Cerith Wyn Evans, Michael Clark, Steven Guff, and crew during the production of the film component of Michael Clark’s Parts I–IV, 1983. Photo: Chris Harris.

MICHAEL AND I FIRST MET a long time ago, probably in 1981, at the filmmaker Derek Jarman’s apartment on Tottenham Court Road in London. I didn’t really know his work, but then it didn’t really exist. Michael must have been a teenager at the time, just seventeen or something, an adventurous tyke with a sparkle in his eye. I wasn’t much older, actually. But there are certain people you respond to the moment you meet, and this was just kismet. The first conversation that we had, bizarrely enough, was probably about e. e. cummings; we were talking about Language poetry and Gertrude Stein. Within seconds, we were talking about, I don’t know, modernist semantics and queer culture. We didn’t know that at the time, of course, but this is exactly what we were bonded through. You see, Michael, in a sense, equivocates a kind of crazy literature that binds itself within footsteps; after

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