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…”