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The books were printed all over America, one lot was sent to independent bookshops through a small distributor, another was mailed directly from the post office below Giancarlo’s home. I knew that he lived in a small apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and that from there, with the help of an intern, he directed his operations. They said to me that Giancarlo was half-Italian, temperamental, a lone wolf.
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From the bookshelves of the Strand on Broadway, you took the copies of the NY Tyrant in your hands and you immediately imagined adult theaters in Times Square from the golden age, full of clientele reading Proust. The books and literary journals of his publishing house Tyrant Books often had a low-fi but stylish design, sometimes with references to a 70s porn aesthetic-reimagined of course. On Twitter he always protected the most vulnerable and for a long time already he had been publishing some of the most interesting emerging writers from America: Megan Boyle, Kim Chinquee, Sheila Heti (who is Canadian), Clancy Martin, Annie DeWitt, and Atticus Lish. He drank whiskey on the rocks with the editors of The Paris Review and he wrote the most brazen articles for VICE about his evenings spent sharing uncomfortable secrets with Edmund White. He collaborated with the most experimental magazines, but he didn’t want to work in their offices. It was all rather frenzied, but, from what I had begun to understand, it was perfectly in line with the personality of Giancarlo DiTrapano.Īt the time, Giancarlo was known in New York as an editor of the avant-garde, anarchical and authentic.
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An online search had taken me to a photo of that burning car published on a rarely visited Facebook profile: posts half in Italian, half in English, and a series of pictures of an enormous teddy bear sat on the steps of the New York Public Library. I had read the short stories of Tao Lin in the literary journal NY Tyrant, and I immediately fell in love with the magazine. My first encounter with Giancarlo DiTrapano occurred several years ago through the images of a flaming car. THE FOLLOWING INTERVIEW ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN VANITY FAIR ITALIA.
We did this interview in his living room, sprawled on a velvet baldachin bed, dreaming about our future, just days before he embarked upon his last, courageous literary journey. His house in Via Flavia was a haven for many people who, like me, needed to find a safe place to bypass the city’s old moralistic marble stones. Rome was the first place where Giancarlo went when he decided to revolutionize his life.
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Plus his apartment looked really cool and we always said we should shoot there before him and Giuseppe decided to move out. That was the city where he landed and where we had consolidated our friendship. The Vanity Fair piece from 2018 ( issue 25, June 27) featured beautiful photos from the Roman photographer Francesca Tecardi, but, as a kind of B-side project at the time, I had taken Gian’s portrait in his apartment in Rome as well. And that’s what they did when they started the Mors Tua Vita Mea workshops.
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They knew how to please them and free them. The castle felt haunted, every room had layers of former lives, but Giancarlo and his husband Giuseppe were not threatened by ghosts. It reminded me of those vacant Sicilian limestone houses from the Aeolian Islands, abandoned during the immigration diaspora in the early 20th century. At some point they had woken up and walked out, leaving behind pillows and flung towels never to return again. It was a place where many different people, some of them Giancarlo’s relatives, some of them strangers, had lived. There were still old computers from the 1990s in the bedrooms, Italian rock music posters belonging to unknown teen tenants, graffiti from the days in which locals had squatted the place, unmade beds, frozen in time, waiting for their owners to return under the covers. In 2018, Serena Danna at Vanity Fair Italia asked me to interview Giancarlo DiTrapano about the reasons why someone with such incredible literary street cred would choose to leave New York to start from scratch in an abandoned 1700s castelletto in Sezze, in the province of Latina, miles and miles from any real cultural center in Italy.
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