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.”