I was asked to take some special publicity photographs of Joe. They were to be body-building type shots, as he wanted it to be known that he was the fittest, best built playwright in the western hemisphere. I expected him to arrive with the usual body-building gear that one sees stretched over the highly oiled and over-developed muscles in the body-building magazines. When I was finally confronted by a slim youth, wearing a pair of ever-so-slightly stained Aertex underpants, I was ever-so-slightly shocked.

I had misgivings about Joe’s attire. I felt that the underpants would somehow make a joke of his intentions, but he appeared to be perfectly relaxed and completely at ease, exuding the confidence that what he had chosen for the session was absolutely right. I said nothing, feeling that any disapproval from me would be to no avail. It might unsettle and perhaps even hurt him. He did have a streak of vulnerability, I felt, very close to the surface.

It was our first meeting all over again. Joe wanted to be masculine and tough, fleshing out his biceps by pressing them against a closed fist. Lamb posing a ram. No way could he be compared to a marble Hercules, or a tanned Charles Atlas. He was more like the chap who had sand kicked in his face, or, to be fair, the comparison that sprang to mind was that of a Greek bronze of a youth, removing a thorn from his foot.

The session went without a hitch. In between cups of coffee and cigarettes he asked me about the paintings and sculpture hanging around the studio. I told him they were mine and that as I was more successful as a photographer than an artist, I only dabbled in my spare time. It was now a form of relaxation, which helped me to wind down from the business of running a studio.

When Joe came to look at the contacts, he brought with him a large, framed collage, asking my opinion of it and whether I would like it. Not wanting to offend, I declined the offer in my gentlest manner. He said nothing, neither justifying nor defending it. The only reaction was a slight droop of the shoulders. I felt that he wanted approval or at least some constructive criticism and not the lack of a response that I had given. He was pleased with the photos but nothing more was said about the collage and after a final cup of coffee he tucked the picture under his arm and left.

That was the last time I saw Joe although he did drop me a line ordering more prints and adding, ‘America hated Sloane. We ran thirteen perfs. Ugh rotten Yanks! Yours Joe. P.S. I’ll pay for them naturally’

When I read his diary and saw the film, Prick up Your Ears, I was stunned as well as a little saddened, as my only recollections of him were of a gently spoken youth who housed a hidden sensitivity and vulnerability under the veneer of his brittle, devil-may-care attitude. But that may have been his strength, making use of his facility with words and his acute observations, changing rapidly as the situation demanded - the easy chameleon.

These many years later, knowing what I do now, I can only surmise that the collage was probably done by Kenneth Halliwell, Joe’s lover, and that Joe was trying, in some way, to help him.