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“Pat Cleveland was a muse for Halston, Stephen Burrows, Giorgio Sant’Angelo, and Antonio Lopez,” Diane von Furstenberg told the New York Times in 2016 when Cleveland’s memoir, Walking with the Muses, was being published. “She was, and is still, magical … Pat is a more gorgeous version of Josephine Baker.”
When I was thinking about writing a book about the late African American fashion designer Patrick Kelly, I gave Pat a call after she agreed to talk to me about him. He was her dear friend and she served as his muse as well. It was on Pat’s advice that Kelly, who was from Mississippi, left New York City for Paris where he made such a splash in the 1980s, so much so that he was the first American to be admitted to the Fédération française de la couture, du prêt-à-porter des couturiers et des créateurs de mode, which is the governing body of the French ready-t0-wear industry. Pat and I talked a lot, in fact, about their shared love of Josephine Baker.
Cleveland is more than magical now; she is inspirational. Known for her giddy singular grace all her life, she has found a deeper kind of grace in the dignity she has shown since being diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. It puts into context now in an even more moving way the wisdom she imparted during our conversation about Patrick Kelly.
But first, we talked about her mother from whom she inherited her indomitable spirit.
You grew up on the “golden edge” of Harlem, as you’ve called East Harlem, with a remarkable mother who was also a remarkable artist. She did a portrait of Eartha Kitt that I love. I also love her name: Lady Bird Cleveland. She was also known as Lady Bird Strickland. She died in 2015 from Alzheimer’s after your taking care of her for the last 12 years of her life. Would you talk about her a bit, Pat?
I’m so mad they made a film called Lady Bird because I’d like to make a film about my mother and now I can’t use that title. She was from Georgia. I knew a lot about what it meant to be from down south from being raised by her. I knew a lot of the southern customs. I knew about being polite. I knew yes mam and all that stuff. I knew what it was like to be a southern belle. My mother was quite something. She and Eartha Kitt were friends. But it goes even deeper than that. Henriette Metcalf – Madam Metcalf, as I called her – was my godmother. Her husband had been Willard Metcalf, the painter. After she divorced him, she met Thelma Wood who was the lover of Djuna Barnes, and Wood left Barnes for my godmother. Barnes modeled the character of Jenny in Nightwood on my godmother, Madam Metcalf. When I think back about it I think “Wow, she really liked my mom a lot. Hmmm.” I was raised around all these people in the art world, the bohemian world.
I grew up in a mixed neighborhood. Jewish Americans with the little curls and blacks and Irish and Puerto Ricans who were the new Americans like in West Side Story. Those were my four corners growing up. Each corner had a different cultural sound. On one corner you had the Irish singing and partying and drinking. On another, you’d hear the Jews just being quiet. You’d hear the Puerto Ricans playing bongos at night. And the blacks would be singing doo-wop. So the streets were very lively at night. And everybody was getting along.
My father was Swedish. A jazz saxophonist. He came from Stockholm. I did a genealogy search for him. I only had one photo of him since he left my mother and returned to Sweden when she was pregnant with me. He had to go into the army or something. She told me he didn’t know about me and she didn’t tell him. He came to visit two years later and there I was. It was a surprise to him, according to Lady Bird. But I discovered I had seven siblings in Sweden through a second cousin I also discovered so one summer recently I rented a big house over there and met them all. It was like a movie. I had been an only child all my life and now I am one of seven – no, eight. They took me to the club where my dad had played jazz. It was like the Apollo Theater of Sweden. He played with Coleman Hawkins. He played with everybody. I remember sitting on his knee during that visit when I was two but that’s about it. When I was a child I used to wear clogs and eat a lot of yogurts. People used to laugh at me and I didn’t know why I did those things. And even though I am black, I’m half Swedish. I always thought, well, if they put me down for being Black then I’ll be a Viking!
But back to my mom. You asked me about her. She was, yes, a remarkable artist but she worked to support us in the mental hospital Bellevue at night. She slept in the morning and painted in the afternoon. This is the thing: to watch somebody with her strength was instrumental to me. She was a Leo. I’m a Cancer. She was so bright and able to have confidence. Whatever she did – making clothes, painting – she always brought joy into it.
She was 23 when she had me. But before I was there, she had quite an amazing life. She hung out with Joe Louis and Carl Van Vechten and everybody. In fact, Van Vechten took my first photograph on a no-seam – you know, seamless photography paper. Who knew I’d spend so much of my life on that seamless paper later. Van Vechten loved my mother. He knew her through Madam Metcalf and another of my godmothers, the opera singer Marian Anderson. My mother knew everybody. I grew up around Noble Sissle and Eubie Blake. All the Black stars. Billie Holiday was my mom’s good friend. I remember though my mom coming home one night and telling me that she wasn’t going to hang out with her anymore because “she’s messed up. She does a lot of heroin.” I was still a little kid and I remember thinking: What’s that?
I remember Eartha Kitt inviting my mother and me to the Jewel Box Review. That’s the show back in the day that used to have all the drag queens. It was coming through Harlem and at the Apollo Theater. We were sitting in the front row. Eartha came out as a guest star and sang “Santa Baby” and crawled around on the stage floor – and then she’d look right at my mom and me on the front row and sing at us. I have never forgotten it. All the people in the show came out with dresses on and I looked at their legs from that front row seat and I saw hair on their legs and I said, “Ma, those women have really hairy legs.” She didn’t tell me back then that they were men. But they would sing at us too because they knew were Eartha’s friends.
Oh! And I used to be the little mascot for Katherine Dunham and her dancers. My aunt was one in her troupe. I’d be there in her dance studio and hanging on the barre like a little monkey when they were taking the class. That’s what they’d call me: “Our little monkey.” I’d hang there and watch them dance and some of them playing drums. I remember once seeing Marlon Brando in her class. A whole bunch of movie stars back then would take a class with Dunham. It was just where I hung out as a kid because my mom had to go to work. So she’d leave me with my auntie who’d take me to class with her.
When I’d try to sleep at night, I’d hear those drums playing. Our living room was covered floor to ceiling with mirrors because the dancers would come over sometimes to visit my auntie who was babysitting me and they’d rehearse and the drums would start playing. I’d wake up and go in and dance with them.
My mom moved to New York from Georgia when she was 12 because her parents had died. She moved in with another aunt and her five kids and took care of them. When she was 15, she started going out to the clubs in Harlem. She met Paul Robeson. He was a bad guy. I can’t tell you why though. I can’t tell you that. But he was really bad. My mom was on the way to someplace and he wanted her to come up and have lunch in his room but he did something to her that she didn’t like. I think he is a hero in some way, but he’s not. Not really.
My mom was very bright and very smart. She won a scholarship to Pratt when she was 15. She just didn’t have money but she was a hard worker. I learned from her that you have to work really hard toward something. I couldn’t let her down after she had struggled so hard. She helped me sew my clothes. When I was a teenager, Madam Metcalf said that they should send me to the High School of Art and Design. It was too expensive for us to buy clothes for me to wear down to school on 59th Street. So she taught me how to make my own clothes. At night, I’d do my homework but I’d also make a new dress to wear the next day. I still do that. I make myself something to go out in. I still make myself about three outfits a week. And that’s thanks to Lady Bird. Busy hands, happy heart.
That’s a good segue into Patrick Kelly. He is almost forgotten now but he was such a star in the 1980s as a designer. A young Black man from Mississippi took Paris by storm but died of AIDS early on New Year’s Day 1990. You were instrumental in his career. Would you talk a bit about Patrick?
I had this friend who was a hairdresser. You know, how you have buddies who are just beginning to make it when you’re just beginning to make it yourself? They come over to your kitchen and you play around doing hair and makeup? My hairdresser buddy called me one night and told me he was bringing a friend over. “He really loves you,” he said, “He makes clothes in his closet right now because his apartment is so small. He really wants to meet you. Can he come over? He is going to bring something over for you. We’re going to go do the Hair Show over at Columbus Circle at The Coliseum.” Remember The Coliseum? I was living on Central Park South at the time across from where the horses are parked there on 59th Street. Near the Plaza. It was a tiny little apartment at the back of the building. I was really lonely. I think I was 27 or 28 at the time. I was lonely. And I was angry.
They came over – Patrick was the friend my friend brought over who wanted to meet me – and they said, “Oh, perk up! We’re going to go out and do this Hair Show, all three of us. You want to come with us and do a little singing number? Patrick here has a little Josephine costume for you if you want to put it on.” Because I had been going around singing back then at the Mudd Club and singing at Bond’s. I had been going around and singing Josephine Baker songs.
Patrick was so cute when my friend brought him over that day. He was wearing jeans. He had fluffy hair. He was sweet. And huggable. Patrick then pulled out of his bag these plastic bananas and cupcakes covered with shiny pink fabric to cover my breasts. He put all that on me and stuck a feather in the back of my chignon. We threw a cape over me and we went walking over from my apartment, which was on Sixth Avenue and 59th Street, to The Coliseum on Columbus Circle where they were having that Hair Show. There was a pianist there. He asked, “What number do you want to sing?” So I sang him a bit the Josephine Baker song, La Petite Tonkinoise. He said, “Oh, I know that song.” They had these big gold lamé curtains hanging down. You know how hairdressers are. Everything is lamé. Of course, they did my hair like Josephine once I got there. They put tons of grease on me. I felt all nice and shiny. I had on my real good show-biz makeup – which is if-it-doesn’t-shine-you-don’t-see-it makeup. I had on my highest heels from Charles Jourdan from Paris. His shoes were all the rage back then.
I was behind the curtain. So I flipped open the curtain like that stripper – I can’t remember her name, they made a movie about her – but I flipped open that curtain like that stripper I can’t remember. The spotlight hit me. I had on my fishnet flesh-colored stockings with little pearls hanging off them. I did a whole Josephine number with my bananas bouncing and stuff. I think there’s a video of it somewhere. This was before Columbus Circle was gorgeous. It was a dump. They had those car shows there at the Coliseum. It was really tacky.
But we had such a great time there – me and Patrick. So we went back to my apartment and he said, “You know, I just can’t seem to make it here. I want to make some clothes and go to Paris one day and I’m going to be a star.” I said, “Yeah, over there it’s all so easy.” And he said, “Yeah, but I can’t afford to go there.”
I said, “Well, I’ll give you the money to go.” So I wrote him out a check for a plane ticket. I said, “You better get on that plane tomorrow. And go! Because you’re wasting your time here in New York.” And he did. He got on the plane the next day as soon as he got that ticket and he went to Paris. I told him, “Get in touch with my friend Antonio Lopez. He’s over there.”
So he got in touch with Antonio and Antonio kind of helped him a little bit. I guess he met some other nice people because then he started going out to Club Sept. That was where you met everybody who’s “in the night.” All the night stars. All the couture cutters. It’s where you went to be seen and have fun. He started hanging out there and before you knew it he had this little atelier only a few doors down from the Café Flore. It was on the first floor and you could just walk in there. You had to walk down into it.
So when I went back to Paris he had already gotten everything together. And every black girl who went to Paris ended up magnetized toward his studio because the fact is that was home away from home. He would fry chicken and cook grits and collard greens and cornbread. He would invite us all over to eat. It was so charming because he was always sort of modest. He was nourishing everybody.
What he would do is that he would pray all the time. When you came into his studio, he would always talk about God. And pray. He was like a little preacher. He would make a circle of us and say, “Oh, while you’re here, let’s pray.” Everybody would hold hands and bow their heads. And he’d say, “Oh, thank you, God, for all these blessings you’ve bestowed upon us. We’re all so lucky to be here. Please bless us all. And give us guidance. Amen.” That would always be his prayer. And we’d all feel invigorated. And satisfied. And happy. Because he was like a healer in a way.
He ended up being in Paris all the time. He never came back really. He never came back. He made the great escape. Just like Josephine Baker. Oh my God, he was so in love with Josephine Baker. That was sort of our lynchpin and what connected us. We had this great love for Josephine. My great aunt was Josephine’s Sunday School teacher and taught her piano and taught her how to sing. When it was time for Josephine to get out of St. Louis, it was my great aunt – who was 6’3” – who told her “go and be with the show.”
It sort of broke my heart when you called Patrick a healer because at the end of his life he couldn’t heal himself from AIDS. Did it break yours?
But those kinds of things are so unpredictable. Why are these wonderful people chosen? That’s how I look at it. Why are stars chosen? I think Patrick was a Chosen One. He and Antonio- who also died of AIDS. They were so significant. They were so important. They were so important because they had to suffer a lot to be who they were during those times. Back then you couldn’t really be yourself. But they were bold. And they were truthful. And they were 100% very spiritual. They were also giving a lot to people. They cared about people. Patrick cared a lot about people. He was like a father to everybody – or a brother. So you would never think something like that would happen to someone like that.
But those things are unpredictable and scary. Because people saw that as something really bad. Half the boys I knew back then are gone. And those boys were so beautiful.
Do you still carry around grief for that time and for those boys?
You can’t think of it like that. All that torturous sadness. Instead, you have to think of all the gloriousness and what they gave. All their beauty and happiness. Just being gay toward the world – as the word is supposed to mean. You wake up every morning and you put your music on and you dance and you love the people who are around you. You make a party so everybody can feel good. These were party people.
As for Patrick, All you had to do was look at him to know what his childhood was about and what he went through. He had to get out of Mississippi. It wasn’t happening in New York for him. They were never going to give him a chance – a black boy from Mississippi – as good as he was and as much as God loved him. God did give him a chance in Paris though. I knew it and he knew it. Because he was praying all the time about it. He was praying, honey. He was praying.
Remember that movie set in Louisiana, Beasts of the Southern Wild? That was like a fairytale. Patrick had to face the beast of hatred in people’s hearts because of racism in his own fairytale. And then he had to face the beast again at the end of his life because of the fear people had around AIDS. His life was a fairytale. But it had its beasts.
I think Patrick’s whole life was about trying to find a home. Look what happened. He had the similar thing as Josephine Baker. He was locked out of his home when he was a boy when he was thought to be bad and had to sleep on the porch. Josephine was locked out of The Stork Club. She was locked out of opportunities because she was a woman of color. Patrick had the same thing on Seventh Avenue. He was locked out.
Racism is about hatred. Hatred of something that is different – the other. But my attitude is that there are no races. Just the human race. I think I was pretty lucky basically because I have a lot of willpower. I am like that lotus where the leaves fall off and I just keep growing and growing. I don’t let things stick to me.
Do you ever think about that time in your life full of parties and drugs in the 1970s and 1980s and ever regret any of it, Pat – the hedonism of it all, all the darkness within all that light– especially because of the specter of AIDS?
No. I never think of all those things in that way. All of that was just natural that people were having fun. It was like the Roaring Twenties. It was forbidden drugs and forbidden behavior. It’s always naughtiness. The naughtiness of being naughty. Everybody was naughty. But that was just another side of yourself. All sexuality is natural. Isn’t it?
I don’t think it’s about darkness. Life is life. What? You’re not going to live it up? You have to live it up. Sometimes there are dangerous things and sometimes butterflies get caught in spiderwebs. But it’s not about light and darkness. It’s all life. All of it.
