Sunday
Oct092005
His Heart is the Bums on the Street
I have an art collection hanging on the milk white walls of my tiny Brooklyn apartment. Bold, beautfiul, colorful, unlike anything I've ever seen. It's all original. One of a kind. The artist; Joseph, the homeless man who lives in the path tunnel that connects the L train to the Seventh Avenue subway platform.
The Surge and I literally stumbled across Joseph late one night as we giggled drunkenly, staggering toward the L, arms clasped around each other for support. There, camped along the side of the underground path was Joseph. His toothy smile, a beacon in his chocolate colored face. The Surge, always one with an eye for the unusual, the artistic, gently guided me toward the grinning stranger in the dirty overalls.
"How much?" The Surge was holding one of the brightly colored, crayon drawings. Initially annoyed at this disruption of my drunken revelry, I relented and squinted my vision to 20/20 and took a closer look.
Depicted in the drawing; the subway under attack. A crowded train, throttling through shadowy buildings, as invaders from space hovered above, taking aim. One flying saucer had unleashed beaming, orange fireballs at the train. A direct hit! The caboose was plummeting to earth from the elevated tracks. I was captivated. By the concept. By the man, with seemingly, not a care in the world but his art.
"Five dollars". Joseph answered The Surge.
"We'll take it," The Surge replied. "But on one condition. Will you sign it for us?" Jospeh's chest puffed with pride. His art, validated. He took the picture, scuttled to his briefcase of crayons and colored pencils, (such an adorable attempt at professionalism) considered his options then carefully selected a black Sharpie. He hunkered down as dozens of Manhattanites rushed past, barely glancing in his direction, and scratched 'Joseph 05' in the corner of the drawing.
"Sold!" The Surge rubbed his hands together. I stood apart from the transaction and watched my sweet husband peel off five dollars and proffer a hand for Joseph to shake. And that's how it started.
I am now the proud owner of six Joseph originals. They hang grandly on my living room wall, a splendid display of art, its' importance to its' creator and what it can teach the rest of us. Not only the art, but the lesson The Surge taught me about the kindness of strangers. My husband, The Surge. He's like that. Ever mindful of the beauty to be found in everyday objects, everyday people. He regards things I would have walked right by. And I had. I had passed Joseph every day for a month, not casting a glance his way. Now, he's a friend. He'll wait for me, a new creation in hand, a smile dawning on his face like morning sunshine when he sees me approaching.
The Surge and I literally stumbled across Joseph late one night as we giggled drunkenly, staggering toward the L, arms clasped around each other for support. There, camped along the side of the underground path was Joseph. His toothy smile, a beacon in his chocolate colored face. The Surge, always one with an eye for the unusual, the artistic, gently guided me toward the grinning stranger in the dirty overalls.
"How much?" The Surge was holding one of the brightly colored, crayon drawings. Initially annoyed at this disruption of my drunken revelry, I relented and squinted my vision to 20/20 and took a closer look.
Depicted in the drawing; the subway under attack. A crowded train, throttling through shadowy buildings, as invaders from space hovered above, taking aim. One flying saucer had unleashed beaming, orange fireballs at the train. A direct hit! The caboose was plummeting to earth from the elevated tracks. I was captivated. By the concept. By the man, with seemingly, not a care in the world but his art.
"Five dollars". Joseph answered The Surge.
"We'll take it," The Surge replied. "But on one condition. Will you sign it for us?" Jospeh's chest puffed with pride. His art, validated. He took the picture, scuttled to his briefcase of crayons and colored pencils, (such an adorable attempt at professionalism) considered his options then carefully selected a black Sharpie. He hunkered down as dozens of Manhattanites rushed past, barely glancing in his direction, and scratched 'Joseph 05' in the corner of the drawing.
"Sold!" The Surge rubbed his hands together. I stood apart from the transaction and watched my sweet husband peel off five dollars and proffer a hand for Joseph to shake. And that's how it started.
I am now the proud owner of six Joseph originals. They hang grandly on my living room wall, a splendid display of art, its' importance to its' creator and what it can teach the rest of us. Not only the art, but the lesson The Surge taught me about the kindness of strangers. My husband, The Surge. He's like that. Ever mindful of the beauty to be found in everyday objects, everyday people. He regards things I would have walked right by. And I had. I had passed Joseph every day for a month, not casting a glance his way. Now, he's a friend. He'll wait for me, a new creation in hand, a smile dawning on his face like morning sunshine when he sees me approaching.
Oct 9, 2005 | 8 Comments
Reader Comments (8)
Re your message on PLD (thx for visiting, btw) a few of my coworkers who have been around the Philly music scene for a while are Marah fans! Such a small world t'isn't it?
Like Valley Girl above, I am now intrigued (please dont think of me as blog stalker intrigued) we The Surge..Much like my better/worse half we will entitle the Chicago Asshole in more comments to come......Amazing hoping in the next three years of post that Joseph comes through again...Thanks Ali for the instructions I was wondering how to get to the picks....Mississippi Duh!
Just sent the Chicago Asshole to work so I can continue to read now Saturday at noon...
No links to the pictures anymore damn...