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. 

   

Maurice

07-07-2013

Love Park

There was a woman sitting on the lawn. A young woman. “I want to paint your portrait” “No portraits!” and she shielded herself with her elegant hand. She was so skinny that for a second I thought that she might be a guy.  There was a group of guys playing a game of cards right next to her. I already exposed myself, so I turned to one of them who was glancing at me, “Would you pose for me for a portrait,” “A portrait? Mmm… I am not sure,” and he whistled, “Hey, Maurice, come here, man. This lady wants to paint your portrait." “My portrait? Sure!” His teeth shone in the sun. He was tall, handsome with delicate manners. He held his mountain bike with one hand. “Where would you like me to sit?” “Here,” I said and took out my paints, “I asked that lady first, but she refused,” I said. “For some reason girls mostly say no to me.” “Guys would always say yes to you,” he smiled. “Why is it?” “Your looks. Guys will always say yes to you, even the younger guys.” “You are young! How old are you?” I am forty eight, almost fifty.” “It cannot believe it! I thought you were thirty two at most!” “No…” “You know what stroke me in that woman?” I continued. “She has problems,” he said. “I know, but look at her natural beauty. We do so many things to look good; go to hair stylists, shop for clothes, use make up, whereas she doesn’t do as much as looking in the mirror. And see how beautiful she is! And she has no idea.” “Women who don’t ware make up fascinate me,“ he said, and I all of a sudden realized that I wasn’t waring make up. “Are you coming here often?” I asked. “Yes, I have friends here, I like having fun with people. There are a lot of homeless here.” “Do you have homeless friends?” “Yes. I give them advice.” “What kind of advice?” “Where to turn for help, what to say, you know…” “Are you a social worker?” “No. I just have been around. I know a lot of this stuff.” “What are you doing for living?” “I do construction sometimes…” “Design or actual construction work?” “I did designs for kitchens. But my idea is just to take it easy, have fun. I like to be around people. I like to do good to people. Unfortunately many people stay homeless because they don’t want help.” “How’s so?” “Philadelphia has this program, Triple Pundit. It helps people to find homes and jobs.” “And people don’t want it?” “Many people use it and get out of the streets, but some prefer staying homeless.” “Does this program offer psychological help, job training, DA counseling?” “Yes, but you have to qualify.” “Do people with criminal record qualify?” “Yes, they do.” “Why some people prefer to stay homeless then?” “Mental health issues and drugs. To be on this program you have to stay clean of drugs. Not everyone can do it, and not everyone wants to, but many people do.” “But there are still a lot of homeless people in Philadelphia.” “New people come all the time. Philadelphia is famous for its homeless services. It’s a mecca for homeless.”  “Did you grow up here?” “Yes, in North Philly” “Where do you live now?” “In Northern Liberties. I used to live in Ambler. I liked it there.” “Do you have family?” “No. No family.” “Kids?” “No. I don’t want any of this.” “I have three children. I am married.” “Are you? Wow!” “Yes, twenty six years to the same man.” “!t’s unusual. People don’t stay married that long. They get tired of each other. I don’t want to get marriage problems. You can be with someone like a friend. No need to get married.” “You are right, marriage is a piece of work.” “It is nice to have a woman friend, have fun together.” “What are you looking for in a woman?” ”For happiness. I want to wake up in the morning, look at her and feel happy.” "Who doesn't?" 

De-ja Vu

07.30.2013

Logan Circle

I was rolling slowly along Broad Street in the search for parking when Aaron crossed my way. After painting tree portraits of him he looked strangely familiar. He wore his famous tee shirt on on skinny shoulders and deranged expression on handsome face. Another young man leaning towards him listened to his loud articulations. With haircut and fresh skin only his dirty sacks betraying the hobo.

I found parking. A woman in long coat sat on the curb across the street. I sat down next to her to glimpse a bony face under the hood. She lowered her head to scramble on her feet. “Please,” I said, “no need to move because of me.” I went on towards the library.

At the library lawn Old George balanced a paper plate full of food. He turned away from the world maintaining privacy.  With drinks and refreshments the picnicking crowd looked like a party except for the lack of excitement of social interaction.

A tall man leaned against a cast iron fence, his plate and bags sitting next to him on the concrete base. But even before I turned his way, he stepped into the garden. There, half hidden behind the blooming butterfly bush he released himself.

It started feeling like a rain. The man on the bench in the distance wore a shirt too white for a homeless. Why was he grinning? Ah, Alex! And here was Venus fetching another plate of food. “Here I am,“ I announced. We acted like good old friends. “Today is our last day here,” he said. “Tomorrow we move to apartment.” “Do you have section eight?” I asked. “No, only SSI” “Venus got one, too?” “Yes, between two of us we can rent.” He suddenly looked as if he had said too much. “But I've lived with her before,” he quickly added to improve impression. It rained more. “Venus, where we can hide from rain?" I asked, " I want to paint you again.” We went to sit under a tree. “Venus, I don’t like this idea!” Alex called after us. Venus got on her feet. I followed her. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “People pee under this tree. For some reason they always pee under the same tree.” “That’s why it looks healthier than others," I suggested. "We, too, chose this tree to sit under.” “Or maybe they choose this tree to pee under because it looks healthier,” he observed. 
It rained harder. I finished the portrait and left it with them to keep away  from rain, but when I pulled over in my car, the water was running from it mixed with fresh paint. I balanced it on the back sit and used it as a sketch for two more portraits I painted later in the Cave, my art studio. 

The Smile of Venus

Alex&Venus

June 23, 2013

at Moor’s College, Philadelphia

I was speaking with my mother on the phone in the morning. My parents live in Moscow, and I call every day. Today she wanted to make sure where exactly in the backyard I was sitting with my cup of coffee, closer to Kathie’s side or to Ashlee’s. I confused her by saying that we moved the table into the middle of our tiny patio, and I was not in the sun, but in the shade of the Japanese maple. “Then,’” she said, “you must be closer to Kathie’s side.”  “Maybe,” I answered, “but if so then very insignificantly.” It was her love for details that might help me in writing, I thought and felt irrational anxiety of running late. I made arrangements neither with homeless nor readers, but I had to rush on my mission, anyway.

In town I walked through the lawn in front of the library. There were many people lying next to their bags, but I didn’t stop. I crossed towards Franklin Institute. The bench where I found Aaron last week was occupied by a father and two kids. From there I saw my aim. He was a bearded man, who with a strong gesture just threw a peace of green cucumber. “Hi,” I said. “God be with you!” “I want to ask you for a favor.” “What can I do for you?” “Can I paint your portrait?” “This is impossible! I am the god’s servant; you cannot paint my portrait! Do you know the man named Jesus Christ?” “Yes, I do. I am Lena” He paused, “They know me as William.” “Your name is William?” “They know me as William here. Jesus taught in spoken word, in written word and through his servants! I am his servant. He taught us to love our neighbors. I love you and I want to sit with you and have a conversation.” I sat down on the bench next to him. “I want to listen to what you have to say, and…” but he interrupted, “I am more interested in what you can teach me!” I was looking in his shining eyes. He was formidably handsome. “Can we speak while I am painting?” “This is impossible! What do you want to paint for? Will it help you to understand god? No! Instead of talking with me and having meaningful spiritual exchange you want to make me an unanimated object! Tell me, can a portrait talk back to you like I do? Does it have lips or tong to speak to you?” “In a way it can," I said, "I happened to be an artist, and painting talks to me. It is my way of connecting. I believe, I can capture your essence, at least for myself, and it will help me to remember…” “No! You cannot paint me, but I love you. Who is one person in the world you love?” I paused thinking of my children, my husband, my friends, hesitating to name the one. “What? I am asking you who is one person in the world you love, and you cannot answer me right away?” “I love my mother…” “Your mother? God taught us love! I love you, but I am going to walk away now, because you are still thinking about painting my portrait,” and he started to collect his things. “William,” I said, but he interrupted me again, “God is love and he taught through his apostles and through those in the world who listen to him. He taught that god is good and that he cares for his people and nothing can happen to them, which is bad. You are my neighbor, and I have love for you…" ” If you have love, why don’t you listen to what your neighbor has to say?” He paused somewhat puzzled. “Thank you, William,” I said, “and although I didn’t paint your portrait, it has been a very interesting conversation.” “God bless you,” he uttered and strode away across the lawn.

I got up from the bench and in a few paces found myself in the light of Venus’s smile. Resting on the bench far out of the earshot she seemed to know what I’ve just been through. Those who know him as William must be familiar with his wards, I thought. Her smile was inviting. “I am an artist. May I paint your portrait?” She turned to a man sitting next to her and begged him like a child, “I want to, please, let her paint my portrait!” He looked strict. I introduced myself, “I am Lena,” Venus was smiling.  Her soft olive skin and  toothless mouth made her look like a baby. Her articulation was unclear.  She repeated her name three times pointing out in the sky to help me to understand what “Bebus” meant, still, Alex’s translation was helpful. “I don’t like people taking advantage of us,” he said. “You know what I mean? People would come to you and ask you questions, and write down in the notebook everything you say, take your picture, and then you see it in a newspaper… People make money off us.” “Alex, please,” she begged, "let her paint my portrait!" He turned to me and said generously, “Why not? She is an independent being.” “Thank you,” she said and jumped off the bench, “I have to go to bathroom.”  “Be careful,” he called after her. “You are very kind to your friend,” I said. “Venus is my wife,” he clarified. “Where is the bathroom she went to?” I asked. “ At the library,” he explained. I was unpacking my paints.  “May I paint you while she is gone?” How long it will take?” “Not more than forty minutes.” “Ok. We might use some tips.” “I will give you tips,” I promised.  “I call it tips, because that’s how I made my living. I used to work at the airport, carrying people’s luggage. I was paid $2.5 per hour, no benefits, but with tips it made me a decent living. I lived in an apartment then, had children, and all.” “What happened?” “That’s what happened,” he pointed at the braces on his right leg. “You got into an accident?” “I was in a number of accidents. Hit by car, shut. Bullet doesn’t hurt. You know what hurts? Taking it out. Then I couldn’t work any more. I draw my check from the government once a month, seven hundred dollars, but it’s the cost for the rent,” he laughed, “and how about cigarettes?” He took out a cigarette and lit it, “Are you smoking?” “No.” He waved his palm fanning smoke away from me. “It’s ok,” I said, “I don’t mind.” “Here she is,” he said, but I couldn’t see her. “Here,” he said, “she is going to get more food. There is food there. Rich people donate, and churches give it out. You can get anything you want. The man you were just talking to…” “William?” “Yes. He is crazy. He speaks smooth, but he is not right in his head. He never washes, wears dirty cloths.”  “You are very neat,” I said. “It’s because I take care of me and her.  There are plenty of shelters around here, you may take a shower any time.” “Can you do laundry there, too?” “You through away dirty cloths. You can always get clean cloths here. They give it out away every week.” Venus came back with a plate of green salad and hamburger. Alex shared cigarette with her. She smiled. “She will paint me first, and then she will paint you," he explained."It’s because you went to the bathroom. She promised us some tips.” Venus nodded happily. “People take advantage of us,” he repeated. “I don’t see how it hurts you if I tell people your story,” I said. “Nothing’s wrong in telling people our story, but they make it public. You know what I mean?” I nodded. I took out a new paper to paint Venus. Alex looked at his portrait and smiled politely. “You have beautiful eyes, Venus,” I said. “Green,” she nodded and chewed with her mouth. “Hazel,” Alex corrected. “No, green,” she insisted. He laughed. “Alex told me that you have children,” I merged. “No," Alex waved his hands, "not with her! I had another wife then.” Venus smiled. “Where did you grow up? ”I changed the subject. "In New York,” Venus answered. “When did you come here?” “My parents brought me here when I was seventeen, and I had a nervous breakdown,” and she smiled again.

   

Aaron

06-08-2013 

Franklin Institute

Stuck in the right lane waiting for green in the middle of ritualistic drive around the Logan Circle I saw Aaron examining the inside of his tee shirt. He was sitting on the bench in the blooming arcade of Franklin Institute. A big pile of dirty stuff was on his side. The moment I realized that the tee shirt he scrutinized was originally white, my brain automatically attached a stink to it.

I had to pay for parking even on Saturday, even in the part of the city  with no bars or restaurants in vicinity, only the portico of St. Peter’s and another one in the distance, of Art Museum. A family rushed by toward the latter.  “We should have started earlier!” the woman snapped at her husband in native Russian and dragged their children along. She couldn't wait to expose two underage boys to the influence of art.  I cast my eyes away and crossed the street to face the gaze of Aaron.

He established an eye contact with me even from the other side of the street, even before I vocalized my habitual line “I am an artist, I want to paint your portrait… “ His inquisitive smile gave me no clue as of his will’s inclination. “You have an accent,” he observed, “where is it from?” “From Russia.” “Oh, isn’t it excellent? My grandparents from both sides of the family came from that part of the world. My maternal grandmother came from Russia, and her husband, my grandfather, from Romania. They came through the Ellis Island. What part of Russia are you from?” “Moscow.” We both laughed. It felt totally alright to start painting. “Have you been to Berlin-London-Paris-Dublin-Austerlitz?” he asked “Austerlitz?"I repeated. "Yes, I’d like to visit.” “Why?” “I like history. I read a lot on history.” “Where do you get books? At the library?” “I read on-line. My cellphone has an internet connection.” “You are hi-tech. Where do you go to hook up? Library? “ “Well, I haven’t read a single book this year," he confessed and changed the subject, "My coat is warm enough for Russian winters, isn’t it?” “You carry everything with you?” “Russian winters are very cold!” “Here it is cold, too. What do you do on cold winter nights?” “Oh, winters here are nothing compare to Russia” he assured me and laughed again. “How do you spell your first name?” he asked. “E l e n a. In Russian it sound Yelena, in Greek Helena, Ellen in French, Helen in English, also Eileen…” "My name has many spellings too. But mine is A a r o n, a masculine version of the Hebrew name.” All of a sudden his intonations and body language felt very familiar. His Ashkenazy face looking from under the felt of dreadlocks took me back in time. In my mind, the dome of St. Peter’s of Philadelphia transformed into the St. Isaac’s of St,Petersburg; the wet bronze of Logan Circle fountain filled in the molds that long ago Russian Royal baroque impressed onto my childhood memory. His speech revealed a much-loved boy from a Jewish family. “I love music,” he said, “for some reason I prefer classical music. Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin. People mostly like rock. I liked rock, too, especially when I was a boy, I even played guitar, but the older I get the more I prefer the sound of classical music. Maybe it reminds me of my family. My mother always played it in our apartment.” “Where is your mother?” “I even played an instrument myself! “ “Where is your family?” “I played clarinet. My music teacher thought me how to bend notes.” He explained the technique of bending notes, but I cannot repeat it, because I don’t play an instrument. Two girls stopped by to take our pictures. He noticed their smart phones. “Is it iOS7?” he asked. They engaged in vivid conversation about i-phones, college majors, and job perspectives. It bought me time to finish the painting.  “Well,” I said packing my bag, “Where will I see you next time?” “I can be anywhere. I am here today solely for the reason of visiting the Annual Student and Faculty art show at the Moor’s college” “Good-by then.” “Good-by.”  

    

Bill

05.27.2013, Monday, Memorial Day

Logan Square

Bill

“Do you mind if I paint your portrait?” “I would be flattered.” That’s how we started our conversation. “I am a poet,” he explained, and a notebook with the handwritten lines landed on my laps. I started reading. Mostly bible references, stuff I already know. It somehow made sense to him, not to me. “Thank you,” I said and started squeezing paint on the pallet.  Even before any meaningful image appeared, by-passers stopped to compliment.  “We are just starting here,” I said modestly. Bill asked, “Was it you another day painting Don sleeping on the bench at the Love park?” “Yes,” I said. “Did he know that you were painting him?”  “Yes,” I said, “I always ask permission. Where were you?” “I was in the crowd. There was a big crowd,” he said. “What did you think?” “I thought it all was beautiful. Like real life.” He paused  and asked, “Why did you choose me?” It made me think  There was a bearded old man sleeping on the bench at the beginning of the alley; I didn’t fancy waking him up. There was an obviously homeless guy sitting at the very end of the alley; he might be responsive or not. And then there was Bill in the middle, and he might not be homeless. “You are handsome, that’s why.” “Thank you,” he sighed. “Why do you write what is in the Bible?” I asked.  “I don’t know; it comes to my mind. I think about Hebrews. I study Hebrew. My mother is a minister; she went to Israel with her ministry. She wants to be a Hebrew, too. I was here celebrating 50 years of Israel. It is good to feel like you are a part of something. “ "A feeling of belonging?" I asked. "Yes," he sight. “I am more interested in your own experiences than in what's in the Bible,” I challenged. “My own experiences? I should have died many times. I don’t know why I am still alive. I was hit by car, stabbed with knife, shut, but I didn’t die. I was on drugs; I am clean now, homeless. I live; so there must be a reason. What’s the reason? I have to find it.” He became very thoughtful again, then continued, “You paint, it makes sense. You have a purpose. Your painting is a purpose.”  I smiled, “Painting doesn’t make any sense. No one wants my paintings.” “But you paint anyway, because you have a talent. Is that how you feel? You feel like you must paint, because you have a talent, don’t you? Your painting keeps you going. I write poetry all the time. I have a laptop. Here is my flesh-drive. Thanks god for my flash-drive!” I was fixed on his mouth; it moved and changed expressions; his teeth shining then disappearing behind full lips making it hard to tell whether he was smiling or lamenting. “I would feel better if I had my morning coffee,” he said. “I will clean up and take you out for coffee.” He was embarrassed, “It’s not what I meant!” “I know. We will go to Le Colombe.” “I don’t know this place.” It’s at Rittenhouse. The best coffee in town.” “You know what I think, “said Bill as we walked to the car, “when you were painting me, you concentrated on me, but when I write poetry, I concentrate on myself…” There was a line at Le Colombe. “Do you have a pen?” He asked. “Here.”  “Where do you want to sit?” “Why don’t you take a table for us while I wait in line.” “He sat down on the first available chair and took out his notebook. When I put mugs of Americano in front of him, he didn’t raise his head; he was writing.  “I put some milk and sugar in your coffee,” I said. “I usually don’t use sugar,” he said, “but it’s ok.” “I put very little…” He showed me his page:

“It is at this time that my life is worth something shining above the horizon.

When water and color come together there is always life in the moment.

I pray for another day closer to the purpose when it will all come to the surface.

The world eludes me over time under the thumb of oppression

fighting time trying to live.

It is the breath of life that keeps me right.

The tightness of living free is what it is like being me.

In time many colors will fade, made by man since the dawn of time.

The echoes of the years past come into light

feeling of despair caring for those who once cared for others.

We are lovers of ourselves.

The demand must stop atop the loneliest tree

seeing all I see this is what it is like being me.”

William Underwood

“It is beautiful,” I said, but he shook his head “I even don’t know what it means! If you like it explain it to me!” “You want me to explain it to you?” I was buying time. He jerked impatiently, “So, now I put you on the hot seat?” I had to speak, so I said,

“People are forms within forms, within forms; it goes down one never knows how deep. Most people like to create new forms to make them look better, to protect themselves from others, but mostly to cover that deep disturbing void, which doesn’t have bottom. You are different; you listen to the voices from that void, and open yourself to it. I am like that, too, so there, on the very deep level all people connect, and I can connect to you through your poem. I hear that voice, too.”

      

George

Mother's Day, 2013

Logan Sq.

The wind was throwing the fountain mist on him, but he was sitting strait, and I had to call three times before he opened the sky-blue yes. He was older than anyone else I had painted so far and neatly dressed; the small shopping bag on the side of the bench next to him might have been an indication that he had nowhere else to go.  “May I paint you, sir, as you are sitting here; it won’t take too much of your time…” “Yes, you can paint me, he-he…” his week voice competed with the falling water, “He-he, I am just sitting here, I am not in a hurry. Happy Mother’s day!” “Thank you. How did you guess that I was a mother?” “You are a mature woman. I have children myself, a daughter and a son…they are over 40 by now” “When did you see them last?” “I saw them here in Philadelphia a year ago. They came here to see me.” “What are they doing?” “Roaming here and there…” “How long ago did you come here?” “Some time ago. I was in California, then Missouri, my dad didn’t stay put. Oh, he was something. He could do anything: carpentering, welding, but he ended up being on the board of directors of electric factory. My son is like him. My daughter has no children; I hope she’ll get married some day. I didn’t see them since they were six and five until the last year, that is. My wife and I knew the next day after marriage that we made a big mistake. My kids stayed with her. I was trying to find them, but I didn’t know their whereabouts, I knew they where in Missouri somewhere, so I lived there for some time” “Why did you come to Philadelphia?” “Why? I work here.” “What do you do?” “Leister beams.  I sit here when I don’t work. I am living all around. I don’t have home.” “Where do you live?” “Wright here. Last year I saw my children here. They go everywhere, like myself. I like sitting here and watching mothers with young children. They give me pleasure. You know what you women do best? You put your children in a stroller and roll them past me sitting on the bench. I like seeing it. You decorate your babies so neatly, ha-ha, bows and laces, it gives me pleasure.” “Do you have any friends, George?” “Who, me? No. I had a lot of cousins. Fifty, maybe. My mother was from Irish family, Catholic; my father was American. We went to the firehouse for Christmas. The Christmas tree was always big, ha-ha.” “What do you do when it is cold?” “I sleep outside.” “Where do you keep your warm cloths?” “I don’t need warm clothes, I am all right.” “What if it snows?” “I sleep in the snow, I don’t like shelters”

If you think that George is crazy, you may be right. If you have doubts that he saw his children last year, you might be right again, but he had clear eyes and made a lot of sense whatever he was speaking about, so at the moment I had no  doubts that everything he told me was true.

Now the fountain started sprinkling my painting.  I got up. “Thank you George. May I take your picture now?” “Of cause! Let me take yours.” He got a camera and held it awkwardly.  He tried to find me there but gave up, “I cannot see you,” he said. “ All I can see is your painting of me, and there is no need to take picture of that.”  I was pretty sure, though, that all he could see was the dome of St. Peter’s. “I am ashamed now,” said George, “I don’t even have money to take you out for lunch…” 

Matthew

05.04.13

Wawa at 21st and Hamilton

 It was a massive traffic, plus I had no sandwiches in my carry-on, and so I tried my luck at the Wawa parking lot. The municipal cars only parking around the corner was the best I could do. I left the lights blinking and dashed into the store. “Good morning, miss, ” greeted me a man in white Penn State sweatshirt. He opened a door and held it for me. The thought that he was hoping for tips made me uncomfortable. Bumping at people I circled the store. I found the sandwich stand and the end of the line at the very same spot at the back wall, and the image of the man at the door surfaced in my mind. “Hello, sir, I am an artist. Would you sit for me for a portrait?” “You want to paint my portrait? Now?” he smiled toothlessly, “sure! I will sit for you!” I was thrilled, “Can you just wait a little? I am parked illegally around the corner. “ “Shure, I’ll wait for you!”

I found a better parking and found him waiting for me. We crossed the street to find a spot on the steps leading to the restaurant terrace. “I am Lena,“ I introduced myself. “Matthew,” he said and added immediately, “you speak more than one language.”  “What a nice way to put it! I am from Russia.” From Saint Petersburg?” He didn’t pronounce it clearly, but I guessed where he was aiming. “No, from Moscow.” He was pleased with the way our conversation went. “Your name must be very long!” “My name is Elena. Lena for short.” “I mean your family name.” “Drozdova.” “Do-z-va,” he laughed. “Dro-zdo-va,” I said. “Dro-zo-va,”he repeated. “Do you come here every day, Lena?” “No, mostly on weekends; I work.” He nodded with respect. “I am homeless,” he said; then continued, “It must be very beautiful where you came from.” “Ye-e-es… But I like it here, too” He looked at me in disbelieve, “Do you?” “Yes. I like parks around here. I love Fairmont Park.” “I live there.” “Under the bridges?” “In the caves.” I knew nothing about the caves, but decided not to specify. “How long have you been homeless?” “For twelve years, on and off” “How did it happen?” “Oh, I was bad! I went to jail… I was in the mental institutions, too, on and off…” “What for?” “Depression. “ He paused. “But today is a good day!” He exclaimed lightheartedly, “I woke up today and thought that god made this day for me to be good.” “What do you think when you wake up and feel depressed?” “Oh, I work around it. I think of how many people have it worse than me. Me, I have friends, food, and there is no war here. People in Syria have it worse!” “ Mathew, you don’t have home, how do you stay current in politics?” “Newspapers. And BBC,” he pointed at the earphones hanging from his shoulders. “You have a lot of good stuff,” I pointed at his bike, “how do you keep it from being stolen?” “I leave it at my friends’ houses, when I have to. I help them with chores.  I have a network…” He sighed, “I have many children,” he said. “Where are they?” “One son was killed, two got life in prison… I had it bad. My marriage was very bad. My daughter went to college. She was the only one… But I tell myself, there must be a balance in this world. God made it good. I believe, that god created this world.” “ Do you go to church?” “Church is not for everyone. I am doing good in this world, especially on the days like this.” “How are you doing good?” “By not doing harm! And by connecting with people.  I believe that god created us all connected, and that it is good for people to have a conversation. See, today you paint my portrait! You are a great artist, yes, you are!” “I don’t know, Matthew…” “Why you don’t know? I am telling you! You are like Cézanne. You know Cézanne?” “Yes…” “ He painted portraits, like you.” “Yes…”  “How do you call it, when people paint pots and apples...?” “Still life…” “Yes, and still life! And Monet painted landscapes. Cezanne, Monet, Renoir, they were impressionists, right?” “Yes…” And who Picasso was?” “He was a modernist.” “Aha!” He smiled again, “I have a passion,” he continued, “My passion is to be good in this world and to be connected with people! You have a passion, too. You are calm when you paint; it’s because painting is your passion.” I kind of liked it. “Yes,” I said. “People are nervous,” he went on, “and you are very calm. I think people are nervous because their parents were. Like when you have a bad heart or headaches, you know what I mean?” “Yes, but I am not sure…” “You mean that society makes people mental?” I laughed, “Sometimes I do. Today I was driving here and saw a lot of people on this nice day running, roller-skating, biking; they all had gadgets; earphones plugged in their ears, pulse readers… and I thought, why everyone has to achieve all the time? Why no one is walking and just listening to the birds?” He laughed, too, “Yeah, ha-ha, why they don’t listen to the birds?”  “Matthew, what education do you have?” “Nine classes of school.” “You have deep thoughts and memory for names and places.”  “Thank you. I read, listen to the radio and talk with people. I talk to people a lot. I learn from people. Today I learned something… “

It was a good day, indeed, and Matthew made it even better for me.

Mark

04-27-2013, Sunday

Love Park, Philadelphia

“Hi Mark! Shell we do another painting? I wont you to look my way this time.” “Shure.” “Can you sit here for a better light?” “Shure.” I worked silently, and then asked, “Did you see your son?” “I haven’t seen him for a year.” “Is he all right?” “Last time I saw him he was.” “What is he doing?” “A year ago he was seeing a probation officer, and what he is doing for living I don’t know.” He squeezed a flee between his fingernails.  I noticed that he was watching me. It was strange, because he was as cool as he could be as I was examining him intensively in the way of a painter. Only now and then he would glance at me clearly trying to figure me out. “Thank you, Mark. Today parking was free, so I can buy you a hamburger. Let’s go to McDonald’s at the corner.” As we went, I noticed Joe on the steps. “Hi, Joe!” “I am a different man,” he said smiling. At McDonald’s Mark ordered modestly. It only cost me $2.65. “Thank you for being modest,” I said. “Are you going to order for yourself?” He asked. “No, I will go.” On my way back I stopped to talk to Joe. “How are you doing?” “I don’t want any paintings.” “Why?” “I have a different face… it is not my face… all criminal charges against me are false… it is not my face…” “What are you saying, Joe? It is your face.” “No. My face is skin and bones… I have cellophane face… all charges against me are false… I don’t want pictures or photos…” His voice was harsh, and his speech was inarticulate. This was the best I could decipher…