Blisters and Lines

The forecast said intermittent showers every few hours, so I wore my bright orange rain boots to work (and then switched them out for the pointy-toe black stilettos in the gallery). But I forgot socks for the boots and therefore rubbed the beginning of a couple blisters into my heels as I walked the few blocks from the subway. Now, I know better than to cab it anywhere between 3-8pm, but the potential pain in my heels convinced me to go the safe route. So on my way back home, I decided "better a wound in my wallet than blisters that won't heal" and hailed a cab.

Though it's not a sketch, the
receipt and a primed metro-
card will hold Manny's spot.

As the traffic backed up towards the 59th Street bridge like a clogged drain, my driver and I chatted: traffic is crazy, living in the city, moving out of and back to the city, job prospects, education, and life experiences. We had such an enjoyable conversation. As the meter ticked upward and the lines of vehicles inched forward, we were trading stories.

My driver's name is Manny, and he's a New Yorker from birth. He moved out for a time, but the city called him home. I told him that we were moving out, and we compared opportunities, hopes and abridged histories. (Get it? We were on the 59th Street bridge - "abridged"? Chuckle, chuckle.) And while the tone of this post sounds all happy-sappy, everyone's hopes are tinged with fear and everyone's histories have a bit of intentional blurriness. So as I write this, I wonder how much to reveal of our conversation and how much to keep in my pen (or keyboard, as it were) knowing that when I return to this post, I'll remember what I held back.

But it's not so much how much I share with you, it's more how far our rare conversation traveled in those few miles. As the traffic thinned, the cab dropped me off at my house and I asked Manny if I could paint his portrait. He said he'd seriously consider it, and I anticipate that he may flag me down to be a part of this project. Until then, I hope that his travels bring him always safely home, too.

Constant Comment

I drink tea in the morning. It's part of the ritual I create to make me feel that all is right with the world. Earl Grey is a great companion.

My friend Alan and I spent the afternoon together. He's in town, hopping from coast to coast, getting his New York fix. Alan's like a favorite teapot, right before the whistle. And like the aforementioned beverage resulting from the tea-making device, a conversation generated by Alan has always just the right amount of warmth, caffeination, and zesty wit. Just like Earl Grey.

Speaking of which - the last time I saw Alan there was none of that color in his hair, it was black as Costa Rican coffee. But Alan is timeless, not easy to pin down. We were classmates in graduate school, and he weathered this narrow island before making the jump to the West Coast half a year ago to take advantage of an opportunity using his concept drawing skills. During our afternoon together, we dissected the Gordion Knot that is our corner of the New York Art World. Or, at least we had an enjoyable time trying.

We had lunch at Bubby's. Alan made sure to order NYCentric eats (eyeing the Matzoh Ball soup and, ... Gasp! you're out of lox?!?) So, settling on a piece of shared apple pie, we poured two Sixpoints down and caught up. Then we parked on a bench where I started to paint his portrait. The wind was a little chill, the sun a bit warmer (shining right in Alan's eyes - sorry, buddy!) and we enjoyed spending the afternoon in constant conversation. Though my quick painting isn't an exact presentation of what Alan looks like - a portrait isn't all about the resemblance, it's about the like-ness. And I like Alan.

Mashed Together in Chelsea

Passing the cell with a face full of cordon bleu, I saw Paul and he flagged me down. Originally from Texas, lived in NYC 8 years, then jumping out to take care of horses in the high desert, he'd transferred himself all over the States already. As we walked toward the subway together, I told him about my project, and we exchanged emails; I'd just given my last two "Please May I Paint You" cards to two ladies from the presentation at Cue. Paul crossed the street, and was gone as quickly as we'd run into each other.

Famished after the workshop, I'd gotten my sandwich at Hyper Deli on 23rd Street & 9th Avenue along with 2 Baci chocolates and a Mash drink. As I took a swig of lemon/ginger, I mused on how I'd had my first taste of Mash in Chelsea, and how those two things would be linked together in retrospect: Mash = Chelsea.

Just like Paul and I - and every other art-lover in that New York neighborhood who has ever had an unexpected hello and rapid goodbye - mashed together, then drained as quickly as a thirsty draught.

Hunters Point

Coming home from a doctor appointment, I took the 6 down to Grand Central to catch the 7 because it's a beautiful spring day and I wanted to be in the friendly sun, above the ground. I don't take the 7 often so I thought it would be a good time to pull out my camera and capture a video of one my favorite places in the city to share with you.

The train was not full at midday and the usual types were sitting across from me: an Asian teen with Converse sneaks and headphones, a high-heeled, career-clutching young woman, and a middle-aged man in a Fedora reading his newspaper.  I placed myself by a west-facing window and waited for the Hunters Point station because I wanted to record the train bursting out of the ground into the sunlight. Practicing my camera sweep - where I check my timing and steady my hands - the Newspaper came down and angry eyes underneath the Fedora told me to "STOP." A startled me replied, "You want me to what? But this is my phone." Granted, that was not the most gracious response; I may need to work on that. The Newspaper huffed and his Fedora glared and muttered something about no respect (did I detect a mob-like accent through his hushed tones?) before standing up and walking away.

The bigger guy sitting next to me mentioned, "Ooh, he must be wrapped up in something." (0:08) I shrugged and focused on the upcoming graffiti-ganza as the train tracks turned north, frustrated that a southbound train had rolled in just as the best view emerged (0:56). But after I'd finished recording, I put my phone down and pondered; I wondered if I had actually captured Newspaper/Fedora's image... but I didn't want to obviously check, so I refrained from sweeping my eyes around the car.  Upon a subtle circumspection, I didn't see a Fedora. I paused; this would provide a perfect opportunity to test my memory.*

I pulled out my sketchbook. Seeing the quick portrait of my pastor from church last night, the big guy noted, "You draw?" and I told him about my project. Still not having any cards on me, I wrote out my website address, ripped it out of the corner of my page and handed it to him. He told me about how his son was a budding artist, drawing the scenes from Ghost Rider. As we chatted, I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched, but I couldn't see Newspaper/Fedora anywhere. My stop arrived and as I exited the train, I took a look - just in case. I spotted him at the back of the car, standing by the opposite side doors.

Oh boy, did he ever shoot me some daggers as I walked off the train.



*Ask me about the time I stared down a misbehaving punk on the subway by leveling the threat, "I'll draw you." 

Hearts and Transformers

A couple days ago, I was riding/sketching home when a dad and his two children popped into the train. He asked the younger, dark-haired woman sitting next to me for confirmation if the F train was indeed stopping at 63/Lex (it wasn't - they were working on the escalators). Boisterous and boundary-less, the two kids plopped into the space between us and started chatting with my seat-neighbor. The F train's route still in question, I perused through my apps to pull out a subway map. Little fingers, despite gentle admonitions from his father, began to spread and swipe the map like a pro. (Apparently he knew exactly where to go.) The route no longer in question, his focus returned to his Transformer toy as I pocketed my phone again.

The father continued conversing casually with the young woman and I resumed my sketching. But the little girl's attention was focused on me, now. And since her brother had already mapped out his territory, she wanted to explore, too. She sweetly asked if she could draw something on my sketch and I gave her my pen. She drew a couple hearts and then her little brother drew a Transformer. The older lady across from us (seen in the sketch) watched with a chuckle.

As the train pulled into their stop (and since this kind of heartwarming, transformative conversation rarely - if ever - happens on the subway), I told the dad about my project. "Actually, I'm working on a project to paint portraits of people I meet on the subway; I don't have a card on me - otherwise I'd give you one and would love for you to be a part of it" and he noted to himself, "Before I Transfer dot Blogspot dot Com." (Note to self: reprint new cards.) I mentioned that in a couple of days, he may see a post on my blog of his children's artwork and I hoped that he would check out my project. 

See-worthy

I had to take a taxi for work today. I was toting a big roll of bubble wrap to de-install an exhibition so the subway was a "less practical" transit option. (I love it when I can actually justify taking a taxi - it feels so luxurious.) The driver spoke with a French accent (from Haiti, he can speak five languages), and he took me on a route I've never been before: the Park Avenue Viaduct along Grand Central Station. We chatted along the way - he's been driving a cab for almost 40 years so he's seen all the changes in the City.

Never seen this view before!

We talked about the "Manhattan Accent" (he says Midwesterners-who-went-to-private-school pronounce every consonant, and NY'ers tend to blur their words together), what he's going to do in retirement (in just a couple years!), the advantages to having a hybrid vehicle, and the means and methods of outfitting your car to be a taxi (he paid $46,000 for his Toyota, bought the $4,000 package to remove the carpeting and pleather the seats and paint the car yellow - and he opted for the security camera instead of the plexi breaker to make his passengers feel more comfortable).

He was wearing a navy blue cap with golden oak leaves embroidered on it. My dad wears a similar cap; both have sons in the armed forces. His son was a computer programmer on a submarine; my brother was a computer programmer on the USS Parsons destroyer, in the Indian Ocean when I was born over 30 years ago.

Before I got out of the cab, I handed him one of my cards, told him about my project and asked to paint his portrait. I hope he contacts me, I enjoyed the conversation we shared.