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.