Category: art

David aka Meatwad

The road to recovery can be bumpy. Just cannot give up hope. David fell off the wagon again, to use a trite term, which used to refer just to drinking, but now, who knows. He’s got no place to go and no place to hide, except the park and the street. Warm today. Tomorrow, could be cold. After all, it’s Vermont.

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Nicknamed after a raffish cartoon character, he resumed his birth calling, David. He had a place to live and some work. He lasted for close to a year. Too soon to know when he’ll return or as what.

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When I saw him over the past few days he said needed to bolt from Dodge. He asked for $10 for a bus, like they would have let him take a bus ride somewhere. Then he asked me what I would do if someone said something about my Mother. Don’t know why they would, but I don’t care. She and I had a difficult relationship which should be of no mind to anyone. He obviously does care and something obviously happened which if I knew, I could explain, but not understand. Lots of people die in the name of religion, love and mothers. And some even blame their failures on them.

 

 

VERMONT Shuts Down For Winter

Just let’s say people still visit the Lake Champlain boardwalk and need to go to the bathroom. But the facility is closed. In Burlington, manners predominate. I never call a “John” a ‘Facility.” Sharon’s Mother used to call it a “pissoire,” which could have been the only french word she spoke. Well, they will just have to use the facility at ECHO if they have to go.

Getting a creamy can also be problematical.

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Vanishing Manhattan Gas Stations Hosts The Duckman’s From Vermont

When Sharon and I recently visited NYC, we went to Chelsea to see Burtynsky and Nevelson/. On the corner was this gas station that had been converted to an art piece before it will turn into condos. Called “Sheep Station,” by Francois-Xavier Lalanne, this outdoor installation brings art and sculpture to a wide range of people who would not otherwise come in contact with such creative works or see creativity in ordinary things. Many thanks to the Paul Kasmin Gallery and collector Michael Shvo, who is also a real estate developer, like who else could afford to do this, but, concededly, it’s promoted in good will.

Richard Serra was installing a new piece, but he wouldn’t let me take his picture, even after I told him that I was the only person in America who liked “Tilted Arc.”

We felt very comfortable with the sheep, moutons, as the artist calls them, since we come from Vermont.

Richard Cave, a/k/a Caveman a/k/a Israel

So, I know him as Caveman. Easy monicker, like mine, based on the surname. Recently found a spiritual name. He says his mother was Jewish. Parents sat shiva when she married a Catholic. He took on a biblical name, one that denotes he is one of the people. Me, I am a Kohane, a word that doesn’t mean anything to him, Jewishly speaking.

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These guys on the street act in several plays. Not many of us has the courage to even live one. 71 years old and starting to look it.

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He tells me we used to hang out in the same places in the Village in the 70’s. His friends and I went to New York Law School together. Now, he lives on the streets. Moving to Waterbury on Wednesday into a sober house. Wants to make a movie about street life.

Poor Is Poor

One gas station in Chelsea became a pasture for fake lambs as it awaits a high priced condominium complex near the art galleries. New York can be bought during the last days of the Bloomberg Era. Lambs will buy the units. sacrificing reason for a touch of make believe class.

But the billionaire Mayor hasn’t figure out how to make trickle down work, yet.

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New York City has 8,000,000 stories. Not all of them speak to success and achievement.

 

 

Joshua Chasan, Wood Sculptor


Rabbi Joshua has a show in the back at the Maltex Building on Pine Street. Figures that a rabbi would select wood as a medium, since trees have special significance to jews. He chisels, making shapes for the light to shine through. The colors come from gentle strokes, highlights, midtones and some darks, changing the subject into extra-worldly matter. Any narrative becomes yours for the taking.

He wanted to call the piece, “Campy’s Glove.” How many remember Campy? The Hall of Fame would adore a spiritual wooden piece to go with the sculpture by Beielstein which sits outside the library. Perhaps, the adjustor, healer whose nameplate appears behind his head might like it, also.

A healer from the Wellness Collective on the third floor passed by. After I introduced Joshua as the artist/sculptor, she said, “I think about your work all the time. It makes me feel so good. I was wondering? Do you use a chisel?” What an honor for an artist to hear love while being asked for instruction.

Jeremy

Says he’s been on the street, travelling for 12 years. Has his faith and a Mother. She doesn’t tell him the truth, but his faith does. Never wants for anything. Lives day to day. Doesn’t want help, but asks for money.

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They come and go. New ones every week. How do they find Burlington. Noway here from there. He says he’s been here before, but I have never seen him. Where he came from? He said everywhere and nowhere. Where’s he going? Doesn’t know. Will work for cash. Now, that’s smart. No taxes. Doesn’t have to contribute to Social Security. What would he do? Who would hire him? Carries a duffle and a garbage bag. And he has his sign.

Richard and Skip Feed the Ducks

Last time we saw Richard, he and the sailor shared the set. Richard, today, came to feed the Ducks and mourn his sister’s death. He casts potato chips on the water attracting Ducks while remembering his sister. I tried to explain that potato chips weren’t good for Ducks. “…, they come right up to me and eat them. They like them.”

Skip aged since out last shoot. “Hard out here. Slept here last night …. You age fast on the street.”

Lot of effort goes into shooting on the street. Sometimes, you gotta find them. Sometimes, you gotta have equipment. Never know, as a street shooter. Then I gotta get them to stand still, which really isn’t easy if they are stoned, drunk, on meds or angry. I could go on. The biggest stressor? Do they trust me? Damn. I love seeing them. Fear their deaths. Questioned about the people I know or knew, I show them a portfolio of recent photos. Most of my notebooks have two copies, because I haven’t been able to find the person pictured. Never give to people who promise to deliver. Another thing to carry.

So, Richard talked, after he heard from me, “… about being alive, being alive, being alive.” “You gotta do what you gotta do, … even if it means doing what you can do.”

Lone Sailor Watches Over Richard North

Little nippy today in Burlington by Lake Champlain. Al fresco doesn’t suit me. But for a chronic drunk who hasn’t dried out lately, the feel of the Lake Breeze and warm morning mist offers sleeping opportunities few can appreciate and fewer would take advantage of.

But, there, in the shadow of ECHO lay Richard North.

And his vodka bottle.

I’m sorta glad the two of them look out for one another. Don’t you wonder what they talk about? We know the Lone Sailor watches for his ship, so he ain’t drinking. But what does he think about the mess, the bottles and the bodily fluids deposited nearby?

Aren’t you glad he has his gloves. Don’t want cold hands. Damn. I cannot sleep without a pillow either. You try lying on cold marble or granite. Got to passout not to feel the pain.

One day, I fear, he will end up like my friend Paul O’Toole, dead on a grate.

Burlington’s First Fall Day

New England shows its colors slowly, sometmes. This fall looks as if it will go on forever. Colors just coming out. I don’t involve myslef in reds and yellows. Send me blue greay. Matches my eyes.

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Started at the fishing pier where no one catches fish. Moved to the sailor.

Went home for breakfast. Not much doing. Headed to the Water Treatment facility. Bike path quiet. People taking boats out of the water. Windy and sneaky chilly.

 

So, I meander down to the water to make this shot, sliding across the rocks. Totally into getting the shot, I left my I pad, phone and journal on a picnic table. A guy came buy, wondering who would leave such valuable stuff unguarded.

Evan. He had a dog. Shadow.

Recently, houseless. Ended long time relationship. We know many of the same people from the streets.