Lou had three rules. The first, don’t be afraid of anyone; the second, if you see stuff other people have done that you like, watch and learn; the third, you must always be very, very tender.
He was one of the few men I ever met who could cry. Men don’t cry, it’s not allowed. But he was terribly emotional. Think about what he wrote: you don’t write it if you don’t feel it… Lou and I played together. We became best friends, then partners. We traveled, listened to and critiqued each other’s work, studied things together (butterfly chasing, meditation, kayaking). We made ridiculous jokes; quit smoking 20 times; fought; learned to hold our breath underwater; went to Africa; sang opera arias in elevators; made friends with unlikely people; followed each other on tour when possible. We had a sweet little dog who played the piano; shared a house that was different from our respective apartments; protected and loved each other. We often went to art shows, concerts, shows, theater, and I observed how he loved and appreciated other artists and musicians. He was always so generous. He knew how difficult the environment was. We loved our life in the West Village and our friends; and, through it all, we always did everything in the best way possible. Like many couples, each of us built our own way of being: strategies, and sometimes compromises, that allowed us to be part of a couple. Sometimes we lost a little more than we were capable of giving, or we gave in a little too much, or we felt abandoned. Sometimes we got really angry. But even when I was out of my mind, I was never bored. We learned to forgive each other. And somehow, for 21 years, we intertwined our minds and hearts, together.
Laurie Anderson
Family photo: Lou Reed, Laurie Anderson and Lolabelle
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