Intermission

I have spent almost twenty Sundays in the city talking to people on the streets while sketching their portraits. I am wondering why? What is my interest? Am I hoping to find some nonconformist community, there?  Do I idealize homelessness? For a while I was observing my subjects unaware that I, too, became a subject of their observations and judgments. When I was painting Dan one hot day at the Rittenhouse Square, a man lied down on the bench in my full view. He pierced me with his eyes; his pose was suggestive. I thought that he wanted to be my model, too. Maybe he hoped for a tip or maybe he was an exhibitionist, I thought. But then I was crossing from the 21^st to the 20^th through Moravian street; one of those narrow Philadelphia passes unattractive to traffic. Two guys with large duffel bags were talking next to the garbage cans. They saw me approaching, and one walked my way. We both scanned each other; I, on the subject of painting; he, who knows why. The other guy was still waiting next to the cans. I scanned him, too. “I spit,” he rapped in the high pitch. “I spit, I spit, I spit.” I slowed down looking directly in his face, thinking if I want to paint him. “I know what love is,” he continued his tune, “I have been in love, my heart is broke, all I am saying I spit. I am forty nine years old and I understand love…” “You are not forty nine,” I said, ”you are twenty nine.”  “Twenty nine, that’s what I said, I didn’t lie to you, miss,” he called after me as I walked away. Who am I in the eyes of my subjects, and who are they in mine?

Tamika

08.11.2013

Franklin Institute

She measured me with her huge half-closed eyes making me feel inferior. I said, “I will pay you two dollars!” She gave me a huge smile and nodded, “Thank you; I would very much like that!” The high pitch of her voice surprised me. She lifted her head even higher, and I started my work. I didn’t know how to strike a conversation; the questions pupping in my head seemed irrelevant or offensive.  Really, if I was sitting on the bench and someone all of a sudden asked me if I had a family and a place to live, wouldn’t it be inappropriate? “I have children,” said Tamika out of the blue. “Do you?” “Yes. Seven. They are your color.”  “Excuse me?” “They have your people’s skin, white.” “Um... Are you from around here?” “I grew up in Philadelphia. Philadelphia is the city of my ancestors. My family lives around here. They hate me. They take advantage of me. I have a case manager. Here,” and she took out of her pocket a bunch of plastic cards. “I see,” I said. But she opened them like a fan, Access, Medicare, ID, debit. “You have a lot,” I said. “I live on Market and Fifth, I have AC.” “Cool!” “I am waiting for my husband. He is coming here to pick me up. He is working now, but he will be here soon. He is my case manager. “ I smiled. “I travel a lot. I’ve been all over the country and in Mexico, too,” she added even before I could think of my next line. “I go on vacations and move around. My family is in Cleveland, Ohio, I grew up there.” She waited a little longer, “My family have a respect for me. They sent me a card. They love me and have a respect. Are you done? Because my husband is coming soon. He will be angry with you.” “I am almost done,” I said. “Thank you,” she said. I looked at her, “May I take a picture of you holding this portrait?” “I would love that. Thank you.” “Can you turn your head that way?” She turned her head and thanked me again. I could have taken her pictures forever; her husband never materialized.  

Untitled

08.04.2013

Logan Circle

On a crystal day like this, Philadelphia doesn’t need air conditioning. Parking is free and available, and the crystal addict bends in the rainbow-colored fountain mist over the improvised cigarette. He rolls salvaged tobacco into recycled tissue. His narrow fingers tremble. Next to him sits in a diaphanous plastic his garbage pick: two bags of bitten slices of whole-wheat bread from a nearby restaurant. Hiding my fascination with his diet I bend over and explain the reason of my intrusion: I want to paint his portrait. His methamphetamine affected smile is undented, but his attention is fractured. I take a seat next to him on the bench and say that I will pay him two dollars for about thirty minutes of his time. Short-lived interest sparks in his crystal eyes, “What’s that?” “I will pay you two dollars if you allow me to paint your portrait. It will take about thirty minutes of your time…” He shakes his head, “Not interested. Thank you, though.” I look at his young face. He must be Philip’s age; he even resembles my son’s friend. I say, “Maybe you reconsider… you have a good face for painting,” but he shakes his head again.  The flow of mutual sympathy runs between us, and he thanks me again. But I paint him anyway; I paint him in my memory and carry it home to spill out. On this crystal day I don’t want to think of his future. I want to remember his shy speckled face crowned with burning-red hair. What a pity; so young and capable! Why choose dependence over freedom? But it is easy to fall a slave in the world where only markets seem to be free.

Jerry

07.28.2013

Love Park

“Would you sit for me? I want to paint your portrait.” “I would rather not to.” “What if I pay you two dollars for thirty minutes?” “Five for an hour.” “I don’t need an hour. Two.” “Five” “I’ll pay you three for forty minutes.” “Four.” “Okay, I am leaving.” “Miss… miss! Come back! I will sit for you for three dollars.”

“Are you from around here, Jerry?” “No, from West Philly. Where are you from?” “From Russia.” “Do you know people around here, Jerry? There are usually big groups of guys playing cards, skateboarding, having fun…” “I am on my own. It’s my second day here. I don’t know nobody here, and I don’t want to know. I have a thinking to do.” “What kind of thinking?” “What I am to do. I had an operation on my knee, you see? I am waiting for disability” “What happened?” “I was hit by a car.” “When?” “In October” “Did it happen around here?” “No, in Frankford. “ “What were you doing there?” “I lived there." “Are you living here in the streets now?” ”Today is my last day. I am going to rent a cheap hotel.” “So you got on disability?” “No, I am waiting. In this country everything takes time, Lena. But I am going to rent because I got some savings. I'd like to be able to take a shower every morning.” “So you worked?” “Yes.” “You know, Jerry, we should make up our mind which way you are looking. You either face me, or look that way, because I need some stability here.” “You should always ask people to face you when you paint, then they won’t argue too much.” “Why?” “I don’t know if I should say it…” “Go ahead.” “Because you represent a big variety to look at: you got nice feet, full beautiful legs, well proportioned body, and kind blue eyes.” “That is sweet, Jerry, I liked how you put it: a big variety to look at… What did you do for living?” “Windows.” “Did you wash windows or made them?” “I made windows. I am a welder. It was not as glorious as it sounds; the pay was low. I am not a proud person. I like to be quiet. Not that I don’t like to be noticed at all, but I am not an exhibitionist either.” “You are modest.” “Yes… Is this what you do for living?” “No. I do it for fun." “What do you do for living, then?” “I lead an art workshop for people with intellectual disabilities. What is your hobby, Jerry?” “I cook.” “That’s nice. Who taught you?” “My mother. Yeah, my mama always had it right…” Is she alive?” “Yes, she is living… “ “Are in touch with your folks in West Philly?” “Very much so….  So, when did you start doing this, Lena?” “You mean painting people on the streets?” “Yes.” “I started in April” “How often do you come here?” “Once a week.” “You drive here for two hours every week?” “No. It only takes about half an hour…” “Do you ever get tired? Do you ever want to take a break?” “Since my youngest left for college I have time to do what I really like.” “I got kids, too. My daughter is twenty-six. She works in the IRS building, and my son is twenty-one. He is in Afghanistan now.” “Oh, he joined the army?” “Yes, deployed just after training, only half a year now.” “Back in the day, before I came here, Russia fought the Afghan war; now it’s America. This war follows me. In 1980 American athletes boycotted Russian Olympics protesting this war. I was a political action that feels irrelevant now." “When did you come to this country?” “Nineteen eighty nine. It makes it twenty four years ago.” “What do you think of Philly?" “I like Philadelphia. But I don’t really know West Philly. I know Center City and suburbs.” “And why ‘s that?” “You think it is racism?” “No, I don’t think it is racism. Racism is hating for no reason, but this is just not knowing.” “You have no idea, Jerry, how it feels to come to a new country! We didn’t even speak English… Naturally, we reached out to the  more familiar culture,” “So, how many black friends do you have now?” “One… and couple people at work, but my kids have more. Jenkintown is mostly white community, so even that one black friend I have feels more like coming to the white culture then visa versa.” “I see. So what did you learn about black culture?” “I learned that when you interact with black people, it’s like a wave of energy coming your way. You better catch the wave and get into the rhythm, then it is fun.” “Black people have a lot of energy, that's true, but they are also laid back.” “That’s true, black people are relaxed and friendly. Here we go, Jerry, forty minutes are up.” “I don’t even know if I should take your money… but I need it…” “But of cause you do. Everything according to arrangement.” 

James

07.21.2013

Franklin Parkway

Warning: this entry contains foul language

I walked away from Race and 16^th where parking’s still free on Sundays towards the Love Park. I wondered what psychological mechanism underlines my choice of prey. This part of the city hospitable to homeless population offers food, lawns and benches galore, and thanks god for trashcans! Figures looking utterly isolated even when perched on the sides of the same bench were here on display for me. I scanned them, napping or idling on the newspapers. Avoiding being noticed myself I nervously redirected my attention to the street signs. 16^th, 17^th, Arch, Cherry, how could I forget? We used to live here in the 90’s, Mark and I, and roam the streets like the homeless do. We couldn’t understand a word. The textbook English I trained myself on was irrelevant in the context of inner city. Maybe people on the benches don’t get it, too? Or what’s the difference? Each of us can end up like this. I was often wondering why we were able to get on our feet even without sufficient English, even being new in America, even without working papers, and they can’t? What was our advantage: education, healthy habits and nutrition passed to us by our families who loved and cared, or everything that we left behind? I was still too inexperienced then to realize how much all that mattered. “Gotta bills?” called a voice from a bench. I looked down and saw a mountain of a man, a better fit for gladiator than Russell Crowe himself, and said, “Lets make a deal: I give you two dollars; you sit for me for a portrait.” He nodded and took a posture.  “I want you to relax,” I said. He dropped his shoulders and looked at the paint like it might poison him, “What’s this color?” “Green. I mix green, red and yellow to achieve the skin color. Red and green make brown and yellow helps to achieve grades of brown. I usually start with a silhouette, and then add details.” He looked at the silhouette, “Is it me?” He mumble and a stuttered, so altogether it was hard to understand what he was saing. “It-ain’t -me-e-e-e-it-ain”t-meeee-aaa-bit!” I smiled, “Have patience, it will be good. You are easy to paint, your large features make you hansom.” “No-good-to-meeeee.” “What did you say?” “No-good-to-me. Nobody-gives-me nothing-for-that.” “Do you live on the streets?” “Yes.” “Since when?” “To-daaay.” “Two days?” “No, today. I left  damn bitch today.” “Why?” “No-food. The-bitch-got-no- food-for-meeeee-no-fucking-food-dammmmmn-fuck-it. No-dammmmn-fucking-food-for-me.” He got agitated and pointed to the portrait, “It ain’t look like me-it aaaaa-intn’t look like me- it ain’t look like me. It-aint-fucking-yellow. It-ain’t-my-color.” “What color are you?” “Yellow. What for youuuuu paint me dark?” “I start with darker color and then use lighter shades to paint for the features.” “I-see-no-features. Aren't-I-work-forpmah-money?  For-two-fucking-dollars?” “Yes you are.” “An- wah-I-spposa-do?” “Tell me your story.” “Mah-story? Aaaooheeeammm… “ “Is it your story?” “I-have-no-money. I-am-starving.” “You can go over there where they give out food.” “Tomorrow-on-fifteenth-floor-they’ll-have-everything-for-me.” “What happens on fifteenth floor?” “SSI.” “You get SSI?” “Seven-hundred-an-ten-dollars” “Does she get it too?” “No.” “You cannot rent for this money, can you?” “No, they-say-i-aint-old-enough-to- give-me-more. I-am-fifty two.” “Did you grow up here?” “In West Philly.” “Do you have brothers and sisters?” “Yes. Many” “Are you in touch with them?” “No. They say I bothering them. They tell me take a-drift. You know what it means? They tell me take a-drift to stop bother them. This shit ain’t looking like me! What I am, brown? I am fucking yellow! Why are you looking at me like that?” “I have to look at you to paint your portrait. I have to look at the shape of your lips, the way you move them when you talk.” “You look like you hate me!” “I don’t hate you. I look at you because I am not a camera.” “You look at me like you hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” “It’s no good for me, no good! No one wants me. The sun is baking me. You give me two bucks for baking in the sun? Do I have to work for my bills? I don’ believe this shit ! I don't enjoy mah-money if I have to work for it!”

And he got on his feet and walked away.

Dan

07-15-2013

Rittenhouse Square

At Rittenhouse Square I asked a woman who despite the heat was dressed in a trench coat if I could paint her portrait. She softened her refuse with a smile and a complement to my dress. Some people were sleeping on the loan next to their sacks. I walked towards a man sitting on a high granite fence. He looked at me melancholically. “Do you mind if I paint you?” He considered it thoughtfully. “I am always here,” he said. “Maybe another time.” Contrary to what Maurice said, he seemed to be unimpressed with my looks, or was it a full make-up I wore this time? “ In fact, I was just going to sleep," he clarified, “I was already sleeping, but they woke me up. See those cops over there? See, how they wakes people up? I am waiting for them to leave so that I could go to sleep again.” His shirt was fully unbuttoned, a rosary dangling in the hair of his rosy chest. It felt like sitting with a stranger in a bedroom on the edge of his bed. “ You can go to sleep,” I suggested, “and if police comes I tell them that you are posing for me.” He nodded. “Where are you from?” He asked. “From Russia.” “My dad is Russian.” “Where is he from?” “From St. Petersburg.” “I am from Moscow.” “My mother’s dead now," he continued, "but on her side I am British, Scotch and German.” “Are you from around here?” “I grew up in New York. I lived in Florida for fifteen years. It was nice there, not as hot as here.” He was glancing at my sketch, “Were did you learn it?” “ I have always been painting since I was a child, but then I went to architectural school in Moscow. There we had a lot of art training, mostly in drawing, though. We had three semesters of painting there, too, but I don’t thing they taught me anything. They didn’t know how to teach painting…” “My sister is a muralist.” “Where did she study?” “At the Art Institute of New York City.” “Are you in touch with her?” “No, we got untouched.” He smiled sadly. “Is she your baby sister?” “Yes, I am three years older.” “My brother was three years older than me. We were very close as kids. Were you close with her?” “Everyone is close when they are kids.” “What happened?” “Uh… She learned to act like a sophisticated snob. I don’t respect it. She pretends that she is an old money, but she is not. She has a business in New Jersey, Fresh Juices. She is vegan and practices yoga; you know the type. Her husband was a doctor; she divorced him and now she gets…” he looked up, calculating, “about $60,000 a year for doing nothing.” “In child support?” “No, child support is a different story. Alimony. ” “Someone I know got half of her husband’s income after divorce, and they both are doctors and don’t even have kids together.” “That’s alimony.” “Do women ever get to pay alimony to their ex-husbands?” He looked at me in disbelieve and changed the subject,” When did you come to America?” “In 1989. We were not going to stay.” “Ah?” “It was Gorbochov’s time. We came because we wanted to see the world. My husband’s relatives found a doctor here who agreed to give me an infertility treatment free.” His eyes grew big. “Dr. Check from Elkins Park. It was his Mitzvah for some close relative who had recently dyed. He treated me for nine months before I got pregnant, and then a young resident doctor, Dr. Weise, delivered my baby-daughter, no charge.”  “Are you Jewish?” “My husband is. Meanwhile, Soviet Union collapsed and there were no jobs there, so we stayed. Later, though, things got better there, and some of our friends made a fortune.” “But now,” he smiled, “Putin is turning back towards tyranny.” “In terms of politics,” I said, “our time doesn’t not look good from anywhere…” “Obama is a crook,” he stated and added,  “why don’t those cops leave people alone? I just have a few hours to sleep before it gets too hot!” “Don’t you sleep at night?” “At night you have to watch out for crooks.” “Sorry!” “I will get my disability soon,” he said, “I was hit by a car, but I work, whatever I am able to do with my injured leg,” he pointed to his left leg, which looked no different than his right one. “I clean windows for storefronts to make some cash.” A woman paced by. She was the same woman who I mistook for a young guy last Sunday. “She always begs for cigarettes. I don’t smoke,” he said loudly so that she could hear. Like most of my models he was at ease with me watching him closely. I felt uneasy, thought, when the pause in conversation seemed too long. “Now as my children have grown," I filled in the silence, "I have time to paint. I like meeting people. Talking with random people is interesting, you know. It gets me out of the ordinary of my life. It makes me feel good. Do you ever feel good?” He thought for a moment. “I am always all right,” he said.  “Here, Dan,” I said. “I gave you a look of old fashioned Russian intellectual.” 
We shook hands as we said good-by. After a few paces I suddenly remembered that I forgot to take a snapshot. I turned back, but he already lied down. What was I to do, to take a picture of him with his eyes closed or to wake him up? I stuck my camera into the pocket book and went away. 

Sunday Off

07-14-2013

Jenkintown

I slept in, got a headache, stayed back. Still in bed, I was thinking what I was going to do. The portrait of Maurice I made last Sunday looked nothing like Maurice. That day I took a few photos of him and decided to use them for another try.The photos were not of a very good quality either.  I got up and played with them on photoshop. I was able to get some material for my portrait. I painted a few. Eventually I arrived at something satisfying. You can see it on the Maurice post. For today's post I am going to get out of the closet and show you all the takes I took trying to paint a decent portrait of Maurice.