Agosto Machado, Legend of Drag
Portrait of Agosto by Harry James Hanson, flowers by Devin Antheus
May the blessing of today, the gift of life, grant you the possibilities and potential of what you need. Agosto Machado recites this mantra for anyone lucky enough to reach the voicemail of her landline. She doesn’t carry the Gadget– her term for any device (phone, computer, whatever) which connects one to the cyber world. Too gentle to call a luddite, she’s better understood as a humble mystic, enmeshed instead in the world of spirit. Rather than scrolling, she spends her mornings in meditation and prayer; her afternoons visiting old friends, many in hospice. A creature of place, she embodies the memory of generations of queer rebels and iconoclasts of Manhattan’s downtown scene. Liminal, she moved with and through a dizzying mélange of milieus: the gay liberation movement, the doll wing of the Factory, the downtown experimental theater scene, the anarchists of the Motherfuckers, and S.T.A.R. (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries).
I was a street queen in the West Village [in the 1960s]. The definition of a street queen is a queen who didn't have money or an apartment or what have you, and you lived on your wits... I have no wits... people were so kind to me. I used to sleep at the Port Authority or Grand Central Station with my shopping bags. I learned from the other queens: if you mind your own business you can survive. Street queens tell you where free food is, what places are being raided, and if you're hustling or doing anything, what places to avoid.
I'm not brave or anything, but below 14th Street was sort of a safe neighborhood. Because there was safety in numbers. And there's so many – mixed drag outfits, and you couldn't tell. Gem Spa was still there, and they never batted an eye. We'd come in in drag or non-drag. Gem Spa was safe because it was 24 hours, so if you needed a meeting place, it's well lit. There's traffic on St. Mark's & 2nd, so it was ok if there were any bullies or so forth, if you were alone. Those were very curious times.
As we know in Alphabet land:
Avenue A: be Afraid.
Avenue B: Beware.
Avenue C: you're Crazy,
and Avenue D: you're Dead.
I think between C & D there was a theater, the Old Reliable. To do a show or go there we'd walk in the middle of the street. You had to zig-zag because the bullies would see you're vulnerable. They'd take your money or your shoes. Fleet of foot; we were much younger. Hell's Angel's ruled 3rd street between 2nd & 1st, and in the evenings they would light the barrels, garbage cans. That was their turf. So when you were over in Alphabet land and you saw the fires in the barrels, you knew you're getting closer to safety because no one fucked with the Hell's Angels then, and they left us alone. It was a whole different time.
She especially credits her survival– and the development of glam rock –to Jackie Curtis.
Jackie grew up on 11th Street, between 3rd & 4th. Jackie was part of the neighborhood. She went 24/7, all over the East & West Village, everywhere, in semi-drag, way before the Cockettes and so forth. She went all over in the most outrageous outfits, so carefree and so naturally. If you saw her uptown: just another girl who's sort of bearded or didn't shave. That look has come and gone a couple of times, the torn stockings and makeup over a little beard, five o'clock shadow. Agosto met Jackie out and about. Downtown, we all knew each other by first names. We always said ‘Hi!’ At St. Mark's Poetry Project you saw Alan Ginsburg, Warhol, all these people, and you'd just use first names as if you were all girlfriends. Jackie initiated their friendship by dropping by. She knocked on the door of Agosto’s 3rd Avenue tenement to inquire about a neighbor who’d drawn her curiosity. Agosto remembers feeling deeply honored by the visit. I'd seen her downtown at some of the places and we just waved and chatted, because maybe she liked my drag or something. A kinship. And then I thought “oh jeez, no one is going to believe it!”
Jackie quickly got Agosto involved in the Warhol scene and eventually onto the stage.
She said, “can you sing?”
I said “no.”
“Can you act?”
I said “no.”
“Can you dance?”
And I said “no.”
“Do you want to be in a play?”
And I said “yes!”
And that's how I got to be part of Vain Victory: the Vicissitudes of the Damned (1971). Jackie held a six month rehearsal period, involving many of the Warhol people, before the show debuted at La MaMa Experimental Theatre Club. Warhol himself delayed opening night. Running late from dinner with John and Yoko, he phoned the bar and asked them to hold the curtain. Unheard of downtown. After the nearly three-hour production, Warhol brought the couple onstage to meet the girls. Andy always had his eye out for interesting characters. It was a clearing house of characters downtown, and multiple drag queens.
Once Jackie opened the door, Agosto worked with a number of Factory superstars including Ondine, Candy Darling, and Holly Woodlawn. One of the games downtown was "guess my sex," because the long hair was coming in, and tie dye, this is like pre-hippie and things. You really couldn't tell. And of course Candy Darling was always a lady. Holly was always so fun and so vulnerable. Everyone wore glitter and lipstick, and auditioned for parts irrespective of gender. The saying was, “every day is Halloween in the Village.” You had the freedom of dressing how you want.
Still, the inclusion of the girls in the Factory scene caused tension with the street queens. Agosto attributes it to a class differential. Agosto remained friends with everyone– I'm a Libra, I'm like Switzerland! I don't take sides, I accept you for what you are. People understand that I will talk to everybody and be civil and polite. People go through changes. There was that schism, and there was a great deal of dishing: when Andy wanted to photograph the drag queens, they got a sandwich and coffee. They didn't get a print. It was awful. You could get one of the girls they photographed for $20, $15 on the street. They weren't invited to the openings or anything. But the idea of the glamour, “oh Warhol is going to photograph me!” And then it was being silk screened with different colors and slashes and things, and those sold for hundreds of thousands, limited edition. There is the awareness that they did take advantage of Candy, Holly, and Jackie, too.
Once they fell out of favor, the queens were back on the street. Warhol and his crowd were being absorbed by debutantes and high society and eurotrash. At a certain point all the drag queens were out and we weren't welcomed anymore. Agosto marks Jackie’s passing in 1985 as the definitive break. People phoned the Factory and they said, "We know about Jackie. She's not associated with us.” When asked if they’d like to send flowers to the wake, the Factory responded: “She's dead and she's not with Warhol." We were all shocked– no card or even flowers –how severe the divide was.
It just so happens that we delight in giving the girls their flowers and had the pleasure to do so in May of 2023. We shot a portrait of Agosto on the fire escape of her dear friend, the artist Ken Angel Davis. Agosto looks to the distance, robed in gold and wearing her signature floral headpiece, against an overcast sky, surrounded by toffee roses and etched salmon peonies. Agosto expressed that having her portrait done then was the most significant thing in her career since her solo exhibition at Gordon Robichaux gallery. While the honor is all ours, the day holds a tremendous significance for us as well. To meet Agosto is to encounter, amidst the labyrinth of the city, a key or cypher slipping between timelines to unlock the archive of a disappeared world. Throughout that afternoon she charmed and tantalized us with stories from before.
In the old days we used to liberate all our makeup from the drug stores. Not stolen, liberated! She smiled mischievously. I’m just such an anarchist. When we asked what she meant, she joked: Oh, I'm not butch enough to be an anarchist! That word just came out of my mouth. For lack of a better word, it’s asserting my difference. Agosto is certainly no stranger to a queer anarchy. In her time with the Gay Activists Alliance she befriended Arthur Evans, whose seminal book Witchcraft and the Gay Counterculture, argues for gay witches to form anarchist cells to conduct magical attacks against Western civilization. She remembers Arthur fondly: He was really bright, and very vocal. There were so many people who were emotionally there with the cause of GAA, but they weren't intellectually as advanced as Arthur.
For her part, Agosto served on the News Committee of GAA. Listen, I have a 6th grade education, I don't spell, but I was News Secretary, because nobody else wanted to do it. I wrote letters to J Edgar Hoover and all these people signed "News Secretary of the Gay Activists Alliance," what have you. It's so brazen in paranoia state, because we learned that anybody or any school or institution who subscribed to the Village Voice was an enemy of the people and were on this list. For Agosto, the risks were worth it. Her eyes glistened, holding back tears: We thought we were gonna change the world for the better. And we saw changes, but it didn't happen the way we wanted– to liberate everyone.
“We thought we were gonna change the world for the better.”
AIDS brought an end to the dreams of the gay liberation movement, but Agosto carried the torch, spending twelve years as a caregiver for those who got sick. Friends had this mysterious illness. It wasn't called AIDS, it was called gay cancer. When people found out, discreetly, they’d whisper: "Agosto is helping so and so." They assumed that I could give it to them. I had to stop going to gay bars because people would move away. Despite the stigma, Agosto became a lifeline. Other people said, "Oh, Agosto might be available to help your friend." There was a certain set, I could do four or five, take them to doctor's appointments. And I did pick-up jobs, dog-walking, apartment cleaning, so I could work around my own schedules. I was available 24/7 to take them to the hospital in emergencies and so forth. But the fear and ignorance was so deadly. They moved out of the Village, because they thought by geographically moving uptown or to another borough that they would be immune to this gay cancer, what have you.
In the aftermath of the gay movement, Agosto was drawn deeper into the theater. Agosto embraced a bicoastal life, splitting time between San Francisco and New York– The only two cities in America with public transport! Within that circuit, she befriended Rumi Missabu who involved Agosto in Cockette productions, such as Pearls Over Shanghai. Rumi delighted in curating what she termed a “cocktail of glamour and anarchy.” Oh, Rumi, God bless Rumi! Every time I talk to Rumi it's like having an espresso coffee. Her energy is so amazing. If she was in New York she'd have dozens of projects and nudge people to do things because she has so many wonderful ideas. What's wonderful about her shows was they didn't charge and they gave a free meal. So people started lining up!
Rumi has since joined the ancestors with an honored place on Agosto’s personal altar, which spans every wall of her tiny studio apartment. She greeted us at the door: Welcome to the Forbidden City. Once inside her sanctum, a mountain of ephemera– portraits, newspaper clippings, books, artwork, and ashes of several friends (including Marsha P. Johnson’s) –surrounds you on all sides. The faces and names of her departed loved ones look down from every available space. Several deities are enshrined there as well from Buddhist, Catholic, and indigenous lineages. Truly monastic, Agosto sleeps on a mat rolled out amidst the powers. She wakes every morning and spends hours tending the spirits.
“I’m not an artist, just a hoarder.”
I pray and meditate. I was brainwashed as a Roman Catholic– original sin and all this business. But to cover my ass, it is mixed. I'm poly-faith now. I believe there's one creator, of no gender; or a great spirit. People have reinterpreted everything from worshiping the sun, the weather, and what have you, in their own way, which is very valid. Whatever you believe, I respect. And if you are a believer– of even mother nature –it's a gift.
Santisima Muerte, the Holy Death, holds a place on Agosto’s altar. It's an acknowledgement, because life and death are one, really. I do not fear it. It's all part of the cycle. Indeed, Agosto believes in the transmigration of the soul; that we die and are born again into new life. I believe in reincarnation. I believe you grow to heaven, and it's not a one-time experience. I went to a trance medium. The lessons I learned from the tutelage is that not only do we individually reincarnate, but we collectively incarnate. Agosto asked the medium about certain friends, Peter Hujar, Shayla, Charles Ludlam, and so forth, and collectively we go back to Epidaurus where all male theater happened. Appropriately, Epidaurus was the ancient site of both a sacred theater and the healing sanctuary of the god of medicine, Asklepius. We had an incarnation there but also in the 1890s, in Paris. All of us shared an experience there. Then, somehow, the Village experience, part of the collective art circle.
Though no longer embodied with us, that circle still sustains Agosto. I really do feel all the people who gave me so much love and friendship continue to give me strength. Keeping the ashes of nine of her friends, Agosto intends to continue her work across generations. She wishes someday for her ashes to be comingled with those on her altar, and ritually scattered in the Hudson River. If I live longer, there will be some other ashes. All I need is a medicine capsule, and I feel that this joins, symbolically, our time together. We’ve shared a lot.
For whatever remains of this lifetime, Agosto intends to keep sharing what she can. One of her altars was recently acquired by MoMA. Though finally getting the artistic recognition she deserves, Agosto always humbly insists, I’m not an artist, just a hoarder. She’s something more than both, though. Agosto is a mystic, a lineage keeper, holding the memory of an era of artists and troublemakers at risk of erasure.
Install Photos By Deb Leal
This year, on HIV Long-Term Survivors Awareness Day, we had the honor of collaborating with Agosto to build an altar at the NYC AIDS Memorial in remembrance of many of the city’s lost queer icons. We transformed the Memorial’s central fountain into a portal, overflowing with flowers– calla lilies, hanging amaranthus, carnations, olive branches and smokebush –and portraits selected from Agosto’s shrine, including the likes of Peter Hujar, Cookie Mueller, Ethyl Eichelberger, Hibiscus, and a dozen others from the city’s gay avant-garde. The installation proved an interactive site for the local community, who dropped by to visit their loved ones temporarily enshrined there. Visitors could take these prayer cards, and many left tears and stories in turn. Agosto and we believe wholeheartedly in the healing power of prayer and flowers and flowing water to elevate our queer ancestors and friends among the dead. Our floral palette was black, white, green, and red, because the memory of one genocide demands resistance to every genocide. I’ve always been with the counterculture! I was against the Vietnam War! Just as their martyrs guide the Palestinian resistance, so too do our dead lend strength to queer survival; a force direly needed now more than ever. In Agosto’s words, printed behind each portrait:
AIDS DOES NOT DIMINISH THEIR CONTRIBUTION FOR GENERATIONS TO COME
—
Portrait of Agosto by Harry James Hanson, flowers by Devin Antheus
Agosto’s makeup by Miwa Sakulrat
Text by Devin Antheus & Harry James Hanson
Install photos all by Deb Leal