PRINT December 1993


When I first met Richard Prince, in 1985, he was living in a suburban tract house in Venice, California. He had two noisy muscle cars splotched with patches of primer paint that he prowled around town in, two male roommates I never laid eyes on, and a tiny little room of his own. In the closet in his stark white cell was a wardrobe of black and white clothing carefully selected for maximum anonymity. Next to his bed was a stack of magazines—Parakeet Fancier, Low Rider, and other oddball stuff. There were barbells in the den, baloney in the refrigerator, and a curved sectional sofa hugging a massive TV set in the front room. I had the feeling Richard was living there in some weird, undercover kind of way—doing field research or something. It was a strange scene, a piercingly lonely dwelling.

Richard’s next house? A condemned Hollywood tract home that he a transformed earlier this year into

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