I first met artist and designer Stephen Sprouse at Area on Valentine’s Day in 1985. He was standing with my cousin, Tama Janowitz, and he and his then-boyfriend, a hair guru, took a friendly interest in my coif (or lack thereof). Sprouse’s high-volume tresses were saturated black.
With Rizzoli’s recent release of The Stephen Sprouse Book (by Roger and Mauricio Padilha, with an introduction by Tama), Sprouse has had a posthumous New York moment in recent months. Originally part of Halston’s team, he’d apparently done a lot of drugs in his day. He spoke tentatively but always with kindness, as if he never quite caught your train of thought (which made you feel slightly uncool). And he lived Downtown in an apartment carpeted in wall-to-wall black Astroturf, complete with two massive towers of rock-band speakers (woofers looking like spaceships served as a central image in Sprouse’s paintings; the Deitch gallery recently ended a retrospective of his work).
After our dinners with Andy Warhol—one of his biggest fans, he was always trying to introduce Sprouse to investors—and Warhol’s muse, Paige Powell, we’d share a taxi back to Astor Place. Eventually Warhol found an investor, Andrew Cogan, and Sprouse opened a giant store in Soho. Fluorescent camouflage in sequins and creative uses of Velcro were important themes, but there were also the skinny black suits and ties that would become a hipster mainstay.
Personal Hipstory: I once lunched with Sprouse and Jenny Wright, who starred in St. Elmo’s Fire. She was staying with him longer than expected, so he created an entire wardrobe for her by simply ripping T-shirts and tying them as skirts.
On one occasion, through our friend Paige, Absolut vodka invited us to fly to Sweden on the Concorde. When the plane hit wipeout-like turbulence, Sprouse wrote his name on his arm with a Magic Marker so they’d be able to identify his body. It was a difficult trip for the 12-step devotee. We toured the Stockholm Archipelago and an Absolut factory, and the vodka kept flowing. Later the husband of the king of Sweden’s sister met us to fly north to Lapland. Sprouse got the time wrong and missed the shuttle. He was beside himself, alone in Stockholm. But he found an art store and stayed in his room for two days sketching. He had a remarkably sure hand.
One defining moment from the trip sticks in my mind, however. While leaving the Grand Hotel in Stockholm on the way to dinner, Ed Ruscha, his wife, Danna, Kenny Scharf (in his bright orange Chairman Maocut Sprouse suit) and his wife, Tereza, Tama, and Paige all wore Sprouse. We walked arm in arm through town, Sprouse with a do-rag tied around his head. It was a fierce moment crossing the heroic city with these vibrant artists, and Sprouse and his fashion added the rock-star edge.
When I last saw Sprouse, at a Paper magazine dinner, he looked thin and hurried away from me, not wanting me to pick up on how sick he was (a chain smoker, he had developed lung cancer). Paige threw a party soon after for artist René Richard at the Gramercy Park Hotel. I thought Sprouse was a no-show but discovered later that he’d called Paige outside to tell her he couldn’t stay. He had a flowing scarf around his throat. His voice was weak.
When Stephen died in March 2004 at the age of 50, friends were invited to view his body, on display in a long cardboard box. He wore a colorful knit cap, another Sprouse signature. Even just the punk ski cap—Sprouse was early on that front—hinted at his ongoing influence on hipsters. (Think Josh Hartnett and Colin Farrell with their omnipresent knit caps.)
Sprouse was a punk iconoclast to the end, and his designs—his graffiti script prints were reprised by Louis Vuitton this season—will stand the test of time.
TOP: Stephen Sprouse and Debbie Harry. BELOW: Stephen Sprouse, Simon LeBon, and Tama Janowitz.
