I was fortunate to have sailed with Jean Varda two or three times when I was a young bohosexual (19-20 --- in the very early 60's) as a friend of his great unrequited "love" of the time, one Christie Gates ... a munchkin beauty with flaming golden-red hair of the type you see only once in a lifetime ––– a stunningly lass of a giggling girl, with creamy skin spattered in rust-gold freckles, a little younger than I, and to whom Varda sent reams of poetry and baskets of flowers (every day!!!) when she lived at 2111 Pine St. in SF, and I lived a few blocks away.

Christie thought Varda was too old for her, but was quite touched by his attention, especially his poetic letters, written on parchment paper in quill pen, decorated with colorful drawings, then rolled and tied with ribbon. I remember one arriving by messenger with a bottle of wine and two dozen red roses.

2111 Pine was the four story artist's house in those days. The same house Bill Ham managed, inventor or the "liquid light show" that later became so well known at rock shows, also, where Bob Cohen invented the "jewelry roach clip," to be worn as a piece of Beat jewelry on a leather thong necklace. Made of silver, wood and coral, each of his pieces was made to look Beat-cool, yet like something cops and “squares” would never suspect as a roach clip, and that, when held for smoking, had disguised tweezer legs for holding the joint. I mention this to place my memories within those innocent times ... days of romance, “wine and roses”. No “Haight Ashbury hippies yet,” no “doper” shops or so-called drug paraphernalia. A time when reefer sold for $5 dollars a literal “matchbox” ... a small one, not the large kitchen sort. Before Cohen made his jewelry, roach clips were simply bobby pins, paper clips and rolled matchbook covers.

Now, Bob Cohen it seemed, (who also made many of the early recordings of Janis Joplin singing in places like the Coffee Gallery, the Fox and Hound, and Coffee and Confusion, that you hear on her boxed sets) was also madly in love with Christie Gates, and went sailing with us ––– Varda did not want us along at all, yet Christie would not go without us, so the poor man reluctantly agreed, protesting all the way, and making life as miserable for us as he could, without offending her to the point of protest.

I remember Varda as overwhelmingly jealous of anyone who went near Christie, even going so far as referring to Bob Cohen as, "The Crude One". Incidentally, he called my friend Lee Paradise, "The Morose One," and myself, "The Silly One" ... I suppose I was "The Silly One," because I was so damn happy to be sailing with such great bohemians I laughed a lot. Well, that and the considerable pot smoking that went on. Which was something very new to me, and which made me laugh like a jackass at pretty much anything and everything. I would even laugh at myself for laughing, which must have irritated the great artist no end.

The reason I credit Varda for the term: "Eye of Vision" in my book, “Selling Your Soul To Satan For Success In Art,” is because he always flew a wonderfully painted flag (I think it was painted), very colorful, on his whale boat (the one we sailed on) with a huge eye on both sides, which he often toasted: "To the Eye of Vision!,” before downing a great draft of Chianti, and eating a chunk of yellow cheese with sourdough bread. I was dazzled, loving life, but it wasn't until later, when my own inner "EYE" had opened ––– then opened AGAIN ––– whew! ... that I realized fully just what “VISION” the Great Man was indeed, saluting. That grand and glorious “EYE OF VISIONARY CREATION,” painters, writers, and poets, have been saluting since the beginning of artistic time. The EYE that opens through WORK ––– both the greatest blessing, and the worst gut wrenching curse, in any true artist’s life. The EYE of beheld Holy landscapes through the gates of ecstatic Heaven ––– the EYE of hairy cancerous mole on your best friends cheek, not to mention every other godforsaken mess in town.

The EYE of the Sublime embracing the EYE of the Horrific. The EYE of all and everything.

Those days were my mad-lad seed days. On San Francisco Bay we ranged in Varda’s funky whale boat from the Golden Gate Bridge to Alcatraz, where, all these very straight sailing folks ("squares" to us) in their white boats with white sails and wearing just the right white sailing garb would be endlessly crisscrossing the Bay, and along we would come, this bizarre howling mob of fifteen or so crazed pirates, mooning them, peeing off the boat, Varda with the front of his boho-hobo-pants torn wide open, his penis flashing in the breeze, all singing sea chanties led by Ale Exstrom on concertina, (Ale was a character right out of Dickens) and all these square eyes would bulge out like ice-cubes, with noses up like signal flags, "so disgusted", well ... of course, they probably were disgusted, which made us all the happier.

One trip, Christie actually approached Varda where he always sat, at the tiller steering the boat, (wishing she would sit next to him no doubt, which she did do at times), anyway, steadying herself in a sea-legged crouch, Christie leaned over him, cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, "Your penis is showing Yanko ... I just thought you'd like to know". To which Varda roared back, "Of course it is not!!!," without looking down.

I remember Michael Bowen the famous Beat painter was always there with his wife and she would be topless with a bikini bottom. She had a navel that was just so strange to us. A real "outie," but flat, like a modern elevator button, or something. There were times we joked about poking it a good one.

Before we went sailing, everyone met on board the Vallejo which I found to be quite intimidating because I was so young I didn't know what to say without appearing to be a complete artistic idiot. Red wine and cheese, salami and bread. And Varda's colorful collages made of cloth. I remember them as very bright and exciting. Scenes of cityscapes and buildings with domes, turrets, windows, and wild skies.

I was told by my late friend Homer Davis who got to know Varda fairly well at one time, how wealthy SF matron-patrons would come to the Vallejo and buy his work, loving the dark bohemian atmosphere ... the smell of the mud and sea water, colored glass shafting light through the windows, floor quite slanted to one side, (a bottle of wine would roll across the boat) and the man himself, his ruddy skin glowing with life, his huge bravado and fantastic worldly accent, colorful scarf, amazing mustachio, dirty beret, no shoes, funky pants ... anyway, my friend Homer told me sometimes the women, "of a certain age," who bought his work would call him up later to complain that pieces of the collage material were actually falling off on the floor of their Pacific Heights digs ... and when they did this Varda invariably had a rather hilarious way of “blaming it all on them”. He would shout over the phone, “So vat do YOU ax-pect ... zat at YOU vill live forever!!!”

I was also very fascinated by his daughter, an exceedingly bohemian girl of haunting presence. She was young, and when Varda would call for her he would yell out, "Vagadushka!" I see her wearing all black, with no makeup, with most striking fiery eyes. She laughed, in a strange, almost brooding way. Joyful seriousness? I can’t explain it really. I assumed she was also an artist.

I was invited to a Halloween party once at the Russian Hill (I think) apartment of Varda’s ex-wife, whose name I have forgotten. There was a twenty five pound cheese wheel with knives stuck in it, baskets of sourdough bread, and a bathtub full of bottled wine on ice for refreshments. But what I remember most was a five or six piece dixieland jazz band! Drums, trumpet, trombone, banjo, piano and bo-fiddle. My god that was great for dancing. And did we ever dance. Our hostess had taken up all of the carpets and we strutted for hours. Varda came in at one point wearing a mask he had obviously made, a colorful monster of some sort, and bearing beautifully wrapped gifts for his ex-wife. He never removed his mask, and did not stay long. We knew it was him though, because of his hobo-pants and the way his ex-wife greeted him. We were still kids. Our costumes I remember were sheets with holes in the middle, and clown white makeup. I guess we were ghosts. Varda probably hated us.

Once Christie showed Varda a small ink painting I’d done, then had given her as a gift. I remember being hurt to hear how he had dismissed it, saying: "It is notzing! Zarbage! No artist did! Bad crap! No good! Take away! Never show deze messes to me again!"

Gee, I guess he didn't like my little ink painting. If I could see it now, I might well agree with the Master's assessment, still, I think mostly, Varda did not like anyone giving anything to Christie, either gift or attention. And who could blame him after all. Christie was a rare butterfly. I mean her hair and skin actually refracted light. A girl so rare among girls, as to conjure her own silver pedestal draped morning glories. I never felt the least bit strange at all about Varda falling in love with Christie really. I mean, due to the rather wide age difference between them. Anyone who would NOT have fallen for Christie Gates, at any age, well ...