that hung outside our front door. In jammies and bathrobe I scurry down.
I fling the door open just as Djzak is leaning in to try the bell again. Fortunately, his reflexes are good and no one collides. We stand there in the golden light of the lamp over the entry hall and simply look at each other. The pure, white-hot connection we instantly and compellingly make with each other feels both celestial and deeply grounded.
The big, high-ceilinged front room I hadn't heated. So I invite Djzak up to my bed in the loft. All my previous lovers had been years older than I. Djzak is just six months older. He was born under the sign of Scorpio. Pale blue eyes and blond hair. Djzak had a beautiful swimmer's body. And a golden heart.
But first, we talk, speak, converse. He loves speaking English and he's good at it. Meanwhile, I'm usually determined to speak only Dutch whenever feasible. This time I'm happy to use any tongue. And how.
Turns out, we both love Ella Fitzgerald. As evening turns to night, there's music in the air as we sing along with Ella, crooning, How high the moon... I have a fresh traditional kerstbrood (Christmas bread) -- sweet bread made with lots of raisins and a heart of marzipan. Sweet butter. Constant Comment Tea and chocolates and a cabernet. All this and mighty fine lovemaking, too.
Late in the afternoon the following day, Christmas Day, we finally climb down from the loft, bundle up, and venture out into the chill and fading light to wander blissfully around the neighborhood. And, just because we can, that evening we switch locales and spend the evening and night at his place.
This lovely interlude was the start of a ten-year love relationship. We stayed crazy about each other for such a wonderful, long time. And after our relationship as lovers that spanned years, we became loving friends.
Isaac created beautiful and useful things all his life. We shared a love of making theater, on stage and on the streets, and we were fearless. On the last day of April in 1980, when Princess Beatrix was ascending to the throne in The Netherlands, there was already a humungous outdoor party all across Amsterdam because April 30 was Queen's Day. That's the day when everybody comes to town and spreads out a blanket along the canal, either to hold a rummage sale or to host another plein air picnic, the wine flows copiously, and there's lots of food. People sing together!
And sometimes, something happens that seems like theater but maybe it isn't? Isaac and I planned a very moveable action in response to the extreme police presence through the city to keep protesters shut out of anywhere the new Queen might be.
Thus, Isaac was dressed as a gay punk protester wearing a big shirt painted with "We're ALL Queens!" I'm dressed as a policeman from top to toe, a beautiful costume made by Isaac that he poured me into for maximum effect. I've got him in cuffs. I'm rudely shoving him forward in front of me, no humanity to see on my face. The act morphs as we pass through town. People look first shocked, then amused, and then thoughtful. We both enjoyed staying 100% in character for two-and-a-half hours and were both wiped out at the end.
For the last eighteen years of his dear life, Isaac was living with AIDS. Over those years, the drugs to slow down or stop the breakdown of the immune system at first got more and more effective. He got top notch care and was able to live a good life through most of his illness. It was good because he made it that way.
Isaac designed and created the most beautiful clothing I've ever seen. He never rested on his laurels. He was a lifelong learner. Just imagine, Isaac could dream up a garment, sketch it, make a pattern, cut and stitch it and he'd keep at it until it was just right. He was gifted in both the realm of fashion, for men and women, and the vast world of costume design for the theater. Many a rising diva heard about Isaac and for a time, he was a busy and popular designer, especially for chanteuses.
How many times did I get an urgent call in California from Jeff, his partner through many years, "Isaac may not make it...Can you come to Amsterdam?" And come I did. There were three amazing times when I arrived at Isaac's bedside straight off the plane from San Francisco to find him waning and weak. Being with him, holding him, letting go, but holding tight, each of those trans-Atlantic journeys ended when Isaac miraculously rebounded. He and I would just look right in each other's eyes and gently smile.
A heart-full of happy memories about my time with Isaac. I was welcomed into his family and came to love them all. Isaac was one of the most creative and determined people I've ever known. The gorgeous apparel he made for me twenty or thirty years ago serves not only to deck me out for important occasions, but also always motivates me to stay trim so as never to outgrow what Isaac so lovingly created for his beloved.