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.