I first met Ultra Violet in early 2007 at a reading I was giving of Who Killed Andrei Warhol at the Ukrainian Institute of America on Fifth Avenue and Seventy- ninth Street. The organizer of the reading lived in her building and invited her. She was dressed in a bright violet sweater and head wrap. I extended my hand; she placed her hands together and bowed. We exchanged a few uncertain words. I gave her a signed copy of Whiskey Priest; she gave me a signed copy of her memoir, Famous for Fifteen Minutes. We exchanged cards and phone numbers. She said she had a studio in Chelsea and that I should visit. I said I would. I never did.
I didn’t hear from Ultra for over a year. Then, in May 2008, in the course of a single day I received several telephone calls and emails from her. I called back. She invited me to lunch at her place. Why she didn’t say. I said yes, of course.