“In those days, I lived in a former coalbin, which I shared with Jean Garrigue, on Ninth Street,” Stanley Moss, the poet and art dealer, said. They seemed highly entertained, and even a little proud. If profligacy has been their social imperative, its moral corollary is unflinching tolerance. (The Man, by the way, was the critic Alfred Chester.) Few of Field’s cohorts were offended by his dredging up of youthful indiscretions. I’m seventy-seven fucking years old.” Zwerling was in the gallery at Westbeth, the artists’ complex on Bethune Street, at a party for the opening of an exhibit of photographs, “The Last Bohemians,” and the publication of her friend Edward Field’s new memoir, “The Man Who Would Marry Susan Sontag.” The book is every bit as gossipy an accounting of lives, his own and others’, as its title suggests. “Every time it’s shown, I get e-mail from young guys who want to get it on with me,” she said. Recently, she appeared in a documentary, “Still Doing It,” about sex and older women.
Zwerling, the writer and grande horizontale, has been a sort of den mother-she would get smashed and have everyone over for lima beans-to five decades of Greenwich Village misfits. She was wearing a maroon bustier and Pharaonic blond bangs, and was leaning on a cane. “My life’s an open book,” Harriet Sohmers Zwerling declared the other night.
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