SYLVIA MILES R.I.P.

I had seen Sylvia around at events in Manhattan in the 1970s, but it was when that decade was ending, as I remember it, that we actually met. I was at Saint Mark's for a Poetry Project event, probably the New Year's Day marathon, I was standing, my shoulder leaning against a wall, when I heard this raspy woman's voice behind me say something I no longer remember but it was definitely sexy and about her admiring my looks.

When I turned and saw her I recognized who she was, but she didn't know who I was. She asked if I was an actor, which I wasn't yet professionally, so I said I was a poet and to avoid interrupting the reading we went outside to talk, where I wasn't sure if she was kind of acting out a role or was seriously trying to pick me up.

I'd known, and understood as best I could, for many years about feminist criticism of the way women often were objectified, appreciated only or mostly for their physical attributes. But as a man, and as someone who had done gender-bending semi-drag in my feminist and gay liberation days, I had no objections to being objectified. But though I dug Sylvia's in-your-face personality and bluntness, something I was known for as well, I had no desire to go home with her.

She reacted like it was my loss, which it may well have been, and whenever we ran into each other after that, would tease me about it. She was an icon of Manhattan's downtown scene back then and after her Oscar nominated role in MIDNIGHT COWBOY became iconic to a worldwide audience. She was an original and one of the most committed actors you'll ever see on stage or screen and will be missed by all who knew and loved her.